Karmic

Shanghai, China

2009-08-21T23:15:00.000-07:00

June 8-13, 2009

From ancient to modern: Beijing and Shanghai are definitely required stops on any comprehensive trip to China. I loved the contrast between the two cities. While both are undeniably modern with their share of skyscrapers, my lasting impression of Beijing is the dry, dusty forecourt of the Forbidden City. Shanghai? It's all about the explosive color and neon lights.

Brilliant lights lining the famous Nanjing Road

We took the overnight train from Beijing to Shanghai, which is definitely my preferred way to travel. Again, no tickets booked in advance: we simply walked to the Beijing Train Station (only a few blocks from Tiananmen Square) the day before our intended departure and found two bunks in a sleeping car. The rambling waiting rooms of the station itself are incredibly confusing, however, with announcements almost impossible to hear; you have to stay very sharp if you don't want to miss your train.

Our berths were wonderfully comfortable - unfortunately they didn't do me any good, since I coughed the entire night through. I'd started coughing in Thailand, thinking it was just a pesky cold, but the instant we arrived in Shanghai and met up with a good college friend, she said: "Karen, you need to see a doctor."

I'd purchased HTH travel health insurance before I left for $1 a day, and our friend, who went to high school in China and had moved back there after college, swung into action. She called the Shanghai Global Health clinic and booked me an appointment for that very day, called HTH and got them to send proof of insurance and payment to the clinic, and an hour later I was seeing a French doctor in China. Which was excellent, because I did not have just a heavy cough. I had bronchitis.

Yes: during the entirety of my travels throughout East and Southeast Asia I did not suffer from food poisoning once (which we were half-expecting), but I did catch a nasty case of bronchitis, which had never crossed my mind. Thankfully I never had a fever, which was extremely lucky as this was the very height of the swine flu/H1N1 panic. Every airport we passed through had body heat scanners searching for people running a temperature; before being allowed off the plane in Beijing, medical workers walked through the entire plane and personally checked each passenger's temperature. I minimized my coughing with cough drops; being quarantined would have certainly thrown off all of our plans.

Roof peaks in Yuyuan Garden

Banners from Shanghai's first-ever Gay Pride festival, held in the French Concession

Antibiotics in hand, we were free to explore Shanghai, expertly guided by our friend J. I always feel I comprehend a city more when I'm forced to explore it on my own, but it's lovely to have a local show you the shortcuts (and where to get fabulous $3 foot massages after a long day of walking). J skillfully bargained for us with the Chinese vendors at the Fake Market, to our vast amusement, awe, and befuddlement at the rapid-fire Chinese. "I wasn't born yesterday" in Chinese is a very useful term when bargain-hunting, apparently. For those without a personal experienced bargainer, Mike at Moving to China Blog has composed a handy list of prices to shoot for.

Slippers in the sprawling underground Fake Market
(where I found a "Louis Vuitton" pocketbook for about $8)

Beijing, China

2009-08-21T22:40:00.000-07:00

June 5-7, 2009

There are some wonders of the world that have become so over-hyped, over-commercialized, and overrun with tourists jostling for their vacation snapshot that they perhaps aren't worth the time and effort and expense required to visit them.

The Great Wall is not one of them.

At the most popular visitation sites it has indeed become extremely commercialized. Badaling, the closest site to Beijing, requires visitors to navigate through rows of shops selling overpriced souvenirs, a live bear exhibit, and even an elaborate ride snaking down the mountain before finally reaching the Wall. It's essentially a miniature modern Disney World tucked into a curve of the ancient Wall, and while it's jarringly out of place, why not try to make a buck off the thousands of tourists that visit Badaling annually. But once you reach the Wall itself, all the silliness below is forgotten.

There is no question that the Wall is worth it. It is so very, very worth it.

As with most of our trip though Asia, we didn't bother to plan anything ahead: we arrived in Beijing on a Friday afternoon and walked over to the state-run tourist office to find a Great Wall tour for the following day. The office only takes groups once the bus fills up and you need at least 15 people or they cancel the tour. The one we wanted had no one else signed up and so was unlikely to happen, so we had to jump on another that included the Ming Tombs. Tours with English-speaking guides required a group of at least 6 to book, so we tagged along on a Chinese tour with only a Chinese-speaking guide. Elaborate pantomime gestures were employed on each side to communicate when we would need to be back at the bus after each stop, and the trip worked out beautifully: we got organized transportation to the sites and were free to wander the tombs and the Wall without having to shuffle along with the group.

Above the amusements of Badaling, the Wall is eerily quiet. It's simply ancient stones surrounded by misty forested hills, and the sense of history, the craftsmanship over centuries required to build it, is very strong.

The Wall follows the lines of the mountain ridges so closely that the walkway slopes perilously steeply up and down almost without a break. Railings have been placed to help tourists haul themselves up (and keep from tumbling down). When it's not an incredibly steep slope, there are steps - so many high steep steps! It is seriously exhausting and in the time alotted we were only able to pant our way up to two very high points. The next high point beyond us literally disappeared into the clouds. I can't imagine how soldiers actually patrolled the Wall.

It was so very, very beautiful, with the Wall curling and twisting in all directions, lush greenery covering the mountains and the mist shrouding the higher peaks.

Bangkok, Thailand

2009-08-16T14:13:00.000-07:00

The Temple of Dawn, viewed from a Chao Phraya River taxi. Click here for more Bangkok photos

June 1-4, 2009

Bangkok, alas, is not one of my favorite cities. Our trip thus far had come off without a hitch, but at four weeks in we were due for difficulties. And Bangkok brought them in spades. We baked in our airless oven of a hostel room, had endless trouble making our way around the city, I had begun coughing all night due to a bout of bronchitis I somehow picked up but would not be diagnosed until a week later, and to top it all off, I broke my shoe. Basically anything that could go wrong did go wrong, to the point where we eventually gave up in defeat.

Thai flags fluttering near Khaosan Road

Due to all our troubles I have very few fond memories of Bangkok, but one stands out: riding a river taxi. Known as the "Venice of the East," the older section of Bangkok is criss-crossed by rivers and canals, and the extremely efficient river taxis are an excellent way to navigate the wide Chao Phraya River. The long, low boats are crewed by a pilot forward and a deckhand aft. Loading and unloading passengers has been honed to a fine art: the boat comes charging up to the floating dock, looking like it's going to blow right by, the pilot swings the stern toward the dock and the crew jumps off, secures a line, everyone scampers on and off the high stern, the crew grabs the line and jumps back on and the whole process takes literally 10 seconds. The deckhand communicates everything to the pilot with piercing whistle tweets. The midsection a few steps down from the stern is full of bolted plastic seats and everyone coolly sits in them just like they're on a bus, paying their fares to a ticket lady who makes her rounds after every stop. You have to be careful where you sit, however: some Thai schoolgirls too close to the front of our boat were doused with spray.

We went quite a ways down the river, from Rama VIII Bridge to Oriental Pier, and got great views of the Bangkok waterfront and the Temple of Dawn, perhaps the most distinctive and recognizable landmark in the city. Much more exciting than an ordinary cab ride.

Phuket, Thailand

2009-08-16T09:33:00.000-07:00

Coconut in the rain, Karon Beach. More photos from Phuket can be found here.

May 27-31, 2009

Knowing that traveling for a solid seven weeks would be exhausting, we built a vacation into our vacation: a week on the famous beaches of Phuket, Thailand. While planning our trip, however, we hadn’t paid attention to the fact that May heralds the beginning of the rainy season in SE Asia. Our first full day in Phuket, it poured. With very impressive thunder and lightning. Armed with umbrellas, we wandered the beach despondently in the rain.

The thunderstorms didn’t return, however, and the rest of our time in Phuket provided fine beach weather, if frequently overcast. Instead of busy, crowded Patong Beach, we opted to stay a little further down the coast off much quieter Karon Beach. The small cluster of rather run-down hotels, restaurants and shops were nearly empty, it being the start of the low season – another fact we hadn’t been aware of. After three weeks of bustling, frequently polluted cities, however, I was relieved to no longer be dodging people and traffic at every turn.

Phuket was absolutely devastated by the 2004 tsunami only four and a half years ago, but the beach resort communities have made a remarkable recovery. The only overt reminders of the disaster are the “tsunami evacuation route” signs scattered along the beach and in town, pointing toward the inland mountains.

Not every day was spent lounging under a beach umbrella. This being Thailand, we were determined to ride an elephant. At the teeny Karon tourist office we found a reasonable day package to the mainland that included elephant riding, a visit to the “Monkey Cave” surrounded by hundreds of (very hungry) long-tailed macaques we first saw in Singapore, and, believe it or not, white-water rafting. Rafting is . . . really not what I associate with Thailand, but it turned out to be ridiculously fun. With some French tourists, we “rafted” (only in the merest sense as the guides did pretty much all the work) an icy, tumbling mountain river lined with boulders. The guides got the biggest kick out of steering us directly into these boulders, and there was much shrieking in French, English, and Thai. Good times!

Riding an Asian elephant was the highlight of my time in Phuket, however. Shoes must be left behind, and warm, bristly elephant hide feels deliciously strange to bare feet. Fifteen feet off the ground, we clung to our simple seat (no safety restraints here) for over half an hour as we dipped and swayed along a jungle trail. Our young guide, nicknamed “Ladyboy” by another driver, lounged negligently directly on top of the elephant’s head and shared such useful phrases in his English repertoire as “How old are you?” and “Do you have boyfriend?” and “Give me your cameras, I’ll take picture!” “Okay,” we said, handing them over - only to have him slip right off to the jungle floor, taking photo after photo, while our elephant, driverless, kept ambling along.

“Oh. Oh my,” we said, and clutched tighter.

“You!” our grounded driver said, gesturing to Monica. “Elephant head! Go! Get on!” (Snapping more photos.)

And she did. To this day both of us are still rather amazed at how she managed to scooch up the neck of a moving elephant and by some miracle not fall off, but she did it. “Karen!” she hissed. “If I start to fall will you catch me??” “Um,” I replied, eyeing the distance from my own unsteady seat. “Maybe . . . ?”

“Smile!” our guide cheerfully called out, and we dutifully grinned back, half in delight, half in terror. Eventually he scampered back up our elephant to take the seat beside me, and Monica rode just behind the elephant’s ears all the way back to the dismounting station. It should be noted that none of the other tourists got to experience such a hilariously thrilling ride. There are distinct advantages to being two girls with a Ladyboy guide.

Vietnam - Saigon

2009-07-20T23:11:00.000-07:00

Red banners line many of the streets of Saigon. Click here for more photos from Vietnam

May 20-26, 2009

When planning our trip around SE Asia and considering which cities and countries we should visit, Vietnam wasn’t even on the list. I’m not quite sure why; we were juggling so many countries already, and I think it was a combination of Vietnam requiring a visa when other countries didn’t, and perhaps having a slight sense that Americans wouldn’t be, well, entirely welcome in the country. When talking with two well-traveled friends about our trip, however, they said plainly: “You MUST go to Vietnam.” For them it wasn’t even a question; if one was traveling to SE Asia, Vietnam was a must-see. I am so thankful for our friends’ insistence, for Vietnam turned out to be our favorite destination by far and I emphatically second their recommendation.

The country’s largest city was officially renamed Ho Chi Minh City in 1976 but is still commonly known as Saigon, and indeed all of the Vietnamese residents we spoke to referred to it by its former name. My first and most enduring impression of the city can be summed up in one word: traffic. Oh lord, the traffic – specifically the motorcycle traffic. It is unlike anything I have ever seen in my life. It is so staggering, so frenzied, so chaotic, that as we drove in from the airport I literally thought to myself: My god, we are never going to be able to cross the street.

Cars and trucks are too expensive for most Vietnamese and really don’t make sense in the city, with virtually no parking and so many people living in a maze of narrow alleyways. Most, therefore, turn to motorcycles – and I don’t mean dainty European Vespas (though we did see a few): I mean loud, growling, old-school Hondas and Yamahas and Suzukis. I heard conflicting figures as to the number of vehicles in the city; a Vietnamese tour guide said Saigon had a population of 8 million people with 10 million motorcycles, while a Western ex-pat living in Cambodia said 6 million. Either number is staggering, but I believe it: the proof is right there in the streets, zipping along at breakneck speeds, going in every direction with little regard for lanes, as many as five people crammed onto one vehicle. It is dazzling and (as a pedestrian) terrifying at the same time.

It took a great deal of courage on our first attempt to cross a busy street, but we quickly picked up on the rhythm and indeed it’s far easier to navigate the traffic than it looks. The motorcyclists are so maneuverable and so used to dodging pedestrians that, so long as you don’t stop short or deviate from your course, they easily zip around you. It’s the cars and buses you have to look out for, which herald their arrival by massive blasts of the horn that can be heard far down the street. Even once you make it to the other side, however, you’re not in the clear: when traffic gets too backed up, when construction gets in the way, or just whenever riders feel like it, they routinely jump the curb and cruise down the sidewalks. That is, when the sidewalks themselves aren’t impassable from thickly packed rows of parked motorcycles.

Amusingly, despite their audacious driving, all drivers dutifully wear helmets – it’s the law. (It’s also the law that no more than 2 riders are allowed on a motorcycle, but the authorities “Eh, look the other way,” according to our hostel family.) I got the biggest kick out of seeing young girls cruising through the city. In the US motorcycles are very much a male-dominated sector: very tough, very macho, very much the single guy seeking an adrenaline rush or showing off his bad-boy wheels. In Vietnam, they’re not a bold and daring alternative form of transportation; they’re the main form of transportation and nothing special. Skirts don’t figure into the uniform for motorbike-riding Saigon schoolgirls: they wear billowy, knee-length, gaucho-style pants. And I can’t count how many smart young women I saw, dressed in the latest fashion, fancy heels, purse slung over a shoulder, their long hair streaming in the wind beneath their helmets as they coolly handled their temperamental Hondas.

Riding a cyclo in Saigon

With so much excitement in the streets it is fitting, then, that our two most thrilling experiences in Saigon centered around the traffic: riding cyclos and later riding motorcycles themselves. Cyclos are largely a tourist novelty, but the experience is well worth it. As they are so much slower than the surrounding traffic the government is banning cyclos on many roads, and may in fact be trying to do away with them completely. That’s a shame, as they are very, very fun to ride, and are an excellent way to experience the traffic madness up close. I will never forget my intrepid driver starting off and fearlessly steering us directly into oncoming traffic. Seeing me shrink back from the dozens of motorcycles that surged around us with inches to spare, my driver had these reassuring words: “Don’t worry! I’ve been working for ten years, and no accidents . . . yet!”

Emboldened by the success of the cyclos, we next sought to join the company of motorcyclists themselves. All around Pham Ngu Lao and the Backpackers District (so named for the high number of tourists and ex-pats who live in the area), drivers with a set of wheels and a spare helmet peddle the Honda om – easy transportation about the city on their bikes. As we had with the cyclos, we asked our lovely hostel family (of the fantastic Ngoc Thao Guest House, which I highly recommend) what a reasonable price would be, so we’d know what to bargain toward. Happily, they ended up calling a couple family friends who drove us around the city, visiting a couple Buddhist temples and the sprawling Ben Thanh Market, for only 50,000VND (about $2.80) per hour.

I had never been on a motorcycle before in my life, and to ride one in Saigon of all places, the city with the wildest traffic I’d ever seen, was literally out of this world. The motorcyclists speed through the city streets, weaving around and through cars and buses, other cyclists, bicyclists, vegetable and souvenir carts, construction, stray animals, pedestrians – the list is endless. When the inevitable summer rains hit, everyone whips out plastic ponchos and keeps on driving. At the occasional stoplight all the drivers crowd in as close as possible, some taking to the sidewalks to get closer to the head of the pack or cut down the cross street, and the instant the light changes they all charge forward through the vehicles still crossing the intersection. It’s madness, and it still somewhat baffles me how anyone can dare try to navigate such bedlam, but in our full week in Saigon I never witnessed a single accident. If only American drivers could be so alert.

Malacca, Malaysia

2009-06-02T06:41:00.000-07:00

My artful interpretation of Jonker Street by night. Click here for more photos of Malaysia.

May 18-19, 2009

"We'd like to take an overnight trip into Malaysia," I told my friend in Singapore. "What place do you recommend we visit?"

"Malacca!" was her instant response.

And so to Malacca (Malaysian spelling: Melaka) we went. Comfortable tour buses (with a/c but no bathrooms) travel back and forth between Singapore, Malacca, and Kuala Lumpur every day at reasonable prices - we rode the Delima Express for about $20SNG there and 20 Malaysian ringgits back. Crossing the Singapore/Malaysia border was an experience in itself. "Be sure to remember your bus," the company operator told us, with good reason: at each border crossing everyone has to file off the bus, go through immigration, walk across the border, and find their bus on the other side - and with so much bus traffic, there's a lot of them! Luckily our Delima bus was fire-engine red and easy to spot, and it appeared our driver was keeping an eye out for us two Western girls. With our American passports we took longer to get through immigration than anyone else. At the Malaysian border crossing they even took us aside for a special health & temperature check; all the authorities we've encountered have been so cautious about swine flu.

Arriving at the Malacca bus station (about 4 hours after leaving Singapore) we wandered around in confusion for a bit before being tipped off to the Panorama bus, which functions as both local transportation and a touring service - all of the scheduled stops are at sight-seeing attractions. We'd heard some reports of ATMs in Malaysia swiping card information and emptying accounts, so we each exchanged $40 (about 170 ringgits) and it was more than enough for two full days.

The Panorama bus dropped us off at Victoria Fountain, right in the heart of Malacca's lovely old quarter, and we went in search of a hostel for the night. By sheer chance we stumbled upon what may be my absolute favorite hostel - River View Guest House, on Jalan Kampung Pantai right on the Melaka River. The whole building is full of unique charm and character, bright whitewashed walls contrasting with dark wooden beams and floors, large airy rooms and inviting common spaces. It's everything I think a hostel should be. And the owners, Mani and Raymond, are delightful. They both sat us down with a map and noted all the places we should visit, informed us we must try the traditional Malaysian dishes chicken rice ball, baba laksa and celdon, and served us coconut tarts. Mani was somewhat helplessly confused by our lack of luggage. "But...you have no bags?" she kept asking. The guest house had only been open 6 weeks when we arrived, and all the previous guests were backpackers lugging around their massive packs. We, tripping about Malaysia with only large purses, were quite the oddity.

Armed with Raymond's annotated map, we hit the streets of Malacca. After clean, wealthy, developed Singapore, Malaysia was a bit of a shock. Most buildings only had pit toilets, to my dismay. (Say what you will, I simply have not the talent to use them and am determined to avoid ever doing so.) Most of the narrow, winding streets had not even the semblance of a sidewalk, so people essentially amble among traffic. Now that I've been to Vietnam and Thailand walking in the street seems natural, but it was rather nerve-wracking to get used to at first.

Malacca has undergone great effort to build up its fascinating historical heritage and welcome visitors and it shows. Although the river itself is not the cleanest (and harbors the largest lizards/iguanas I have ever see; they were literally the size of small crocodiles), the riverfront is lovely - wide, well-lit pedestrian walkways have been built along both sides. We took an hour-long river cruise on our second day (only 10 ringgits) and it proved an excellent way to see more of the city. The area around famed Jonker Street (known for excellent antiques) is delightful to wander in despite occasional traffic. At night many of the original colonial buildings, a mixture of Dutch, Malay and Chinese architecture, are dramatically backlit in deep red. The glowing lights pick up on the many Chinese lanterns hung everywhere and the effect is magical. I'm not surprised my friend recommended Malacca as a destination, and I only wish we'd been able to stay longer than two days.

MacRitchie Reservoir & Sentosa Island, Singapore

2009-05-28T19:27:00.000-07:00

The long-tailed macaque! Click here for more photos from Singapore.

May 16-17, 2009

"Oh, look!" my friend said. "We can do this cool tree top walk through the Singapore nature reserve!"

"Does this mean we will essentially be hiking through the rainforest?" I replied.

"....Yes."

"Well. Just so long as we know what we're doing."

I was not aware, however, that this would turn into a 12-kilometer walk along occasionally very rough trails in 95-degree heat and dripping humidity. I do not think I will be doing further hikes through the rainforest anytime soon. We went with a pair of brothers from Yorkshire that we met in our hostel, however, and despite the rather miserable conditions we had a great time. The MacRitchie Reservoir occupies a huge area of land within Singapore's already small island, and we ended up completely circumnavigating (on foot!) the lower reservoir. The tree top walk, though brief, really was tremendously fun - the trees are so thick below you can't even see the ground. On our hike we even glimpsed a troop of long-tailed macaques, the monkeys native to Singapore, and heard them rustling in the trees repeatedly.

It's completely free to enter and walk the trails of the MacRitchie Reservoir, and I think the tree-top walk on its own is entirely worth it. Just be prepared for some serious hiking in sweltering conditions - a taxi can take you within 2 km of the walk, but once you enter the bridge it's one-way and the only way out of the reserve is another 5-6 km hike, most of it along a boardwalk. (Except, of course, when the trail becomes swamped in mud or encounters steep rocky inclines. Then you're on your own.) The second half of the hike actually runs along a fancy golf course for a time, so you get to see Singapore's finest citizens out practicing their drives, looking completely cool and comfortable, while you are swimming in sweat and limping from blisters. It's a fun comparison, I assure you.

The view from Sentosa Island

For our final full day in Singapore (before heading off on our overnight trip to Malaysia) we decided to check out Sentosa Island. My friend E warned us against this - "It's very touristy, the whole island is basically a resort" - but after several days of first walking around the sweltering city and then the sweltering rainforest, we decided a beach resort was exactly what we wanted. It's easy to get there - just take the metro to HarbourFront, and from there you can reach the island by bus, monorail or cable car (glass-bottomed and not). The bus and monorail each cost $3 SNG (the cost of getting on the island) while the cable cars cost significantly more.

Upon stepping off the bus we did indeed find ourselves in one huge theme park, essentially - all the careful landscaping and artfully designed walks strongly reminded me of Atlantis in the Bahamas. Or perhaps even Disney World, as the island even has a ride - the luge! It is quite silly but ridiculously fun - for $11SNG you take a ski lift over the island then ride a low wheeled cart down a course, speeding or gliding as you like. Monica merrily swerved all over the course, cackling all the way. I was a more sedate driver.

Our theme-park ride accomplished we headed for the beach, where I was rather disappointed. I know Singapore is a massive hub for shipping traffic, of course, but I had no idea their resort beaches would essentially look onto a major shipping lane. They'd built mini-islands facing the beaches (which were created with sand imported from Indonesia, E tells me) in order to improve the view, but they couldn't hide the fact that some freighters were anchored just offshore. It was not encouraging me to swim, and the cloudy water speckled with debris didn't help. So Monica swam while I lounged on the beach and read a book, and we were both happy. Afterward we watched the sunset over the shipping channel choked with vessels - and with all the bobbing lights, it was quite the beautiful sight.

Geylang, Singapore

2009-05-20T09:39:00.000-07:00

Durian fruit. Click here for more photos from Singapore.

May 14-20, 2009

Thus far Singapore is the hottest, most humid country I have ever encountered (and as of this writing I've already been to Malaysia and Vietnam). Coming after cool autumnal Australia, the heat was brutal. The first couple days it almost felt like moving through water, the air was so heavy. We kept ducking into air-conditioned restaurants and shops just for some relief.

Since Singapore is essentially one huge shopping mall, luckily we were never far from a/c. A good Singaporean friend of mine from college used to joke about her country and its shopping centers, and she really wasn't kidding. It felt like everywhere we turned we found ourselves in another mall - gorgeous, gleaming, and frigidly blasted with a/c. And spotless, of course. Singapore is truly as clean as advertised. Not that we never saw litter, but all the sidewalks and pedestrian walkways were so well designed, all the public areas so beautifully laid out and maintained, an aura of glittering cleanliness seems to permanently hover over the city.

Our hostel, 98SG, was superbly located less than 100 feet from the Aljunied subway station, and it was wonderfully easy to get into the city center and explore. (I do so love a well-functioning metro system.) Aljunied serves the Geylang neighborhood, which my friend laughingly informed us was the red light district - after we'd already booked our hostel, of course. (I was rather startled to discover that Singapore has a red light district, with its wholesome, hardworking, no gum-chewing image - though with its history of pirates, this should really be no surprise.) Geylang turned out to be a great place to stay in - the hostel itself was located at the quiet end of a street, and the rest of the area is filled with Chinese and Taiwanese restaurants, brilliant red lanterns, and blazing neon signs.

We went out one evening with my friend E and a couple of her friends for a sampling of Taiwanese food. With rapid Mandarin they helped us order steamed and fried pork dumplings, bean curd custard, fried spring onion pancake, and yu tiao, the fried dough to be eaten with the custard. (As a former British colony, Singapore's primary language is English, though the island population is largely made up of ethnic Chinese, Indians and Maylay.) All was scrumptious except for the custard, which I found rather sour. Afterward we visited a fruit stand for durian. Durian is a large fruit - bigger than a coconut - studded with extraordinarily hard and sharp spikes. The fruit seller had to handle them with thick gloves, and we were informed that people have actually died when these fruits fall out of the trees and land on them. Harvesters have to wear helmets. I had no idea fruit could be so dangerous.

E. & friends enjoying their durian

Amusingly, the day before we had wondered over some signs on the bus: no smoking, no food or drink, no . . . strange spiky fruit? Why does it get its own category? Besides its prickliness durian is also known for its strong odor and unusual taste - which appeals to some and revolts others, apparently. Hence the ban on carrying them on public transportation. With swift whacks of the knife the fruit seller carved our durian into sections, of which only the spongy, yellow flesh around the pits is consumed. There's no doubt, durian is a strange fruit. Monica and I took tentative tastes . . . and promptly decided that was enough. It's the texture that's so off-putting - it reminded me of soft tuna fish more than anything else, except somehow sickly sweet. Not very appealing to American tastes. E and the others happily finished off every pit, however - and then washed their hands at the fruit stand's sink to get rid of the durian odor. I have never yet encountered another fruit that required so much effort to hide the fact that you had eaten it.

Upon leaving the stand we were overjoyed to hear E and her friends complaining of the heat. "We thought it only affected us silly foreigners!" I said. "Oh, no!" said E's friend. "We're always hot! Why do you think we have so many indoor shopping malls?" Indeed. Singapore: where shopping - and air conditioning - reign supreme.

Sydney, again

2009-05-11T23:07:00.000-07:00

Lifeguard's surfboard, Manly beach. Click here for more photos from Australia

May 12, 2009

The most surprising fact I have learned about Sydney: it is hilly. And I mean very, very hilly. I don't quite know what I was expecting, but steep hills were definitely not on the list. The whole city is ranged along the bays lining the long, twisting harbor, and the land instantly bumps up into higher and higher hills from the waterfront, dotted with buildings. The harbor mouth letting onto the Pacific is marked by spectacular sheer cliffs. I find it very reminiscent of Mediterranean Europe - especially Croatia - or western Mexico. Either way my legs have definitely felt the effects of so much uphill walking. I do love how the city is spread out over so many different levels, though - with all sorts of public terraces and surprise stairways to other streets. It makes for a very dynamic, architecturally interesting city. Sydney is also much more tropical than I expected. There are palm trees all over the place! I knew it had a mild climate but I didn't know it was that mild.

I am continually amused by how many British place names we have encountered, especially after my summer in London. Thus far we've seen Chiswick Gardens, Piccadilly Gardens (actually an apartment building), Kings Cross (a train station, of course), Paddington (a large neighborhood south of the harbor), Liverpool Street, and the Brighton Hotel for backpackers in Manly, a beachfront neighborhood on the north side of the harbor. And a few days ago we wandered through Hyde Park in the center of the city.

Sprinkled throughout, however, are names that could only be Australian (and curiously all start with "wool"): Woollahra, Woolooware, and my personal favorite, Woolloomooloo. Can you imagine saying you're from Woolloomooloo? I would move to Sydney just for that.

Sydney, Australia

2009-05-08T20:20:00.000-07:00

May 7-14, 2009

I am in Australia! It is tremendously exciting. I am trying to upload some photos from an internet cafe but it is being very slow. I do love Sydney. It is well into autumn here - we walk through piles of fallen leaves in the outer neighborhoods - but the temperature is gorgeous. It's been sunny and in the high 60s ever since we got here, dipping into the 50s at night. When we return the end of June the lowest it should get is the 40s. Very nice; I could live with a winter like this!

The city is beautifully laid out along the waterfront, and although the transportation system cannot compete with London (nothing can, I suppose. Maybe Tokyo; I am eager to get back there and see what I remember) it hasn't been too difficult to get around. Of course we visited the Opera House and Harbour Bridge first thing. It is incredible to see such world-famous landmarks in person after seeing them so often in books and on TV. I am still a little incredulous just that I'm here, in the Southern Hemisphere, but I'm looking forward to seeing more of Sydney.

American Universities

2009-05-04T21:23:00.000-07:00

April 7-23, 2009
Missouri, New York, Boston, Chicago, Maryland

I have a bit more of an excuse for not having this post ready, as I returned from my trips just over a week ago and ever since it's been a madhouse of packing, moving out, and getting ready for Asia & Australia. But I did indeed visit the campuses of the University of Missouri, Columbia, Boston University, Northwestern, and the University of Maryland, all of which accepted me into their journalism graduate programs. I'd been struggling on how to choose before, but in the end it was easy: Maryland, already my favorite, offered me a wonderful fellowship. And that was that! I am thrilled to attend graduate school on such a gorgeous campus. Every single building looks the same as the Journalism one: red brick with white columns. So Southern! It makes me want to swan around in a hoop skirt.

Exuma Islands, Bahamas

2009-05-04T21:12:00.000-07:00

February 19-March 4, 2009

How has the time gotten away from me?? Two months later and I still do not have this post up. That is terrible. I promise a full write-up of my annual Bahamas visit when I return from Australia and Asia, but for now my photos will have to suffice.

The Cloisters, Nassau

2009-03-29T07:22:00.001-07:00

Friends and I went to see the new Julia Roberts movie Duplicity last night. The movie opens with an aerial view of the Dubai coastline - followed by the exact terraced shot above. DUBAI read the bright white text over the image.

I jerked in my seat. "What!" I hissed involuntarily. "That's not Dubai!"

For the purposes of our characters it was, but I knew instantly this was most definitely a view of The Cloisters on Paradise Island, in the Bahamas. I cannot describe the disorienting feeling of seeing not just a place I know in a movie, but an exact image of a location as carefully composed in a photograph I have taken myself. They only showed it for the briefest of moments before cutting to lovely close-ups of Julia and Clive Owen, and for a minute I thought I was going crazy. To me, it was so clearly the Bahamas and not Dubai that I couldn't imagine how the filmmakers expected anyone to believe it. Maybe I was wrong; maybe I hadn't seen it properly; maybe Dubai has a spot with the exact same landscaping. But I knew, I knew what that shot was, and so I floundered silently in my seat for probably the first ten minutes of the movie.

Clive and Julia later visit the casino in Atlantis, however - a place I am also personally acquainted with, on many occasions - and that sealed the deal for me. They were most definitely truly at Atlantis, and the Cloisters? Are literally up the road. It's an easy hike, one I have walked myself. It's so clear that they brought cast & crew to Paradise Island, shot their scenes at Atlantis, then strolled over to the Ocean Club (upon which land the Cloisters adjoin) and were like, "Okay, now we're in Dubai!" Ha, I love little insights into filmmaking like that.

Of course most people are not going to be familiar enough with the Cloisters to notice like I did, and anyway that's all just movie magic. But they really are quite famous, at least in the Bahamas, and absolutely worth seeing. The Cloisters themselves are the remains of a 14th-century French Augustinian monastery dismantled and brought to Florida by William Randolph Hearst in the 1920s. Huntington Hartford, the billionaire who transformed little-known Hog Island into Paradise Island in the early 1960s, bought the stones and re-assembled them on the island. As I recall from my visit to the Cloisters three years ago, a plaque notes that they were a gift for his wife. Hartford built (among other Paradise Island landmarks) Hurricane Hole Marina and the Ocean Club. The Cloisters sit on a high point that slopes gently down all the way to the Ocean Club's swimming pool, where Clive and Julia's banter first sparks their romance. It's very, very beautiful, and the grounds are entirely open to visitors - the Cloisters themselves are on public property, and I believe anyone can wander the Ocean Club's gardens.

My mother and I on the south steps of the Cloisters, 2006; one of the statues near the edifice - the whole grounds are full of them

The north face of the Cloisters is nearly bare, but the south face looking toward Nassau Harbour and the city is covered in rich green ivy. The ground also slopes away to the south, leading to a lovely stone gazebo. From the harbor, the grounds are actually very difficult to see; they narrow and end in thick vegetation. Whenever we passed through Nassau Harbour on our boat, my family almost always anchored near the Cloisters - it's an excellent, quiet spot, well-protected from heavy shipping traffic. We always anchored off the one barren lot in perhaps all of Paradise Island, a steep hill thick with trees and dead vegetation, separated from the grand estates on either side by chainlink fences. A path wound up next to the fence from the tiny beach, though, and although it was a bit of a mad scramble it was the easiest way to get ashore. Much better than taking the dinghy all the way through the choppy harbor to the public docks. From the hill the Cloisters were a block east, and Atlantis only a few blocks northwest.

There was a time when we would visit Atlantis and its marvelous aquariums by taking the dinghy through a narrow canal in the shadow of the bridge - I can remember when Nassau Harbour had only one bridge spanning it; the second was built merely 10 years ago - that led into a quiet, sheltered pond lined with shops and restaurants. We would tie up at one of the restaurants' docks and there was the main (and original) building of Atlantis, just across the street - a luxury hotel, but still just a hotel. Not a mega complex. Everything was much quieter then: far fewer people and traffic and celebrities. After we were done with Atlantis we would wander across the breakwater facing the ocean and explore the other hotels on the horseshoe beach just to the west; I remember a memorable afternoon spent swimming in those hotels' pools. (We never swam in the Atlantis pools, though I suppose we could have; the other hotels were just more welcoming. And relaxed about supervision.)

Now, of course, the canal has been filled in; the pond has been dredged and enlarged and landscaped to create the Atlantis Marina, taking the shops and restaurants with it; the other hotels have long since been bought and obliterated to build more and more salmon pink Atlantis buildings. It's sad, in a way. Atlantis is a very fine resort, but it is still just a resort: very packaged and planned and glossy and commercial. It doesn't have the quiet dignity of the Ocean Club - a long, low building nearly hidden by palms and lush natural vegetation. There's very little Bahamas in Atlantis; the whole thing could just as easily be in Miami.

All the development is great for the Bahamas, in a way, especially in the Out Islands where jobs are few; but I miss the quieter pace of life I knew growing up. I miss the ability to just motor up in our old, patched dinghy to a sleepy restaurant on the water. Hopefully the Ocean Club and the Cloisters won't be soon affected by the ever-expanding Atlantis empire.

The Cloisters, looking north

Chicago & Evanston

2009-03-21T22:49:00.000-07:00

February 16-18, 2008

I traveled to Illinois again in February in order to attend my interview with Northwestern’s Medill School of Journalism in Evanston. I was leery about making the trek in February thanks to Chicago’s notorious weather, but it actually turned out to be pretty mild. My previous trip to Chicago in October was great but had some major downsides as to unnerving inhabitants and only tolerable transportation. I found I liked the city much more after this fleeting visit, however. Just why is hard to pinpoint; I think it helped that driving my own car there, which enabled me to travel at my own pace and go directly to my friend’s apartment, instead of the bus dropping me off in the middle of downtown loaded down with all my overnight bags, made the whole trip easier. (Actually parking my car was a nightmare, but I only needed a spot for a night.) I also remembered a great deal from my earlier October visit, so in the end it felt more like I was returning to a somewhat familiar part of the world instead of a massive unknown city.

The day before my interview I ventured into the city to meet my friend for lunch. Catching the bus wasn’t a problem, but paying for my ticket was. I didn’t have time to purchase a day pass before heading out, so I had to pay in exact change, which was fine because I had plenty left over from paying tolls. Simple, right? No, of course I managed to get hopelessly confused.

First I asked the driver “Can I buy a ticket on this bus?”, remembering that some buses in London and Poland require you to have purchased one beforehand. His response was “We don’t sell tickets on the bus anymore,” which I at first took to mean the London example, except my friend had very explicitly told me I could pay in cash on the bus, so I was instantly befuddled. I actually half turned away to get back off, but then the driver said “No, you can pay here,” so I pulled out my fare, very much relieved. Except then I couldn’t figure out how to put it in the machine. Somehow I totally missed the dollar bill slot and was trying to force my dollar into a completely different slot, and I had to tell the driver “I’m sorry, it’s not taking it,” and he had to say “Uh, it should,” and we went back and forth and at one point I was ready to give up on bills and switch entirely to quarters, but then by some miracle I figured out my mistake and at last successfully submitted my fare. This whole show, meanwhile, was acted out in front of everyone else sedately seated on the moving bus while I braced myself against a pole.

I turned away, overjoyed to finally be able to find a seat, but swung back immediately. I remembered when I got on the bus from Krakow to Auschwitz I paid the driver my seven zloty but then just charged down the aisle to a seat, totally forgetting to get my ticket, and they had to pass it down all the people sitting in front of me and it was very embarrassing. “Oh!” I said, “Don’t I, uh, need a ticket?”

“No,” the driver said, with truly extraordinary patience, “we don’t give out tickets on the bus anymore,” and I realized he was saying that Chicago buses don’t print out paper tickets at all, even if paying in cash. By this point the driver was looking at me with great concern and making a few kindly meant comments. His exact words, and I am not making this up, were “Have you ever ridden the bus before?”

Ha! When I am in London I become confused by Japan; when I am in Chicago I am confused by London and Poland. The problem is not that I’ve ridden too few buses but too many, in too many different countries. They’ve all got multiple different systems and it’s impossible for any lone person to keep them straight. Impossible, I tell you! Luckily I got on the bus near the beginning of its route and so there wasn’t a lengthy line of irate people waiting behind me while I got a crash course in how to ride a bus in Chicago.

Amusingly, even after that debacle I still feel more charitable toward Chicago transportation than I did in October. It helped that my bus took me straight down Michigan Avenue to my friend’s workplace on the corner of Michigan and Wacker, overlooking the Chicago River. Yes, that location really is just as amazing as it sounds. We went to a yummy bakery/sandwich shop down the street with a prime view of the new Trump tower, and I told my bus story in great detail. Afterward I trotted several blocks down Michigan Avenue to Millennium Park to while away the afternoon.

I wandered all over the park and happily took lots of pictures of famous landmarks I’d missed on my previous visit: the Cloud Gate, the skating rink, the Jay Pritzker Pavilion. I got a big kick out of the Pavilion because once again it was something I’d written about while at my summer internship in London. In fact, I even corresponded with Chicago city planners to get a print-worthy photo of the Pavilion to put in the issue, so it was fun to actually be taking my own photos.

Of course I loved the Cloud Gate; who doesn’t? What a fantastically unique, trippy and fun sculpture. Watching people of all ages wonderingly approach the sparkling curved surface never gets old. The warped Chicago skyline reflected on the outside was incredible, but my favorite effect was walking beneath: the many twisting hollows produce image after fractured image of the people below like ever receding funhouse mirrors. Wild!

Myself reflected in the Cloud Gate; detail of the bridge designed by Frank Gehry that connects Millennium Park & Grant Park

Detail of an ornate, rust-covered pavilion I discovered in a forgotten corner of Grant Park

The sun disappeared about 4 p.m. and Chicago’s famous winds picked up. I ducked back into the bakery for hot cocoa before boarding what I thought was my correct bus home. Unfortunately, my friend had forgotten to tell me that the bus routes change in the late afternoon to deal with rush hour. Oops. The bus terminated its run wayyyyyy before my friend’s street. This actually happened to me fairly frequently in London – my normal buses would just have different final stops throughout the day. I never could figure out why; there appeared to be no schedule. It was exasperating but never really a problem with no shortage of buses and Tube stops in the center of the city. Here, though, there was no nearby train and I had no more money for bus fare. So I walked.

I knew if I followed the road I was on I would eventually reach my friend’s street. I just didn’t know it was much further away than I thought. Hmm. So I ended up a woman walking alone at dusk in not one of Chicago’s best neighborhoods, which was not an ideal situation, but I just turned up my fast-steady-know-what-I’m-doing stride and finally made it home safely. However, I now have yet another bus rule to remember (and be confused by): unannounced route changes.

The following morning I drove to Evanston for my interview. The two cities are really only 20 minutes apart, but it took me a bit longer as I figured out the route for the first time. I found the school, found my building, found a parking spot, but couldn’t find the restroom and so I madly brushed off lint on my suit in a random dim hallway. But I was on time and my interview went splendidly. I said nothing too cringe-worthy in relating my past accomplishments and I really liked what the admissions counselor had to say about Medill’s program. Crazily enough I almost didn’t apply to Medill because I wasn’t sure they offered exactly what I was looking for, but my personal visit utterly changed that notion.

Afterward I took a brief spin around the campus. Northwestern rests on prime real estate next to Lake Michigan, and the journalism building is located right on the beach. It is seriously amazing and reminded me very happily of my home in northern Michigan on Lake Huron. That accomplished I directly plowed through the hours-long drive back to Ann Arbor for my next big trip starting the following day.

I will be visiting Chicago again in April, however, to attend Medill’s Open House: because I got in! I got the good news two weeks after my interview. Medill is one of the absolute top journalism programs in the country, so that is enormously exciting. I’m not decided yet on whether I will attend Medill – I have to hear back from the other schools I applied to – but either way I’m looking forward to another Chicago trip.

The skating rink in Millennium Park

The Presidential Inauguration, Washington DC

2009-03-12T17:22:00.000-07:00

January 19-21, 2009

So I was sitting in my room on a Monday morning, looking forward to a relaxing MLK Day, when my housemates burst in.

"We're going to the inauguration!" they shrieked.

My jaw literally dropped. "You mean . . . the actual ceremony? In DC??"

"YES!" they screamed, halfway demented.

"But . . . we don't have tickets. You know you're just going to end up watching it on TV in a bar somewhere, along with the entire rest of the country."

"DOESN'T MATTER!" their voices, if possible, at an even higher pitch. Quoth my housemate: "I went to the gym this morning and I was wearing my Obama t-shirt and the whole time I'm exercising I'm looking at him in the mirror and I suddenly thought 'Why am I not there?? How can I not go? I need to be able to tell my grandchildren I was there!!' ARE YOU COMING."

"Augh," I said. ".....yes."

"YAY!!!"

So four of us hastily packed overnight bags and munchies, piled into the car, and set off for the 8-hour drive from Ann Arbor to Baltimore on Monday afternoon. We didn't want to deal with the absolute insanity of driving straight into DC, so we decided to take the 11:30 p.m. train from Baltimore. We finally made it, ran into the station, and . . . the train was delayed an hour. AN HOUR.

Hahahahaha. This is why Americans have no faith in trains.

The train finally arrived an hour and a half late and we got to DC about 2:30 a.m., wherein I may have squealed upon catching a glimpse of the Capitol from Union Station. This is going to sound crazy but I had never in my life been to DC before - or Baltimore either, for that matter. I've never been to New York, Boston or Philadelphia, either. My housemate from Baltimore was scandalized, but I've just never had occasion to go and it's a long trip to get there. I’m from rural northern Michigan, which is not on the way to anywhere except rural southern Canada. If anything, this trip to the East Coast - and seeing how relatively close all these big cities are to each other - made me realize just how far out of the way my hometown is, heh.

We caught a taxi to Georgetown, where we crashed at a friend of a friend’s house. Georgetown – what little I saw of it in the dead of night – was gorgeous. I found it very reminiscent of London’s Notting Hill and Portobello Market neighborhood. At 6 a.m. we were back outside walking to the Mall. I fluttered in excitement again over sighting the Lincoln Memorial and the Washington Monument. The Monument looked particularly spectacular against the rosy golden dawn sky.

As we made our way from Georgetown streams of people began to trickle in from every direction, coming together in greater and greater numbers. I had a brief flashback to Football Saturdays in Ann Arbor and all the students converging on the stadium. But this wasn’t 100,000 people – this was 2 million. Two million!

By 8 a.m. we were crammed deep within the crowd and ended up watching the unfolding ceremony on one of the jumbo screens for the next four hours, literally unable to move. The sun eventually came out but my lord it was cold. Definitely below freezing. My toes were numb in minutes and my legs ached from standing so long. I think everyone around us was pretty miserable – but we were there! At the Inauguration! No discomfort could compare.

It felt absolutely incredible to be part of that huge throng - everyone was so happy and worked up and so Democrat, heh. There were cheers for Jimmy Carter . . . cheers for Al Gore . . . HUGE cheers for Bill Clinton . . . near silence for Papa Bush, and universal boos for Dubya. Yes!! It was awesome. And everyone went wild when Obama finally appeared. Volunteers had passed out little American flags and we all waved them madly and cheered ourselves hoarse at any sighting of the new First Family.

Clearly getting out of such a mob was near impossible, but we sucked in and plowed through in order to catch our train. When we finally squeezed free of the crowd I was a mess – coat all unbuttoned, scarf askew, sweater twisted sideways. Then began a veritable odyssey around extensive security barricades just to reach the station. So very many streets were closed, with police and FBI and Secret Service and snipers everywhere. Let me tell you, racing 20-some blocks on stiff frozen legs is not fun. As I staggered along the sidewalks I’m sure I looked like a casualty that had been trampled by the crowd.

We caught our train at last and had a lovely lunch and mini-tour of Baltimore. As we looked down over the waterfront I mused aloud “Hey, this really reminds me of Barcelona,” and my housemate exclaimed “Barcelona’s waterfront was modeled on Baltimore’s!” So that was rather exciting. I love the idea that I’ve been to enough international cities that I can recognize their urban planning, heh.

Baltimore

I helped drive home and we got back to Ann Arbor about 1:30 a.m. Wednesday morning. All in all it was like a 30-hour trip of near insanity, totally impulsive and spontaneous and madcap, but somehow it still worked out okay and I'm so glad we went. It really was important just to be there, to be part of the people, and I loved experiencing the crowd and just how happy everyone is that Obama is in and Bush is out. I was so angry and disgusted in '04 when Bush was reelected, but over the past year I’ve regained my faith in the U.S. and what Americans really want and stand for. There's still so much to be proud of about the U.S. and being American, and I definitely saw many reasons why that Tuesday morning.

Chicago & the Midwest

2009-03-12T14:42:00.000-07:00

October 17-27, 2008

I did a flurry of Midwest traveling for a couple weeks in October. My friend Monica and I took a weekend trip to Chicago so we could visit our college roommate Kara. The bus got caught in traffic on I-94 and we were hours late. We were unceremoniously dumped on the sidewalk in front of Union Station at 10 p.m. on a Friday night, with no idea where or how we were supposed to meet Kara. The streets were utterly deserted – except for a select few extraordinarily creepy individuals. We stood with our bags on a corner until the same shifty-eyed man passed back and forth in front of us for the fifth time, then just picked a direction and started walking.

The emptiness of the streets really surprised me after my experience in London, in which families and people of all ages could be found out and about till quite late. Granted we were in the middle of the business district, with nothing but office buildings all around. But there we were at the base of the Sears Tower, one of the most famous skyscrapers in the world, mobbed by tourists every day, and it was so shady. I never for one minute felt concerned about my safety in London, whether I was in Bloomsbury, Islington, Shoreditch, anywhere. Of course I never went to any truly run-down neighborhoods, but I never felt nervous to be a woman walking alone after dark. Chicago, though . . . made me feel very uncomfortable. And I wasn’t even alone! I was so, so glad when we finally connected with Kara under the El tracks and we could get away from downtown.

Despite a rather off-putting beginning, the rest of our visit went splendidly. Kara lives ten minutes north of the city in the Uptown neighborhood, with a great view of the parks and marinas fronting Lake Michigan. Over the weekend we wandered the waterfront as well as the cute neighborhood to the south, where Halloween decorations were in full force. I loved seeing all the carved jack-o-lanterns everywhere.

One night we made a special trip to Navy Pier. How fabulous, to have a mini-amusement park right in the city. I loved the massive, brightly lit Ferris wheel, and the famous fireworks show over Lake Michigan didn’t disappoint either. We tried to ride the swings but a girl apparently freaked out and tried to get off as the ride was about to start . . . so we ended up dangling for like 20 minutes before they let us off and shut down the ride. Weird. Oh well, at least we had fun twirling in the swings. Monica and Kara got very into it.

The next day we headed well into the sprawling neighborhoods to the west, on a random quest to find either the city’s Little Italy or its Polish quarter. This did not go nearly so well. We rode a bus a looooong way west, then got off basically in the middle of nowhere. I cannot remember why because the area certainly did not look in the slightest bit Italian or Polish. Then we walked. And walked and walked and walked. We had a good time chatting and laughing and studying Halloween decorations on our hours-long hike, but not once did we encounter anything that could have been construed as an ethnic neighborhood. At last dusk started to fall and we realized we were three young women on foot in unknown territory a long way from home. Yikes! So then commenced more walking just to find a bus, any bus.

On our urban rambles we encountered crazy Halloween decorations and a more mundane 7-Eleven. With only three weeks till the presidential election, we were very pleased to see the Obama cups wiped out and so many McCain ones left

I am sad to say that after London I was not impressed with Chicago’s transportation system. Clearly it works for the millions of people who live and work in the city, but the Loop? It covers so little territory! Just a few blocks! I still cannot figure out why it is so small. And buses seemed to come very infrequently and erratically, though that may have been just my perception. It’s just that after the extraordinary ease and convenience of the London subway and bus system, in which Tube stops seem to be around every corner even well outside the city center, nothing else can compare. I think I have been spoiled forever, alas. But I may very well end up living in Chicago/Evanston next year, and once I get used to the routes & time schedules I’m sure I will feel more confident in my ability to get around the city.

Kara & Monica in the Chicago rain

After Chicago I spent several days in Ann Arbor and an evening in Detroit to celebrate a friend’s birthday. Terrible reputation aside, I am quite fond of Detroit. Since I did my honors thesis on Detroit in its heyday in the 1920s I always view it with a bit of strange double vision, layering the historically thriving, vibrant metropolis over the current struggling urban center. I can’t see one without the other, see Detroit as it once was and could be again. There seems to be this pervading impression that Detroit is a ghost town but ahem, people do still live there. We had a great evening out in Greektown, and with Monica living in the city next year I’m sure I’ll visit more often.

The weekend was a flurry of activity, fitting in Cedar Point (the new roller coaster Maverick is amazing, I was absolutely screaming in terror throughout the whole thing) and a trip to Hillsdale for its annual treasure hunt. The hunt extends across the entire county along all kinds of crazy back roads and takes hours. It is fantastic. This was our third year doing it and although having two separate cars did not work out as well as planned (*cough* understatement), our two teams still placed in the top ten, which is incredible. Hillsdale is a beautiful county – quintessential southern Michigan, I always think – and I always love visiting, even if I am most familiar with the county’s dirt roads in pitch darkness.

Cheboygan, Michigan

2009-03-09T23:33:00.000-07:00

September 20-21, 2008

After yet another long night camped out in Heathrow Airport – this seems to happen to me a lot, for some reason – I finally returned to Michigan on September 10, in the brilliant sunshine of the closing days of summer. I was so happy to see the beach and the full spread of Lake Huron again. I loved London, I couldn't have asked for a better summer there, but after awhile so many people and buildings felt suffocating. I am definitely someone who needs wide-open spaces.

On my last day of work the end of August the entire office held a company party at a park in suburban London. There was much drinking – especially by the rather wild sales team – and amateur playing of cricket. I had a ball, simply relaxing and chatting with all the good friends I’d made on the editorial floor. I am so thankful for my internship. It was a wonderful experience full of wonderful people, and two of my editors wrote me fantastic letters of recommendation that helped me get into grad school. I definitely got lucky when I found them.

I had no trouble readjusting except for a lingering sense of strangeness over driving on the right side of the road. After so long catching and riding buses on the left, that had become normal to me. Luckily I never actually attempted to follow my instincts. And months later I still miss Sainsbury’s fruit & nut muesli. I ate a big bowl with yogurt and honey nearly every day I was in London – so delicious! – and I have never found anything that could compare in the States. Sadness.

A week after my return I joined some friends on a quick camping trip to Cheboygan, at the northern tip of Lower Michigan. I love visiting Cheboygan. The drive north on US-23 is beautiful; for long portions the road runs right alongside Lake Huron. We always stay at the same rustic cabin fronting the beach with a view of the Straits of Mackinac. Saturday we drove into Mackinaw City to buy fudge – required, of course – and a bonus item: kites. We flew the kites on the beach; they soared straight up in the brisk wind off the lake. I can’t remember the last time I flew a kite – I’d forgotten how much fun it is! The rest of the evening was classic camp activities: big beach bonfire, roasted marshmallows and s’mores, Frisbee playing, guitar strumming, stargazing, board games played by kerosene lantern in the cabin. Sunday morning we hiked the sandy trail to the point and looked at the Mackinac Bridge from afar before packing up.

I do love camping. It’s such a Michigan thing to do, and how nice to jump right back in after a summer abroad.

Istanbul

2009-03-09T22:32:00.000-07:00

September 6-9, 2008

What I remember most about Istanbul were the countless domes and minarets of mosques. As we drove through the city they seemed to sprout up from every direction, each one larger and more impressive than the last. We kept looking for the most famous, the Hagia Sophia, finally thinking we’d spotted it only to be met with yet another glorious dome.

We flew into Sabiha Gökçen Airport, which unbeknownst to us is situated in the Asian part of Turkey and is over an hour outside of Istanbul. As our transport relentlessly chugged along I began to seriously wonder if we’d gotten on the wrong bus and were instead heading deep into Asia Minor. That would have been an interesting adventure, but at last we reached the city . . . only to be rather dismayed by the rough areas our bus passed through.

Our hostel, however, was located in a beautiful part of town very close to the Hagia Sophia, the Blue Mosque, and Topkapi Palace. Of course it was lovely because it was the touristy area; is it very bad that sometimes I prefer the glossy surface presented to foreigners instead of stark realism? I love traveling but not at the expense of safety or all comfort.

The Golden Horn inlet, with an ancient Jewish tower in the background

I think in Istanbul we got a good mix of both realism and tourism. For one, no matter what area of the city you’re in Turkish men call out and come on to women incessantly. It very much reminded me of my visit to Mexico four years before, though with more actual attempts at conversation and less whistling. Amusingly, and to our continual bafflement, the question Megan and I received most frequently was “Are you twins? No? Sisters?” We may have essentially the same haircut but otherwise we look nothing alike. And yet we heard this from multiple different men every day. After about the 8th time it just became hilarious.

Our trip in September also coincided with the month of Ramadan, which gave the whole visit a unique spin. During the day the neighborhood was fairly quiet except for tourists, but the instant darkness fell masses of Turkish families appeared to socialize and picnic on the grounds between the Hagia Sophia and the Blue Mosque. And the first two nights we were startled awake about 4 a.m. by a man wandering the streets banging a drum. The first time as I fuzzily tried to comprehend what was happening – “Wait, there’s a guy down there? And he’s really banging a drum??” I figured it had to be a drunk reveler. But after the second time, we realized he was acting as a town crier: drumming the townspeople awake an hour before sunrise so they would have time to eat. Wild! Talk about a literal wake-up call that one is in a predominantly Muslim country.

The view from the roof of our hostel

Our hostel offered free breakfast every morning, fabulous Turkish breakfasts of olives, feta cheese, hard-boiled eggs, fresh bread with jam, watermelon, and sweet coffee. They served it on the roof overlooking the Straits of the Bosphorus and the Golden Horn, the inlet that further divides Istanbul. I loved sitting on that dazzlingly sunny terrace, savoring watermelon and feta along with the incredible view.

The Blue Mosque

With all the major landmarks within easy walking distance of course we spent most of our time sight-seeing. The Hagia Sophia and the Blue Mosque were just as breathtaking as could be expected. They’re so huge and so very ancient, far, far older than any famous structure I’d ever seen before. Walking through them brought back vivid memories of my Roman History professor raving about his many trips to Istanbul and what incredible pieces of history the mosques are. When I was dutifully taking notes in Lecture Hall C I little imagined that I would be traversing the same ground as my professor only three years later.

The Hagia Sophia

The famous Deësis Mosaic within the Hagia Sophia, dating from 1261

I think Megan and I are agreed that our favorite bit of exploration was the Basilica Cistern. You walk down, down, down stone steps that become ever more polished and slippery, into the dank, humid air of a huge cavern supported by dozens of stone pillars. Nearly the only sources of illumination were the lamps shining up through the water at the base of each pillar; it was a dark, shadowy, secretive place, with dim echoes and watery reflections shimmering off the walls. Two special pillars each had a massive carved head of Medusa at the base, green with centuries of algae.

Topkapi Palace didn’t disappoint, either. The grounds and outbuildings are lovely but the real gem is the old Harem Quarters. The rich detail present throughout the entire complex of twisting halls and salons and courtyards – gold filigree, tiled mosaics, wood inlay, stained glass, swirling Arabic script – was gorgeous beyond belief. There was just so much to see. I took photo after photo but I don’t think I came close to capturing the beautiful essence of the place.

Overlooking the Bosphorus Strait from Topkapi Park

During the evenings we enjoyed eating outdoors at the many lovely little restaurants around the decorative streets, and afterward repairing to the bright cushions and carpets of a café that offered crisp mint shisha. On our last night I sprang for raki, essentially the official drink of Turkey. I was unaware that raki is flavored with anise. I couldn’t get past the first sip of the cloudy pale-blue beverage. It was like drinking liquefied black licorice; the taste was absolutely overpowering. I have no idea how Turkish men and women happily gulp it down – but I am very much impressed.

Scotland - The Highlands

2009-02-08T02:16:00.000-08:00

September 1-4

I woke early the morning of September 1 to meet my tour group, which was supposed to leave at 8 a.m. I didn’t want to just hang around Edinburgh with no companions for the few days I had in Scotland; I wanted to see more of the country, hopefully with a fun group of young people. After searching through various tour companies I signed on for a 3-day trip around the Highlands with Wild in Scotland. Usually their tours take up to 16 people in a mini bus, but we had only 8: Craig from Canada, Lauren from Australia, Annette from Ireland, Chad from Ireland, three Chinese guys studying at the University of Stirling, and myself, the only American. Except for the Chinese students (who mostly kept to themselves, hence why I didn't get their names), all of us were traveling on our own, which was a nice surprise to me. I’d been convinced I would be the only solo traveler. After quick introductions with our young Scottish guide, Dave, we all piled into the bus and were soon heading out of Edinburgh toward Stirling.

We picked up the Chinese students at the Wallace Monument, a massive tower built on a steep hill that looks ancient but was apparently constructed only recently. The monument affords a spectacular view of Stirling Castle and the entire city spread out below it. Or it would have if it hadn’t been raining and low misty clouds obscuring nearly everything. But this was Scotland – clouds and rain are just part of the landscape!

According to Dave Stirling acts as the gate to the Highlands, and we were soon passing the mountains that mark the official beginning of the Highlands. The tour required a fair amount of driving to reach all around northern Scotland, but I actually loved every minute I spent on the bus – the view outside my window was always gorgeous. I got such a thrill out of seeing the misty mountains; coming from relatively flat Michigan, I can’t help but love mountains of any sort. Then I got to see one up close when we got out of the van to climb one. Oh. I hadn’t really been expecting that. I got out the poncho I bought in Edinburgh – an umbrella doesn’t really lend itself to mountain climbing – and we proceeded to scramble along a narrow, twisting path that at times required literal climbing of rocks. Though certain I was going to break my neck at points I forged on, and at last we got to glimpse a view of the entire Glencoe valley spread out below while Dave gave us a history lesson on how the terrible Campbell clan turned against their Scottish brethren and massacred dozens of McDonalds in the valley.

The whole tour incorporated vast amounts of Scottish history, which of course I appreciated. Dave proved a fantastic storyteller, and I loved actually getting to see the sites where these historical events happened while learning about the events themselves.

We stopped in a little village for lunch. I quickly made friends with Lauren, and we ended up getting tiny steak and mincemeat pies fresh from a bakery. So fun, and so Scottish! We also rambled about Eilean Donan castle, one of the most famous castles in Scotland. No surprise – it’s gorgeous to look at.

That evening we settled into our rooming house in Stromeferry, a tiny settlement on a loch on the far western side of Scotland, very close to the Isle of Skye. It was such a great house – big and rambling and just for our group, with a warm fire and massive dining table in the common room. With eight of us and two nights, we switched off kitchen duties: each night two cooked dinner for everyone and two cleaned up. We all ate together and I really liked it – it allowed everyone to become so much closer. I stayed up late but not as late as our Irish group members, who apparently drank like champions into the wee hours of the morning.

The following morning we rose super early for a special boat trip on the loch. The loch shone pewter in the grey dawn, and we tried fresh raw scallops that our fisherman pilot produced from a trap. I’m not fond of the texture of most raw shellfish, but the scallops were very sweet. We drove several miles up the salty loch in search of the dolphins that frequently appear, and we were rewarded at last – a mother and her baby had fun leaping and twirling through the boat wake.

That accomplished, we headed off for a full day on the Isle of Skye. It began with pouring rain that blotted out everything in sight. “Oh, no,” said Dave. “We can’t walk through the peat bog in this rain; the ground will be too swampy.” My spirits lifted, for slogging through a bog was not my idea of fun, especially since I only had one good pair of walking shoes. Alas the rain let up soon after and Dave, although perfectly aware the ground would still be just as wet, was raring to go. “Hell, this is Wild in Scotland!” he said in his brogue. “Let’s go for it!”

And so we went. We walked and we walked and we walked, through a literal peat bog. The ground was treacherous beyond belief. With every step I was terrified that I would either twist an ankle or literally lose a shoe to the sucking bog. The mud – or should I say peat? – quickly slopped in and I could feel it squelching between my toes. I don’t think I have ever been more miserable in my life. At last we made it to our destination: a hidden swimming hole far upstream. Have I mentioned it was maybe 60 degrees out, at most? Probably more like 50. There was no way I was going to swimming – but Craig, Dave and Annette all jumped in. And just as quickly jumped back out. Dave said he’d been swimming there many times and had never felt the water that cold. Heh.

At last we made it out of the bog and I washed my muddy feet and sodden shoes in the river that is supposed to give you eternally youthful-looking skin. Accordingly we all dipped our faces in. I will let you know if it works. Afterward it was time for hot tea & coffee – we had a midmorning tea break every day, it was great – and scrambled up a hill dotted with sheep to explore an ancient fortification, mostly worn away but still wonderfully impressive and affording a lovely view of Skye.

Then it was off to view the Faerie Glen, a special place sacred to the people of Skye. The strangely formed tiny hills and valleys literally look like the Scottish landscape in miniature, and people leave little gifts to the faeries in exchange for wishes. Dave reported that the area would soon be shut down due to concerns about damage from tourism and scientists wanting to study the odd geography, so I’m glad we got to see it.

After another fun night in the rooming house, we packed up our things and headed for Loch Ness. I’d known that Loch Ness was an incredibly deep lake, but I hadn’t known how long it is: 24 miles. We took our tea break on the rocky shore at the very far end of the lake. I looked valiantly for Nessie but didn’t spot her, just a sailboat moving swiftly in the brisk wind.

Instead, I dipped my toes in the water – frigid!

As we wended our way south we visited the battlefield of Culloden, perhaps the greatest tragedy in Scottish history. I am always struck by how quiet sites of great tragedy are, as though a hush settles over the land the instant you step foot on it. I felt it at Auschwitz; I felt it again at Culloden. For once it was a brilliantly sunny day, a few clouds scudding before the wind that ruffled the heather on the battlefield. It was a beautiful scene – but achingly sad all the same.

Our final stop was Dalwhinnie Distillery, the distillery at the highest altitude in the world. They showed us how true Scottish whisky is made – a laborious and quite smelly process – and offered free samples of whisky at the end. Since even the smell made me dizzy (good grief is whisky strong) I declined.

After a whirlwind three days we were suddenly back in Edinburgh. Lauren and I went to get dinner at a lovely restaurant run by a friend of Dave’s, and later he and Annette joined us. Lauren and I both had tickets on the night bus back to London but Dave convinced us to switch our tickets to the next day and have a fun night out in Edinburgh. This was not hard to do. The four of us plus some of Dave’s friends had a fantastic time bar-hopping about the Royal Mile; at one point we ended up in a literal underground dungeon – I am not kidding, I swear it was at one time a dungeon – built of ancient stone with iron bars and only flickering candles for light. It was fantastic.

Lauren and I crashed on Dave’s sofas and in the morning dragged ourselves to the bus station. Under the bright sunny sky with the Firth of Forth shining in the background, Edinburgh looked just as lovely as I had first thought it. It still remains one of my favorite cities in the world and I hope I can return to it someday.

Scotland - Edinburgh

2009-02-08T00:08:00.000-08:00

August 30-31

Out of all the trips I’ve ever taken, I think my visit to Scotland is my absolute favorite. Funny considering that I was so anxious about going on my own, but it all worked out better than I could have imagined.

I just barely made my night bus to Edinburgh, that departed from London’s Victoria Coach Station at 11 p.m. on August 30. The bus was only half full so I got a luxurious two seats to myself, but I still couldn’t really sleep. For nine hours we crawled through the pitch-black English countryside, heading ever further north. It had been an incredibly hot, almost sultry evening in London, but as the night wore on it grew colder and colder and I soon realized that I had not brought nearly enough warm clothes for this trip. Oops already.

We finally arrived in Edinburgh about 8:30 a.m., and I went in search of a hostel. Since I only needed a bed for one night I hadn’t bothered reserving a place; I just looked up some cheap hostels before I left and made sure they took walk-ins. As I reached Princes Street – Edinburgh’s main shopping thoroughfare – I got my first glimpse of Edinburgh Castle and the ancient buildings lining the Royal Mile. I think my jaw literally dropped. The whole vista was glorious and gothic and so wonderfully European. Edinburgh looks the way I had expected London to look before I first visited it, all dark, weathered stone. London does have such buildings scattered about, and of course Edinburgh’s got plenty of modern architecture itself, but I’d never seen so many authentic medieval buildings all clustered together. I still believe Edinburgh to be the most beautiful European city I’ve ever seen.

My hostel arranged and my bag dropped off, I headed back to the bus station. I was determined to visit the Carmichael Estate and Visitor Centre, located about an hour and a half outside the city. One of my major reasons for wanting to visit Scotland was to learn more about my family’s heritage; see the land of my ancestors, as it were. I knew it would be difficult to reach the centre – indeed it took two separate buses, both with limited running times on Sunday – and I was anxious about heading off into the countryside on my own, but I felt so strongly about needing to do this. How could I possibly come all the way to Scotland and not visit Carmichael lands? So I went for it.

First I rode an hour to the small town of Biggar, where we pulled up just as the next bus I needed was leaving. The driver knew I needed to catch it and that the bus wouldn’t return on its route for another hour, so we literally chased it down until the driver stopped and let me on. Then we rode for another 30-40 minutes through the pouring rain – have I mentioned it was raining? I was in Scotland, of course it was raining – passing various scattered houses and rolling, softly wooded hills. It didn’t look unlike rural northern Michigan, honestly. Several times we stopped to let people on who were just standing by the side of the road, no distinguishing landmarks in sight. As the driver pulled over at the entrance to the Carmichael Visitor Centre, I figured this would be expected of me as well.

Rather nervous I quickly hopped off the bus, realizing as it drove away that I hadn’t settled with the driver when he would be returning. I had a vague idea it would be an hour, though, so I bravely ventured forth across the muddy farmyard. The visitor centre is composed of several buildings, one of them a barn, and the lady who showed me around told me they used to have a petting zoo. She too was a Carmichael, and we chatted some about family lore as she gave me a small tour. The petting zoo was closed; the café and restaurant were closed; but that still left the clan history room, the souvenir shop and . . . the wax museum.

“Did you say . . . a wax museum?” I asked, uncertain if I’d heard right.

“Oh, yes!” she said. “We’re so very proud of it. We have some really wonderful wax figures, including one of the only replicas of Queen Victoria on horseback.”

“Oh,” I said. Clearly this was something I had to see, so I paid the extra pound for admission. The lady led me to an outbuilding, unlocked the door, and left me inside . . . alone with a whole shed of full-size wax figures.

I don’t think words can adequately describe how extraordinarily creepy it was to wander utterly by myself, no sound but the steady pattering of the rain against the roof, through an entire gallery of wax figures on both sides who all seemed to be watching me. At one point I totally spun around at a strange creak, heart pounding, convinced they had come alive. These were very realistic wax figures. On the other hand, I found several of the exhibits truly interesting – they were devoted to showing what life would have been like at the Carmichael manor house through the centuries, and of course I love anything historical. Other exhibits were . . . not so factual or Scottish-based. Turning a corner, I was met first with the “children’s section,” with Peter Pan and Captain Hook and some Lost Children. Directly afterward came the distinctly not for children section, with a rather gruesome torture scene reenacted, and . . . Dracula and the Mummy???

I may have simply stood and stared at that last one for a little while.

Another shed led me through figures of famous Scots throughout history, including Mary Queen of Scots and Stanley & Livingston, as well as the celebrated Queen Victoria on horseback. It also included info on Carmichael Clan chieftains through the centuries, and ancient maps of clan lands. I’ve loved studying maps ever since I took a historical mapping class sophomore year of college, so those were my favorite part.

Having finally exhausted the wax museum, I wandered the picturesque farm grounds before returning to the souvenir shop. I bypassed the Carmichael beef products and homemade jams in favor of keychains with the clan crest and some watercolors of the estate grounds. Then I returned to the road to wait. And wait. And wait, shivering underneath my umbrella. I was so nervous that I had misjudged the time or the bus route and that it wouldn’t return for hours, and that I had effectively stranded myself in the rural Scottish countryside. Thankfully after 15 solid minutes of standing in the rain it appeared, and I frantically waved it down. Once back in Biggar I had another hour to kill in the miserable weather for the bus back to Edinburgh, so I hung out in a warm coffee shop with a crossword puzzle. I always carry a few crosswords cut out from the newspaper in my purse for just such occasions.

The sun came out as we pulled back in to the city, so I set out to explore the Royal Mile and the grounds around the castle. I ended up walking completely around the castle, which considering it rests on massive cliff overlooking a huge sunken park that used to be a lake, was no small feat. I ate dinner on a stone terrace overlooking the twisting medieval streets.

When I returned to the hostel, people were preparing to attend the fireworks display. It was the last day of August, and like many European cities Edinburgh was celebrating with its end-of-summer 2-hour fireworks extravaganza. I joined an assorted group from my floor – mostly Australians, I always meet Australians traveling – and we found a good spot on Princes Street to watch the show. It was magnificent. They launched the fireworks from the castle itself, perched high over the city, in rhythm with a classical orchestra playing in the park grounds. I can still picture the way bursts of color lit up the castle battlements while music swelled below. Definitely the best fireworks show I’ve ever seen.

London Theatre

2008-11-08T14:20:00.000-08:00

August 27th & 28th

On the Monday Bank Holiday I suddenly realized that this was my final full week in London. Over the weekend I booked my Scotland trip for August 30th-September 4th, and my Turkey trip with Megan had been settled months ago to run from September 6th-9th. I fly out early morning of the 10th and . . . well, that’s it. That’s the end of my summer in London. How to make this final week count?

Go to the theatre, of course!

I’d discovered that Les Misérables was playing in the West End soon after I arrived in June and I always intended to go. I love the music; I used to play Les Mis songs on the piano for practice, and when I was 15 and babysitting I got to watch the tape of the traveling stage show – the one with no sets, but where the cast just stands and sings at microphones – after I put the kids to bed one night. But I’d never seen the full professional stage version, and what better place to see it than in London?

So on Tuesday I rode my usual bus past my stop and found another bus to take me down Shaftesbury Avenue, which along with Charing Cross Road and nearby Covent Garden & Leicester Square forms the heart of London’s theatre district. But before that I had my second major celebrity sighting. (My first was Bette Midler walking through the West Palm Beach airport when I was 15 or 16.) But yes: the bus is lurching along Clerkenwell Road, I’m tired from a long day at work and staring absently out my second-level window. (I never read on the bus or tube; I get too anxious that I’ll lose track of time and miss my stop.) We were just reaching the point where we cross over the railroad tracks from Farringdon Station, and lo and behold, there’s Keira Knightley walking down the sidewalk, hand-in-hand with who I can only assume is her boyfriend. Seriously. Keira Knightley.

I did a total double take in my seat. I wasn’t sure at first – I couldn’t quite believe it – but my bus passed her twice in the stop-and-go traffic, and I am convinced it was really her. I may or may not had had my face pressed against the glass to get a better look. I believe my seatmate was looking at me strangely, but I didn’t care. There was a real live celebrity to study!

She was wearing a cute sweater dress and eyeglasses with thick dark frames . . . I suppose as a disguise? I guess it was working because there were no paparazzi around trying to take photos. Amusingly enough I didn’t think the boyfriend was that great – he looked kind of greasy to me. But I mostly looked at Keira, trying to make sure it was really her. She was laughing and smiling and looked like she was having a fantastic day. It was quite sweet as far as celebrity sightings go.

That excitement out of the way, I made it to the Queen’s Theatre where I bought my ticket for Les Mis the following night. The cheapest seats were £15 but offered a very limited view, so I decided to spring for the marginally better £20 seats. The next day I went to the theatre straight from work. I was so early that they weren’t allowing people to be seated yet, so I waited with a few other early arrivals. A guy standing across the hall from me noted I was alone. “All by yourself?” he asked. I just smiled and nodded. Once inside I found my seat – quite high up and very close to the outside aisle – and a minute later the same guy came up to me. “Would you like to sit closer?” he asked. “I asked the usher and he said it was fine.”

At first I thought he was saying that he had an extra ticket, and I was trying to weigh in my mind the benefits of being closer versus sitting next to a strange guy. I’d already decided screw it, sitting closer is always worth it, when I realized he actually wanted to switch seats. He said something about needing to be closer to – something, I couldn’t quite hear in my amazement; maybe the aisle? – and I quickly said sure. We swapped tickets and I happily went down to a fantastic seat close to the middle of the balcony. What luck! I still have no idea what the guy actually wanted as I never saw him again in the crush of getting out; but it was an incredibly nice gesture all the same – especially as I discovered later that his generosity had placed me in the £40 section of seats.

The show without question was incredible. I am so glad that I made the effort to see it. The music of course was gorgeous – I knew that going in – but it was so entertaining to actually see the story acted out, to find out what linked these songs that I pretty much know by heart.

During intermission the refreshments came out. I never cease to be amazed at the British practice of eating and drinking in their seats at a stage theatre. Popcorn & candy at the movies, of course, but during a play? No way! They even serve alcohol – every theatre has a bar frequented by patrons during the show. It’s perfectly normal to see people sitting in their seats enjoying a glass of wine.

“Is that ice cream?” I boggled as way of introduction to the girl sitting next to me. Near the door the usher, swarmed by children, was indeed selling half pints of Häagen-Dazs. The girl, who turned out to be from Lithuania and was in London for a conference, cheerfully shared my amazement. We had a friendly conversation about those crazy Britons, how much we loved Les Mis, and what we were doing in London.

“So, where are you from in Lithuania?” I asked, because I always love learning more about people’s experiences in their own countries.

“I’m from the capital,” she said airily. Then, with a knowing smile, “Surely you know it?”

“Um,” I said, as I realized with a start that, while I had certainly heard of the capital of Lithuania before, it had completely slipped my mind at that moment. Meanwhile, the girl was smiling at me, knowing that I didn’t know her country’s capital and pleased as punch with herself.

“Ah, all I can think of is Riga, and I know that’s the capital of Latvia,” I laughed nervously, vainly attempting to appear not such an ignorant American.

“No,” she agreed, grinning smugly in her triumph. “It’s Vilnius.”

“Oh! Yes! Vilnius!” I said, and much to my relief the curtain arose soon after and I could turn my attention back to the show. Talk about awkward and exasperating. We were having such a nice conversation, girl; why did you have to put me on the spot like that? I’d never try to quiz someone on my own country. Oh well. If the point was to prove I’m a dumb American, I suppose I failed. Sorry USA! I am a poor representative.

After this, however, you can be sure I will never, never forget the capital of Lithuania.

The following night I went to Spamalot, which was playing at the Palace Theatre at the corner of Shaftesbury Avenue and Charing Cross Road. I love Monty Python, especially the Holy Grail movie, and knew I couldn’t pass it up. It was great fun and they were so inventive with the way they worked in jokes from the TV show and the other movies – combining the Dead Parrot sketch with the swallows & coconuts bit, and having the limbless, defeated Black Knight sing “Always Look on the Bright Side of Life.” Loved it, and luckily I had no strange seatmates!

Greenwich

2008-10-07T21:04:00.000-07:00

Saturday, August 23rd

Heading into the final week of my internship, I was lucky to have only a 4-day week due to the summer Bank Holiday. The concept of Bank Holidays really confused me before I came to London, so I asked one of my British co-workers about them. Apparently there’s nothing really mysterious about Bank Holidays; they’re just several days throughout the year that the banks choose to take off which means business closes for pretty much everyone else as well.

At first these random long weekends struck me as extravagant, but if you add up all the American governmental holidays that most of the country takes off - Memorial Day, Labor Day, Martin Luther King Jr.’s Birthday, etc – they add up. We just have very specific names and celebratory reasons for most of our holidays; the Brits are more like “Eh, let’s just take a day off work.”

With a 3-day weekend over August 23rd-25th, I determined to take a day trip somewhere. Megan suggested Greenwich, which is far enough from the city center to feel like a worthwhile undertaking while still remaining within the Zone 2 rail line. I was a little shy about going by myself but finally I headed off. It was a quick journey from Holborn to Bank on the Central line, and from there I switched to the DLR, the Docklands Light Railway. After a couple minutes the train came above ground, and I had a fascinating ride all through Canary Wharf.

A couple weeks before I watched a documentary on the BBC on the development of post-World War II London. The section on Canary Wharf was particularly interesting. The docklands area – for it really was the center of London’s shipping – was effectively abandoned in the 1970s when the new supertankers could no longer come so far up the Thames. The entire sizeable peninsula, crisscrossed by canals, was left derelict until several different enterprising developers thought to redefine it as London’s new business hub. They had a lot of difficulty convincing people to move their businesses and invest in an area that was still well beyond the city center, and the steep 1980s recession made everything worse. But wow, did they ever succeed.

The train wound between dazzling glass skyscrapers and crossed sparkling, well-kept waterways dotted with boats and lined with lovely restaurants and cafes. It was like some kind of fabulous future cityscape where everything is clean and shining. And yet the contrast between Eastern London and the isolated, ritzy peninsula of Canary Wharf was stark indeed. One moment I was rattling past the dingy, crumbling, tightly packed brick tenements of Shadwell and Limehouse; the next I was soaring by elegantly designed buildings and spaces that represented the height of financial privilege. Canary Wharf reminds me a great deal of Tokyo’s business district, actually. My sister and I weren’t intending to see it – we were looking for the Imperial Gardens – but the area was so gorgeous we ended up lingering amongst the sleekly modern parks and fountains for a good hour. It’s still one of my favorite memories of Japan.

At last I alighted at Greenwich station, and . . . had no idea where I was or how to get to the park with the Observatory and Prime Meridian. Seriously, it is not clear at all from the station, which I find hilarious, as this station is supposed to be the closest to the park. Obviously I should have gotten more details from Megan before I left, but I’d gotten so used to finding my own way in the city – where most tourist attractions are clearly marked – that I didn’t think I would need them. So as I usually do in these situations, I just followed the majority. Not very many people got off the train with me, but those that did turned left, so I did too.

We walked . . . and walked . . . and walked through suburban outlying London. If this was the close station, I don’t want to know how far away the further station is. I enjoyed it though, largely because it was so different just to be outside the city center. I mean, I saw parking lots. Parking lots! I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a full-size parking lot within the city . . . or even a parking garage, for that matter. Of course there wouldn’t be, with space at such a premium. In contrast Greenwich was so delightfully normal – normal to what I’m used to in the US, that is. I passed a little supermarket that people were actually driving to. Driving! Parking their cars in the lot! Loading their groceries into their cars! Driving their heavy groceries home with ease, not dragging 2-3 bags and a liter of milk across 4 blocks while dodging pedestrians and heavy traffic! It seemed downright crazy, I tell you.

After 20 solid minutes of walking I hit the center of town that was thronged with tourists (hence how I knew I had indeed gone the right way, heh), and quite literally picked streets at random until somehow I found my way to the park. And then I wandered some more in the park looking for the observatory. By this point I think I was 2 hours into my day trip and I’d spent the entirety of it in confused wandering from place to place. I don’t think I ever really knew where I was going, which is how I somehow bypassed the main path up to the observatory and took a much longer, winding route around the back. It was certainly much more scenic, however, shrouded in greenery and with hidden gardens opening off the path.

The observatory is located on the crest of a steep hill that provides a magnificent view of the Thames and east London, as well as the surrounding park and the nearby Maritime Museum. I meandered all through and around the observatory, which is filled with the massive instruments the Royal Astronomers have used from the 17th century to the present. A very exuberant woman in period dress came out into the courtyard and told the entire history of how the Prime Meridian came about, with much hopping around and exaggerated arm gestures and cries of “ZE-RO DEGREES LONG-I-TUUUUUUUUDE!!!!” Heh. Most interesting to me was the fact that the Prime Meridian has changed location repeatedly throughout the centuries. Each new Royal Astronomer had a bigger and better telescope than his predecessor, and so would toss out the old data and do all of his own measurements. Each time the meridian moved a few feet east, until finally in 1851 they settled on the present location. Even then it wasn’t until 1884 that the rest of the world accepted it. (Well, except for France, which held out for a few more decades.)

I dutifully took several pictures of my feet straddling the Meridian in the different places it appears on the hill. It’s certainly required, don’t you think?

The original observatory building built in the 1600s, with the red ball that dropped every day at noon to let ships on the Thames know the time and thus be "on the ball"

Covent Garden Night Market

2008-10-07T20:57:00.000-07:00

Friday, August 22nd

My time in London has been marked by my frequent trips to markets. In June we spent a morning at Portobello Market in Notting Hill; in early July we visited Brixton Market in south London; the following weeks I made two separate trips to Spitalfields Market near Liverpool Street Station. Now in late August Megan and I have taken to visiting the Covent Garden Night Market, held every Thursday and Friday this month. The first Friday on August 15th we couldn’t find the market at first, entertainingly enough. We went the wrong way around the square and paused in our battling the crowds to eat some delicious paella. It was only afterward that we realized those very crowds were blocking our view of the market itself, which had been on the other side of the square the whole time.

The Night Market is distinguished by its focus on fine foods – the vendors, in elegantly appointed black-draped stalls, were selling premium meats, cheeses, and pastries. The whole place smelled incredible. Megan happily went about using up her change on yummy cookies, bagels and nectarines, while I (still hungry even after paella) splurged on a massive crepe. We found a comfy spot on the cobblestones and merrily watched all the people thronging the square.

The next week we returned, nabbed some ice cream and found front-row spots to watch a live cooking demonstration. The chocolate-obsessed chef made a rather crazy chocolate gazpacho. He didn’t offer any tastings so I have no idea if it was any good . . . but I’m sure it was unique. Afterward we found an excellent people-watching spot on the edge of the square that turned out to be directly behind a traveling street performer’s setup. His dancing and tricks were rather bizarre but entertaining all the same. But then a drunk hobo, stereotypically and hilariously swigging a full bottle of chardonnay, sprawled on the step next to us and scared away a young child before finally driving us from our spot. The markets attract all types . . . which is what makes them the heart of city life, heh.

The British Museum

2008-08-30T11:06:00.001-07:00

August 17th & 24th

I have lived across the street from the British Museum for a solid 2 and a half months and except for a brief peek inside on the 4th of July, this was the first time I actually visited it. Terrible, right? Especially since I was a History major. But when something is so close it’s easy to put off visiting it. It would have been utterly disgraceful to leave London and not see it, however, so finally I ventured inside.

The museum is so big and sprawling I actually went on two separate weekends. The first Sunday I entered without a clue where to go or even what I was supposed to see. I dimly recalled something about facades from the Parthenon, but I had no idea where to find them in the vast museum. In fact the first room I wandered into turned out to be the gift shop. Hmmm. Once through the gift shop I did come across a cavernous room holding actual artifacts, including a massive stone foot from a toppled Roman statue. But no bits of the Parthenon were to be seen. I wandered across the wondrously dizzying Great Court – the heart of the museum, which has the most spectacular ceiling I’ve ever seen – and at last found my way to the Egyptian & Greek & Roman statues.

Right away I came upon the Rosetta Stone, which was quite exciting, as you can imagine. It’s encased in glass, of course, so my photo mostly shows the reflection of all the people standing around instead of the writing. But the writing really is incredible to see in person – each of the three languages is written in teeny letters but quite clear all the same. I don’t think I knew before that the Rosetta Stone was a black stone, with the etched letters showing up white. Thus far it’s the most striking ancient artifact I’ve ever seen.

After a bit more confused meandering through galleries that completely upended my sense of direction, I finally found the Elgin Marbles, the statues and friezes taken from the Parthenon by Lord Elgin in 1801. They’ve been displayed at the British Museum ever since 1816. The friezes run down both walls of a long gallery, with the statues from the pediments at either end. Nearly all the statues are missing heads and occasionally arms, but the friezes are in remarkably good condition. My favorite sections featured large troupes of men on horseback – the detail was extraordinary, and I really got the sense of energy and movement even out of figures frozen in stone. I spent the rest of my time studying the friezes until the museum closed.

The next Sunday I returned to the museum – I’d only seen those few areas on the first floor, and I knew there was a great deal more to see. So I promptly got lost in the endless galleries again. Not that I was ever really lost, but I definitely had no sense of direction. But it’s nice to wander around a museum with no sense of purpose, to explore leisurely and pop into random rooms that strike your fancy. I ambled my way through galleries devoted to China, India, Japan, ancient Egypt (complete with real mummies!), Celtic Britain, and even twentieth-century American graphics artists. I loved looking at the sleek ink drawings of 1920s New York, with women in cloche hats walking beneath towering skyscrapers.

I was at the deepest end of the Celtic Britain galleries looking at a massive iron cauldron when they announced closing, and as I made my way out I was surprised to find I was on the opposite end of the museum than I’d thought. I spent two days there and I’m sure I still didn’t see everything.

Hyde Park

2008-08-30T10:37:00.001-07:00

Sunday, August 10th

The forecast called for rain on Sunday, but the morning and early afternoon were bright and sunny instead. So I made my way to Hyde Park for a leisurely excursion about the grounds.

This was yet another London landmark I missed on my previous visit, so I was really excited to see it. I always think of how gentlemen and ladies would go courting by taking drives about the park in my old Regency romances. (It is rather troubling how much my knowledge of England is formed by Regency romances. Hmmm.) I had a great time wandering the lanes and ended up walking all the way around the Serpentine and the Long Water, the small lakes formed from the Westbourne River for Queen Caroline in 1730. (I read a monument.)

Despite the chilly breeze quite a few people were out rowing or paddleboating in the Serpentine, and I even saw one person swimming in the bathing area. Some areas of the park were painstakingly landscaped while others were left to run wild—quite the interesting combination. At one remote area along the path I couldn’t believe I was in the middle of a massive city anymore; it was just grassland and scattered trees in all directions.

At the head of the Long Water I relaxed on a bench among the fountains and watched the swans. As I made my way down the opposite shore I wandered through the Princess Di Memorial Fountain, which is surprisingly fun and unique as fountains go. People were wading and playing in the bubbling stream all around the fountain. Further along I suddenly came upon a sandy exhibition area, where a dozen riders were competing in pairs events. The horses were beautiful; groomed to perfection, many with their manes and tails braided. Everyone was decked out in fancy riding gear, while one pair were wearing full riding habits with long navy skirts—and I do believe riding sidesaddle. It was delightful in an utterly English way.

Comfy folding chairs are grouped all along the Serpentine, and I hung out for awhile in one beside a willow tree and read In A Sunburned Country, Megan’s book on Australia by Bill Bryson. He really is a fantastic travel writer. I love how a big chunk of his travels through Australia consist of him wandering on foot through various residential neighborhoods in Sydney and Melbourne and Canberra. He does so much walking and most of it not even remotely near tourist areas, just random suburbs. Scratch that – he seems to go on foot pretty much throughout the entirety of these cities, only using a rental car to get from city to city and not even bothering with public transport at all. I have to applaud his dedication as I am someone who couldn’t even bear to walk the extra ten minutes to the Tube every day to get to work. I chose to use the bus stop half a block away at the end of my street instead, heh.

I timed my visit pretty much perfectly, as the skies opened up just as I was making my way out of the park. I wonder if the people still paddleboating got wet.

The Hayward Gallery

2008-08-21T16:06:00.000-07:00

The Hayward Gallery, with one of the outdoor installations—Observatory, Air-Port-City

Wednesday, August 6th

Once again I got to enjoy the perks of the press with my internship. The company was provided with free tickets to the Psycho Buildings exhibition at the Hayward Gallery—anyone who wanted to go was free to leave work at 3 p.m. and make their way to the gallery on the South Bank. With such an incentive I didn’t have to be asked twice.

I might have felt shy about attending an artistic architecture exhibition with just my coworkers a month ago, when I felt I didn’t really know anyone very well. But over the past two months I’ve worked with so many editors and designers that I think I’ve gotten to know nearly half the office. This is all due to the fact that I was never assigned to any one magazine and never had a permanent desk, unlike Brielle. So not only have I worked with the editors of ten different magazines (ten, now!) I also had to repeatedly move throughout the building—even to different floors—in order to find an open desk. Although this could be painfully awkward at times (“Heyyyy . . . is anyone sitting here? Yes? Okay, I’ll just try over here . . .” *slinks away*) it also forced me to talk with others in the office and introduce myself, which might have been difficult otherwise. I hated not having a set spot, but it really was the best thing that I could have gone through. And now that I’ve taken over Brielle’s old desk I get the best of both worlds: my own desk where people know where to find me, because they know me.

So there was any number of people I could have cheerfully gone with to the exhibition, and that’s a great feeling. I’m so happy that I went, too. Of course a free exhibition is always tempting, but I am not the biggest fan of modern art, so I wasn’t sure what to expect. The result: I was utterly blown away. The installations were incredible, in their size, in their complexity, in their imagination. I can’t even begin to figure out how the artists constructed some of the pieces.

As this was supposed to be artists’ fantastical takes on architecture, nearly all the installations were large enough for people to walk around in. The odd fabric and paper materials used in some simply invited curious fingers, but the gallery attendants were barking “No touching!” (Of course I instantly thought of Arrested Development.) My favourite pieces—whoa, I just wrote favourite without thinking! I wouldn’t have noticed except spellcheck flagged it! Oh lord, my spelling is going to be so messed up when I come back to the States. Anyway: my favorite pieces without a doubt both involved dollhouses, not surprisingly. I’ve always had a fascination with dollhouses and miniatures, and the artists did not disappoint. Do Ho Suh constructed a massive replica of his first apartment building in the United States—I believe the scale was 1:5, which means this was a big, big dollhouse, easily taller than I am, and it held no fewer than four completely separate, individually decorated student apartments. Into this he’d smashed a replica of his childhood home in Korea, Wizard-of-Oz style. The miniature details he packed into both these houses were beyond belief. My coworkers and I lingered in front of it for nearly half an hour, continually asking each other “Whoa, do you see that teeny dictionary? Look at all the little dishes. And the washing machine! Check out the mini Domino’s box!”

Even better was Rachel Whiteread’s Place installation. Apparently she is a major collector of small dollhouses assembled by others over the years. She placed these empty dollhouses – dozens upon dozens of them – in tiers throughout a darkened room, with all their hundreds of windows aglow. Walking through them the effect was magical. It was like stumbling upon a fairy village that was both enchanting and hauntingly empty at the same time.

London's South Bank

2008-08-19T13:11:00.000-07:00

Friday, August 1st

I got the day off work to do some final sight-seeing with Brielle before she flies back to the US over the weekend. We wandered all along the South Bank, a beautiful wide pedestrian boulevard that runs beside the Thames. We walked all the way from the London Eye to Tower Bridge, a considerable distance. We’d originally planned to meet at Westminster Station, but a security alert suddenly closed the station, so after some shuffling around (“Hey, I’m at Embankment now—where are you?” “Aw man, I just went through Embankment, I’m at Waterloo now”) we finally met at Waterloo. This actually happens fairly often—you’re merrily riding along and all of a sudden you hear a garbled message that means you will be disembarking at a spot sometimes quite far from your desired destination. Usually it’s not a big deal, but since cell phones don’t work deep underground, it can take awhile to figure out new plans if you’re trying to meet someone.

That said, from where I exited from the Northern line at Waterloo, I had to go completely outside, walk half a block, cross a busy street, enter and walk the entire length of the absolutely massive Waterloo train station to its opposite side to find the exit for the Jubilee line where I met Brielle. This proves to me that no, it wasn’t just me when I had so much trouble with the station last time; it really is just that confusing.

But we reached the South Bank and London Eye at last, with considerably less difficulty than our previous effort. The lack of pouring rain definitely helped. The day was gorgeous—mostly sunny with occasional clouds and a cool breeze. I cannot tell you how fantastic it felt to be wandering along the riverside on a lovely afternoon when I should have been stuck at a desk indoors. Yes!

A wide assortment of tourists and Londoners were enjoying the weather. We passed couples taking photos of each other, elderly people sitting on benches, teens on skateboards and bicycles, students relaxing in the grassy areas, even children riding a small carousel that played cheerful carnival music. I, meanwhile, took lots and lots of photos of the waterfront. I seem incapable of restraining myself.

To my delight we came across a used book sale, with no fewer than 4 massive tables filled with books sheltered underneath a railway bridge. I immediately set about searching for any Agatha Christie titles: Megan had found a pair for us to take to Croatia, so it was my turn to do the same for Turkey. And what did I find first? A book on Michigan! A Field Guide to Michigan State History, to be precise, proudly displayed right here in the heart of London. And right next to it? The American North Woods. Yeah Michigan!

Brielle helped me locate the cheap Agatha Christies and I got a fun-looking pair. Next we wandered into the Tate Modern, one of London’s most famous museums dedicated to modern art and located directly across the river from St. Paul’s. The museum is huge and this past spring several artists put up drawings along the outside walls that are mind-boggling in their size.

Inside we explored all the exhibits on the main floor and . . . well. I do like a lot of modern art; I think abstract paintings and sculpture can be very arresting visually and wondrously creative. But come on: a lot of it is just weird. One crazy Dutch artist had soaked a piece of canvas in blood, tacked it up, then declared it art. ….Yeah. On the one hand, I can see how that really is a different, creative thing to do, that perhaps no one else may have thought of. On the other . . . dude, you didn’t even paint anything. You just stuck up a piece of bloody canvas and announced that it meant something and was Art—not just any art but Art with a capital A. Seriously?

So yes. I am less than impressed with a great deal of modern art; but then, I have never made any claims toward understanding art in the first place. What I found really cool, however, was that we stumbled across one of Francis Bacon’s triptychs in the surreal section. This is noteworthy in that I recognized both art and artist because I had just written about him for one of the magazines—I had to read up on his life and works quite extensively. Otherwise I would have had no idea who he was; indeed my first thought when I got the assignment was “Francis Bacon? Like Sir Francis Bacon?” (Yep, my background is definitely in history, not in art.) Since beginning work with all these different magazines I’ve encountered this regularly: I have to research and write so much about cultural people and places and events that it’s really increased my knowledge of the world. It’s always a welcome surprise when I come across something in real life that I’ve written about—and then I get to feel super smart, heh.

We ate lunch at a yummy Greek restaurant just past the Globe Theatre. Since my Greek flatmates sadly don’t cook hardly at all—or at least, they don’t cook any Greek food – I figured this was my chance to taste some traditional Greek dishes, and sprang for the souvlaki. At a small replica of Sir Francis Drake’s ship we were forced to leave the river and wandered along various narrow alleys and streets until we could find the water again; along the way we passed London Bridge. Finally we came upon Tower Bridge, the first time I’d ever seen it on two visits to this country. It is absolutely massive and very, very cool. I’d thought the bridge was very old (like, centuries) but apparently it was only completed in 1894 to cope with the growth of East London. Interesting.

Upon crossing the bridge we found ourselves directly at the Tower of London, for which the bridge is named. We were intending to go inside and view the Crown Jewels but unbeknownst to us last tickets are sold at 5 p.m. and we arrived at 5:15. Oops. Oh well! We still had a good time wandering all around the ancient fortress—I hadn’t known it was so old that William the Conqueror built the original tower. The funny thing is that walking toward it Brielle was like, “Okay, so tell me about the Tower of London.” I mean literally phrased like that: "Tell me." Because . . . since I was a History major people think I know everything, I guess? Which of course I don’t, but I still get asked to become an unofficial tour guide all the time. What is really amusing is that usually I can think of some random fact or little tidbit about whatever person or place we’re discussing, so . . . yeah. I dredged up what I knew about Richard III and the Princes in the Tower, and how both Lady Jane Grey and Anne Boleyn were imprisoned there before they were beheaded, and how Queen Elizabeth I herself was placed in the Tower and almost executed by her sister Queen Mary. The Tudors were pretty bloodthirsty, that’s for sure.

Our tour of the South Bank at an end, we headed for Brick Lane and Meraz Café, our favorite Indian restaurant just off Brick Lane. They seriously make the best chicken korma I’ve ever tasted. I think I’ve been to the restaurant nearly every single week I’ve been in London – sometimes twice a week – and I always get the same thing. They don’t even have to give me a menu. The waiters are just like “Korma and rice, right?” or even better: “The usual?” Heh. After dinner Brielle and I joined our magazine coworkers (now that they were finally done with work!) for drinks to celebrate the end of the week. It was quite the fitting ending to our time together in London.

Oh the randomness

2008-08-19T12:59:00.000-07:00

Wednesday, July 23rd

This afternoon after work I was lying weakly on my bed, worn out from heat. There is no escape when the city is in the midst of a heatwave. All of a sudden I heard blaring music coming along the street—what sounded something like a male opera singer backed by a full orchestra at volume cranked up to 11. The music got louder and louder and louder till it was positively booming; I could barely believe the noise. I popped my head out the window, trying to peer down what I could see of Great Russel Street. I couldn’t really see anything, but after a moment I realized that others probably had the same idea I had . . . and as I looked around, I noticed a whole row of heads peeking out of fellow 4th-floor windows all down my little street. Ha! And that was my random occurrence of the day.

Croatia!

2008-07-31T07:19:00.000-07:00

July 11-13, 2008

Croatia, and especially Dubrovnik, has long been high on my list of places I wanted to see. I feel like everyone I know has always raved about how beautiful the country is. Plus it was featured on The Amazing Race, so it had to be awesome.

I was in charge of figuring out accommodation for our 3-day holiday weekend. Unfortunately, Dubrovnik appears to have no large rooming hostels; just guest rooms that people rent out of their homes. Ominously, the reviews for every single possibility I found warned of “serious stairs.” Hmmm. I figured they couldn’t be too bad though – Megan and I are young and fit! (yeah, right) – so I went with the best choice. Little did I know that our house was located at the very highest point of a very high hill in the city. Oh, dear. They weren’t kidding about the stairs.

Undeterred, Megan and I headed straight for the beach once we arrived mid Friday afternoon. We jumped in the water right away. London was chilly and rainy when we left it, and the 89 degree heat of Dubrovnik felt like a furnace. The beach was pebbly – very pebbly. The rocks soaked up the heat and were scorching to the touch. Throughout the afternoon we took turns swimming and baking on the rocks. We didn’t get sunburned (then) but I distinctly remember some very odd, rather psychedelic daydreams, brought on no doubt by the extreme heat.

Despite being rocky, the beach was quite lovely, and the bottom turned to sand a few yards from shore. The water of the Adriatic was a glorious deep teal color, yet not as crystal clear as the Caribbean. After our day of sunbathing we satisfied our seafood cravings with seafood risotto and mussels cooked Dalmatian style (the southern area of Croatia is called the Dalmatian Coast). I am not really a fan of mussels or other shellfish; the chewy texture doesn’t appeal to me. But the risotto was fantastic, even with random bits of prawn scattered throughout it.

That evening we encountered our first trek up the five separate flights of steep, crumbly stone stairs. Oh lord.

Saturday we were up bright and early and hit the beach just before 9 a.m. We scored two fantastic beach chairs with an umbrella literally at the edge of the water. A few serious sun-worshippers were out, but we mostly had the beach to ourselves. I settled down with A Caribbean Mystery, the Agatha Christie that Megan found for me in a second-hand bookstore after we saw The Mousetrap.

By mid-afternoon I was so engrossed in the mystery that I didn’t even notice I was burning the backs of my hands where I was holding the book up. And the rest of myself, unfortunately. Even though I spent most of my time under the umbrella, a full day of swimming and being outdoors in the blazing Mediterranean sun took their toll. First I was pink, and then I was red. Very red. Oops. We’d intended to spend the late afternoon exploring the Old City, but Megan came down with a rather severe case of heat exhaustion, which involves faintness and dizziness. May I remind everyone that we had to traverse 5 extremely long flights of stairs from the beach to our hostel. That was a fun trip. We retreated agonizingly slowly; I had a touch of exhaustion as well, not too bad, but I was worried with every step that poor Megan was going to pass out on the stairs. I could barely get myself and our bags up the stairs, much less another person. We were in bad shape. She rallied and made it though, and at last we got back to our room and the blessed air conditioning. We whiled away the rest of the afternoon bemoaning our sorry state. Silly girls with deathly pale skin; we were never any match for the Mediterranean sun.

We were sufficiently recovered that evening to cautiously make our way only halfway down the stairs to a cute restaurant for dinner, where the owner gently laughed at us and our red faces. Oh well! The evening air was lovely but so humid it literally fogged up my camera lens.

The next morning we headed into the Old City – Dubrovnik’s major tourist draw, and what featured very prominently on The Amazing Race – for our last day in Croatia. The massive stone walls of the Old City enclose a maze of tightly packed buildings and narrow streets. Everything is built of stone, and wow does that stone pack a lot of heat. Megan and I ducked into the first shaded side street we came across and ordered water and refreshments directly. This pretty much set the pattern of our tour: wander a bit in the sweltering heat, snap a couple photos, search frantically for cool shade and water, repeat. We lingered longer at the waterfront, both because it was possible to get a bit of a breeze (and ice cream) there and because I am the type of person who needs to spend as much time as possible amongst the boats. We could follow the city wall all along the harbor until we reached a jetty thrusting straight out into the sea. People were swimming right off the rocks amongst the crashing waves. I wish we could have stayed longer but there was no respite from the sun on the jetty, so we headed back into the city.

After a detour so that I could find a souvenir of Croatia – I ended up getting a lovely painted egg, deep yellow with red flowers on it – we left the Old City behind. We still had a couple hours before we needed to catch our ride to the bus station, but we couldn’t stay in that baking stone city any longer. So instead we squeezed onto a packed bus that was even more sweltering. I have never endured such a miserable bus ride in my life. At last we jumped off at the base of our hill, and Megan and I dragged ourselves halfway up the incline before sprawling in the shade for a rest. Our ten-minute break turned into an hour and a half, which was enlivened when we saw our bus stop right in front of us up the hill. Megan: “Son of a bitch!”

Well-rested, we met our hostel owner, who kindly hefted our bags and gave us a ride to the main bus station in town, where we could catch a shuttle to the airport. He was incredibly warm and welcoming and spoke of his city with great affection. As our shuttle wound its way through the hills right next to the sea we got incredible views of Dubrovnik and the Adriatic. Croatia is absolutely as beautiful as everyone claims, and despite my sunburn I’m so happy that we got to visit it.

Press Events - Grosvenor Square and the London Eye

2008-07-25T03:59:00.000-07:00

Wednesday, July 9th

Today I experienced the unique perks of the press. We frequently get e-mails sent round the office as to different press events – usually free movie previews or parties for various products that are being launched. Quite a few of the big labels/department stores are holding “Christmas in July” parties, where they present their new offerings that will be available in time for Christmas. Just by chance, today marked two press events that Brielle and I were urged to attend by our editors as something fun to do: the Möet Hennessy Christmas in July party and the launch of the ZPen.

Möet Hennessy was up first and we headed to one of the poshest areas of London: Grosvenor Square. Whenever I see the name I always remember that Oliver Twist’s long-lost grandfather lived on Grosvenor Square, which showed how fabulously wealthy he was and how poor orphan Oliver would never want for anything ever again. The party was held in a small ballroom of a lovely hotel, with separate tables showcasing the different liquors, wines, and champagne. As my knowledge of liquor pretty much begins and ends with vodka (okay, a bit of kahlua too) I had no idea that Hennessy is actually a famous (and very pricey) brand of cognac. “Would you like a cocktail?” a very sweet PR girl asked us right away. She led us straight to the cognac and within moments Brielle and I found ourselves hefting large glasses of the finest Hennessy mixed with orange, with an entire orange peel artfully arranged inside the glass. What service! The first sip was very, very strong, but in a couple minutes the orange diffused throughout and made it much tastier, though still quite sweet for my taste.

We scoped out a couple of the other tables (collecting leaflets and press releases along the way) before picking up two glasses of Möet & Chandon Brut Impérial champagne. Alas I am not a big fan of champagne but Brielle slurped hers right down. Then we saw a man preparing Cosmopolitans with Belvedere vodka, and that got me very excited. My Cosmo was excellent but very sour with all the citrus liquors in it. A PR man very helpfully detailed what would be included in the incredibly pricey Belvedere vodka gift box: the white-leather swathed box, a massive bottle of the vodka, and a dagger ice-pick set with crystals that even he agreed was a little over the top. “Yeah, I don’t know why you’d need an ice-pick dagger, either,” he said. Hee.

While sipping our drinks we felt the desire to nibble on something, so we wandered back to the Glenmorangie whisky table which had a full array of fancy cheeses. “Can we just . . . have a piece of cheese?” we asked the girl. “Um . . . it’s supposed to go with the whisky,” she said. “Maybe you could sniff the whisky while eating the cheese?” Okay then! All I can say is: good lord is whisky strong. Even a whiff just about knocked me over. The cheese was definitely worth it, though.

We needed to leave soon in order to make the ZPen launch, but I lingered in order to sample the Dom Pérignon. I don’t even like wine, but when a girl has a chance to taste Dom Pérignon, she should take it.

Next came a race through the pouring rain to make the ZPen launch on the London Eye. Brielle and I were very excited about this because we’d really been wanting to ride the Eye – one of London’s most notable landmarks – but it costs about £13-15 for a 30-minute ride, which we thought rather steep. But this way we would get to ride for free. We had to be there right at 4:15, though, to meet the group and catch our ride. Waterloo Station was only a couple tube stops away from Grosvenor Square, but once there we still had to walk to the Eye. Silly me, I thought this would be easy. Oh no. We exited from some small, strange exit of Waterloo, and even with my map I could not figure out where we had to go find the Eye. What’s more, we couldn’t even see the damn thing. Here we are, searching for one of the largest ferris wheels in the world, a wheel that towers over all London scenery anywhere along the river, and we can’t find it. Forget the wheel; I couldn’t even figure out where the river was. Oh, it was bad. We ran one way, we ran another way, we ran a third way. The rain is sloshing outside, the alcohol is sloshing inside, the wind is buffeting umbrellas and hair and press leaflets . . . we were a mess.

At last, just by chance, I spied the struts of the wheel out of the corner of my eye as we headed in the (totally wrong) direction. We pelted through the puddles and thankfully found the group, 10 minutes late but just a few minutes before we all headed onto the Eye. Success! I have never been so happy that my chronic lateness didn’t backfire on me.

Our ride was absolutely fantastic. Not only did we get a free ride, we got a deluxe free ride, that came with champagne & orange juice and snacks. The glass capsule was more than big enough to fit our group, and the first solid twenty minutes were devoted to letting everyone watch the view and take photos. Of course it was pouring rain so all my photos are rather grey and water-streaked, but given that this is London I think it only fitting.

During the last 10 minutes, two company people pulled out their laptops and did a PowerPoint presentation – yes, right in the capsule – on the merits of the ZPen, a special pen that will convert script written on any type of paper into text. It’s quite nifty. I’d been saying Zee Pen this whole time but of course it’s actually Zed Pen, heh. Americans are the only people who say zee instead of zed; even Canadians say zed.

After our ride, the bulk of the group headed for the Firehouse Pub near Waterloo Station for some more . . . celebrating? Bonding? I’m not sure, except that it involved more free drinks. Yes, more. I think I set a record today. I got a Singapore Sling, which is basically an alcoholic Shirley Temple. Very yummy. On top of that we all got a free ZPen (which retails for £99.99, sweet) and a free tote that is perfect for transporting groceries. The organizers of the outing – from a PR firm, not actually part of the company – were incredibly nice and made sure to talk to me and Brielle, and were very interested in where we were from and how we were liking the city. They would have bought us more drinks but at last we had to beg off and head home.

Despite the pouring rain it was an incredible day and I’m so glad I made the effort of responding to the press invitations (the London Eye almost didn’t happen – they just found spots for us this morning). You never know what will happen!

Explorations

2008-07-17T16:39:00.000-07:00

Saturday, June 5

We’ve seen a great deal of the city today. We journeyed south to the Brixton Market to satisfy Megan’s craving for Jamaican jerk chicken. Brixton apparently forms the hub of London’s West Indian population. Although the market isn’t that large it is rather confusingly laid out, so it took us some time before we could hunt down the elusive chicken. The densely packed stalls, grimy streets and thick Caribbean accents all around brought me right back to the Bahamas. I didn’t even have to close my eyes to imagine I was in Nassau. At last we found some food stalls and I ended up buying my chicken from a teeny shop underneath a staircase. I found the chicken quite tasty but really enjoyed the beans & rice drizzled with curry sauce that went with it.

From grubby Brixton we headed to posh Pimlico and the Tate Britain museum to view Martin Creed’s Work #850. Which was . . . running. Literally, a young sprinter pelting through part of the gallery every 30 seconds. When Megan first described this art installation to me I thought it ridiculous and wondered again how some people got paid huge sums for bizarrely simple works of “art.” The actual thing, though, was surprisingly captivating. Megan and I stayed in this gallery watching people run by for over an hour. An hour. We would have stayed even longer but the runners finally stopped their circuit about 6 p.m. There’s something mesmerizing about standing in a long, echoing gallery and every 30 seconds, almost to the second (we timed it) someone blowing by at top speed, huffing and puffing all the while. It’s like a slow-motion tennis match, watching the runners traverse one end of the gallery to the other every half a minute—you can’t take your eyes off them. I still find the concept a little strange (and envy an artist who gets paid for having other people run for him), but in person the installation is well worth seeing. Especially since it's free!

We intended to head straight home after the museum but somehow ended up wandering along the Thames and up Whitehall all the way past Trafalgar Square. We lingered for quite a while outside Parliament, playing with camera settings and experimental shots. I have so many photos of Parliament and Big Ben but I can’t help taking more every time I see it; the building is just too gorgeous. On top of that we got sidetracked by the dazzling purple flowers in Parliament Square.

In a moment of happy randomness we found Trafalgar in the grip of the London Pride Festival. A few thousand people were packed into the small square watching some young pop star strutting about on a stage erected beneath Nelson’s statue. A good chunk of the LGBT crowd were elaborately costumed in leather and feathers and outrageous wigs, and an exuberant young man was dancing shirtless among the pillars of the National Gallery. Fun!

The singer finished her set and a manager came onstage directing everyone to watch the large screen for . . . . the season finale of Dr. Who. As in the actual television episode, blown up on the screen that had just been showing the concert. As in they stopped an entire rocking festival in its tracks to settle down and watch a TV show. WHAT.

I can’t imagine any American concert pausing to air Lost or Desperate Housewives. I knew Dr. Who was huge over here, but I had no idea it was that huge. Oh, England. I love it when you’re weird.

4th of July!

2008-07-17T16:27:00.000-07:00

Friday, July 4

“Are you wearing red white & blue?” Megan demanded over the phone.
“Ah, I was,” I said. “I thought it would look silly—”
“PUT IT ON NOW.”
“Yes ma’am!”

Megan and Brielle and I banded together like good Americans to celebrate the 4th of July. As commanded Megan and I literally embodied the stars & stripes. Oh, yeah. Rock on, America!

We trotted over to the British Museum, literally across the street from my flat, to check out its 4th of July celebrations. Inside the museum’s massive main lobby we encountered blasting big band music and a line of dancers performing what I believe was the Charleston. Those . . . are not even from the same era, but okay. The line for hot dogs was simply impossible, but we found a nice surprise outside: free Krispy Kreme donuts! Pretty much the perfect symbol of Americans’ love of sugar and excess.

The museum had promised American football and basketball “demonstrations” as part of the show, and they were quite amusing as could be expected. The football demonstration began with some of the goofy warm-ups players have to do, which garnered some chuckles from the crowd. And a crowd there was indeed, ogling the few scrawny players and their movements as if they were a rare zoo exhibit. “Have you ever actually seen an American football player?” I heard one British boy ask his friend behind me. “They’re huge!!”

A single Krispy Kreme donut not being enough, we walked down the street to Ultimate Burger where Megan and I split a massive, juicy hamburger, thereby truly fulfilling our Americanness. If only we could have had some fireworks or sparklers, the day would have been perfect.

The Mousetrap

2008-07-15T17:06:00.000-07:00

Tuesday, July 1st

I met up with Megan and another acquaintance to see Agatha Christie’s The Mousetrap at St. Martin’s Theatre, near Covent Garden. It’s been playing non-stop since 1952; at 56 years straight it is London’s longest-running play.

And with good reason: the action is quick, the mystery gripping, and the dialogue clever. I had never heard the story of The Mousetrap and I was really glad I hadn’t; it made the play wonderfully suspenseful and exciting. During the intermission we furiously debated who the murderer could be, going through rounds of “I totally think it’s him,” “It seems like it could be him, so it can’t,” and “Maybe it’s been her all along.” And then the twist ending took us all by surprise anyway!

Windsor Castle

2008-07-15T15:48:00.000-07:00

Saturday, June 28

We left the familiar environs of London today and headed for Windsor Castle, about half an hour outside the city by train. Queen Elizabeth II still lives there much of the year, making Windsor the largest residential castle in the world. And large it was indeed. It took us over three hours to explore all the grounds and public rooms, and that doesn’t even cover the large section of castle (gated off) where the queen actually lives. The flag was flying proudly the day we visited, meaning the queen was in residence. Megan tells me that occasionally people have been able to spot the queen out walking. Considering the beauty of the garden beneath the Round Tower, I’d want to stroll through it too even if it meant thousands of tourists would be snapping my photo.

Most of our time was spent touring the public rooms in the area of the castle formerly used by kings and queens past (with no interior photography allowed, alas). The rooms were . . . rather unusual. The private rooms, such as the king and queen’s bedrooms, were quite small, which makes sense when you think of the difficulty of heating even the smallest spaces centuries ago. The larger reception and banquet rooms were cluttered with furniture – all of it beautiful but many pieces quite faded and threadbare. I can only imagine that they really are antiques that once belonged to former rulers. No one could ever use them again but they can’t be tossed or even refurbished because they are chairs! Used by James II! Therefore precious! Etc.

The walls of all these rooms were fascinatingly decorated. In the private rooms valuable paintings covered every inch of wall space. My favorite was a very rare painting of young Queen Elizabeth I – I’d only ever seen portraits from when she was far older.

In quite a few of the public rooms, however, weapons took center stage. I have never seen a greater array of swords, daggers, spears, muskets, and pistols in my life. Not only were all these weapons displayed prominently on the walls all the way up to the soaring ceilings, they were arranged into artful patterns and swirling rosettes. Yes: rosettes made out of 17th-century pistols. Wild! Some of the swords displayed truly exquisite worksmanship, as did the suits of armor lining the halls. One room proudly showed off tributes and spoils from centuries past: a Turkish robe, an Incan crown, a carved African staff, bejeweled trinkets from around the world. And more weapons, of course.

Afterward we wandered along to the church within the walls, St. George’s chapel. It is quite a shock to absently look down and realize you are standing above the remains of Henry VIII and his third wife Jane Seymour. My degree is in History; clearly I know quite a bit about history and have read a great deal on various famous figures. Yet they never seem real in books, real in the sense that these were people going about their daily lives, existing in their time period much like anyone else in the world. But to visit the place where Henry VIII and Elizabeth I and Victoria all lived in their turn, to wander the same halls and parapets they did—that is what makes history real to me.

King Lear

2008-07-15T15:34:00.000-07:00

Thursday, June 26

Seeing King Lear at the Globe Theatre marks my favorite memory of London so far. I’ve seen quite a few Shakespeare plays performed live, several by the actual Royal Shakespeare Company, but never a performance in England itself. And never while standing below the stage as a peasant!

Tickets for the covered seats ran about £15, but standing tickets were only £5. Peasants it was. We arrived in good time and snagged excellent spots literally right next to the stage – we could rest our elbows on it. A supporting pillar blocked some of the view, but being right next to the action was worth it. Occasionally we would feel the need to duck when an actor’s skirt or sword swung too close.

The play was magnificent. I’ve always loved King Lear, and seeing it brought to life by extraordinarily talented British actors thrilled me to my toes. David Calder was fantastic as Lear; he spends most of the play mad as a hatter and running around in his nightgown while rambling nonsensically, but his rise into sanity and sheer majesty at the end was wonderfully affecting. I have a strong memory from my college English Lit class of the professor discussing Shakespeare’s way with words and the incredibly powerful repetition of Lear’s anguished “Never . . . never . . . never . . . never” over the dead Cordelia. My professor’s brief reading of the line was enough to quiet my class; to see it performed in its full context and an entire crowd of several hundred people absolutely riveted and hushed into utter silence – there are no words.

The rest of the cast was just as impressive. Regan and Goneril were delightfully screechy and cunning, while Edgar’s Welsh accent only added to his charm. The riotous swordfight between Edgar and Edmund at the end was absolutely thrilling. It’s difficult to create a believable fight scene on a stage, and the production pulled it off brilliantly.

Standing like a peasant throughout the 3-hour play was….interesting. The novelty was really fascinating at first, but after awhile everything started to ache. At intermission we all flopped down on the ground, desperate to sit – and the play was only half over! Shakespeare’s words were beautiful, but at a certain point I began to wish Lear would quit monologuing and just get on with it.

Now, the center of the Globe Theatre is open to the sky; only the seats and most of the stage have any sort of roof. This being London, about 2/3 of the way through the play it began to rain. Of course. The rain slowly built in intensity with the acts onstage. Luckily for us, we were so close to the stage and its overhanging roof that we were mostly sheltered; we only got a bit damp while others in the crowd became soaked. Not a single person left, though. Even sopping wet, how could you ever want to miss a moment of Shakespeare?

Mmmm

2008-07-08T12:56:00.000-07:00

Thursday, June 24th

I had to research an endless array of food blogs for work (to find a good person to interview for the Food & Drink section of one of the magazines) so I am following their lead in documenting fantastic things I eat.

I treated myself to Greek yogurt and the cherries I got at Portobello Market tonight. It was delicious. I searched all over Sainsbury’s in vain for sweetened or vanilla yogurt; I feel like England must produce vanilla yogurt somewhere but I am apparently incapable of finding it. (This is true for an endless list of products.) The only options seemed to be “natural” or “natural organic.” I . . . do not know how those are different. The “natural Greek yogurt” option was the cheapest at only £1.05, so that’s what I got. I was hoping the yogurt would be sweet, but alas, it was rather sour. Luckily Mirto offered some of her Greek honey – bought on an island off Greece – as a sweetener.

The yogurt itself is quite thick, almost the consistency of sour cream. I passed over the lite version and mine has 11% fat. Heh, I don’t skimp. Mixed with several spoonfuls of honey and a handful of cherries, it was a fantastically rich dessert.

Chiswick

2008-07-08T12:42:00.000-07:00

Sunday, June 22

As I was letting myself into my building last night, a group of British guys walked past and wanted to know the way to Ultimate Burger. “Oh, it’s just down the street and around the corner,” I told them, since Megan had pointed it out the night before. They thanked me profusely.

“Love the accent, by the way!” one of them tossed out as they went on their way. Ha! He didn’t say it meanly; it was flirtatious more than anything else. It’s just so fun to think that here, I’m the one with the accent. I hear all the different accents around me, but I’m not conscious of the way I speak when I talk with others. My voice still sounds perfectly normal to me; I don’t recognize it as being different until someone else points it out—and then it’s always like “Oh, right.” It’s weird to think that I can be instantly pinpointed as American by something that I don’t pay any attention to.

We were treated to a glorious afternoon on Sunday and made a special trip out to Chiswick to visit Brielle. Chiswick is a suburb of London about forty minutes from the center of the city. It was quite a nice little area – much quieter than where I live, with rows of white houses branching off a pretty main street lined with shops and restaurants. The flowers were especially lush on Brielle’s little side street. I love being so close to everything but if I were to live in a big city I think I’d prefer the calmer suburb. I feel hemmed in by so many buildings.

We spent the day lounging in the park and watching a little boy learn how to fly a kite from his father. It was a very sweet performance until the kite dive-bombed us—quite literally—and we had to duck for cover. That certainly livened up a quiet Sunday afternoon.

Kensington Gardens

2008-07-08T12:16:00.000-07:00

Saturday, June 21

Once we left the Orangery we wandered among Kensington Gardens toward the massive monument that Queen Victoria erected in memory of her husband Prince Albert. It is certainly the largest monument I’ve ever seen. It’s situated directly across from Royal Albert Hall. The instant I saw the hall I squealed in happiness – “That’s Royal Albert Hall! From The Man Who Knew Too Much!” I may be a little in love with Hitchcock.

We sat on the monument steps and rested our sore feet. We tried to have a cherry pit spitting contest with my Portobello cherries and . . . I was not the winner, let’s put it that way. Megan achieved truly impressive distance while my first attempt only rolled a bit because it bounced off my sandal. My second try didn’t even manage that. I would be distressed that I am obviously no good at spitting, but that’s not exactly a bad thing, is it?

The Orangery

2008-07-06T17:28:00.000-07:00

Saturday, June 21

We headed to Kensington Palace and its Orangery for high tea. The Orangery is a beautiful, rather small building with a soaring ceiling that was originally used by the royals to grow orange trees. Now anyone can walk in and order tea and cakes. The whole area is airy and lovely and each table had its own mini orange tree complete with tiny oranges.

Being rather hungry (even after my large portion of paella….yes) I splurged for the full Orangery Tea. The menu: cucumber and cream cheese finger sandwiches; fruit scone with clotted cream and jam; a slice of orange cake; and choice of tea or coffee. As I really don’t care for tea I kind of cheated and ordered a cappuccino, but since coffee was an option I think I can be forgiven. The finger sandwiches were…interesting. I love fresh cucumber sandwiches in the summer (made with my mom’s fresh cucumbers, of course), but the crustless English bread was so cheesy. It was basically Wonderbread. I enjoyed my scone a great deal more and piled it high with clotted cream. When my massive slice of ultra rich orange cake arrived I was too full to even hope of finishing it. Luckily Megan and Brielle assisted me (Megan most ably) and we polished off every crumb of that fantastic cake.

Portobello Market

2008-06-30T13:55:00.000-07:00

Saturday, June 21

It’s been a busy weekend! I will have to break up my posts to make sense of everything. Megan’s younger cousin and her friend are visiting for the week, so Brielle and I accompanied them on touristy activities this weekend. First up: Portobello Market! We rode out to Notting Hill and mingled among hundreds of people cramming stalls that stretched for blocks. It was huge and very, very crowded. Stall vendors were selling everything from clothes to trinkets to fruit to fresh fish. The breadth of the market was incredible.

We all separated on our hunt for lunch among the food stalls. The girls chose nutritious strawberry crepes drenched in chocolate syrup and powdered sugar. Megan and Brielle chose mixed bowls of food from Ghana – they said it was excellent but incredibly spicy! There may or may not have been a sprint for bottled water.

I continued searching until I came across a stall selling Spanish paella. They were making several different batches at once in massive steaming woks. My bowl was absolutely delicious—seriously one of the best dishes I’ve ever tasted—and created quite a bit of food envy. Well, maybe not for the girls with their crepes.

After eating we wandered along the length of the market, which was really so large as to be overwhelming. People thronged along every inch of the narrow yet colorful streets. Along the way we visited the bookstore that was used in the Hugh Grant/Julia Roberts movie Notting Hill. Very cute (and no doubt extremely pricey) shop. As we left I made my sole purchase from the entire vast market: a pound of delicious sweet cherries. Fresh fruit always tempts me.

Oh, accents

2008-06-29T16:36:00.000-07:00

Tuesday, June 17

So now both Britons and Australians have made fun of the way I say Holborn. "Hol-BORRRRRRRRRN," they tease me. Ahem. I have a perfectly acceptable Midwest American accent and we pronounce all our R’s, thank you very much.

Miscellany

2008-06-29T16:33:00.000-07:00

Sunday, June 15

On Saturday I ventured along the electronics mecca that is Tottenham Court Road. Unfortunately for me, my flat’s wireless network is on channel 13, and US wireless cards are only capable of accessing channels 1-11. My poor Airport wasn’t even able to find my flat’s network, much less connect to it. I hadn’t even known different wireless channels existed until Tina informed me of them; I thought a signal was a signal. Oh, how wrong I was.

After much difficulty finding an adapter that would work on a Mac and actually getting said adapter to work at all, I at last have (fairly reliable) internet. Thank goodness! It was rough to go so long without it. My computer at work is on full view for anyone walking by, and besides, I wouldn’t feel right doing personal stuff online at work anyway.

So last night I went to a tapas bar with my Greek flatmates. We met up with several of their Greek friends and……everyone spoke in Greek. For pretty much the entire evening. Yeah. Every so often Mirto would take pity on me and say “Oh, this is what we’re talking about,” and we would chat for a bit, occasionally drawing in another person, but within minutes they would all get swept up in the tide of Greek again. I did a lot of (literal) staring at the walls and ceilings of the bar. It was okay; the food and sangria were good, and I’m glad I went out with my flatmates and spent some time with them. It was just rather awkward since I couldn’t take part in the conversation at all or even pretend like I was listening. Clearly I need to learn Greek.

Big city transport

2008-06-23T12:31:00.000-07:00

Friday, June 13

The London transportation system is driving me crazy. Not that it’s bad; it’s a wonderful system, and it never fails to amaze me how easily you can get around the entire huge city. But it’s just not working for me at the moment. I’ve been taking the Tube to work and that’s certainly an adequate way of getting there; it’s only 4 stops between my closest station, Holborn, and Liverpool station on the Central line. But the lone down escalator at Holborn has been broken ever since I started using it. The steps are frozen – the many, many, many steep steps. It takes forever to walk down, and after the first few dozen all the ridges on the steps start to swim together and it’s very disorienting. I hate walking down it; I always feel like I’m about to tumble forward right to the bottom.

Riding on the subway itself is not so bad except it gets very, very hot deep below. It will be chilly and breezy outside, so you have to layer and wear a jacket, but you get down to the train and you’re sweating. Ugh. Finally, Liverpool station is a solid 12-15 minute walk further to my workplace, along super busy Bishopsgate which becomes equally busy Shoreditch High Street, with many intersections to cross. There’s a lot of construction going on along those streets, so the sidewalks are very narrow and uneven in places, and buses are always blowing past and creating a veritable wind tunnel in their wake. It is not at all an enjoyable walk.

All of this is weighed against this fact: there is a bus stop directly outside the door of my workplace. Directly. Therefore, I have been dreaming of the bus as the solution to all my troubles. I won’t mind having to leave earlier if it will save me loads of walking down broken escalators and along busy thoroughfares. I’ve been unclear on where to actually catch this much-longed for bus from my new flat, though, so I had yet to take it. But this morning I spoke with Tina and she described where the closest stop is – super close! Literally around the corner! – and so I determined to attempt the bus this morning.

As with the London crossword, I failed spectacularly.

As usual, I was running late. I think this is simply my lot in life, to always be late. I trotted down the street and around the corner to the bus stop, where a quick glance at the board showed my bus wasn’t due for another 8 minutes. Eight minutes! I wavered over whether to wait or just continue to the Tube, but at last I decided to wait. I wanted the bus and I was going to take the bus, dammit. So I stood and fidgeted for 8 endless minutes while bus after bus drove by. Many times several of them would come at once, and they would stop one right after the other all down the street.

At last my bus - #242 – appeared around the corner . . . behind three other buses. It positioned itself waaaaaaay down the street. As is my usual state in this country, I was confused. Was I supposed to walk all the way down to the bus? When the others cleared out, would it move forward to the stop? I was at the bus stop – I shouldn’t leave it, right?? What should I do???

At last I started to hesitantly walk toward it down the street. Then all the many buses started moving, swung into traffic, aaaaaand . . . . there went my bus. Blew right past me while I stared at it in disbelief. I could not believe that I had found my bus stop, found my bus, and yet I still missed it. So not only did I wait all that time for a bus I never got on, I still had to walk to Holborn, walk down the (still broken!!) escalator, squeeze onto the Tube, and walk all the way from Liverpool to my workplace. Talk about a disastrous commute.

I have since learned (of course) that no, the bus will not always conveniently pause right at the bus stop for you. It stops where it stops and it’s up to you to get to it. I love how you can be right at the bus stop, ready and waiting long before the bus arrives, and you still have to run to catch it. Madness!

Beginnings

2008-06-23T12:14:00.000-07:00

Tuesday, June 10

I moved into my new flat today! I met the Greek girls and saw their flat twice on Saturday and Monday, and I loved it. My room is quite small but that's just fine; the rest of the flat is more than big enough to make up for it. Tina and Mirto, both originally from Athens, are super nice and we get along quite well. Tina has been in the UK for 8 years - she went to college in Edinburgh and has been working in London for the past 3 years - and has her own car in the city, a very stylish MiniCoop. This MiniCoop was my absolute savior because it transported my hideously heavy luggage from Megan's to the new place. I would have rolled my suitcase along the sidewalks if I had to, but oh, am I glad I didn't have to.

Everything's in a bit of a mess as I haven't had time to settle in, since I started work on Monday. I love my internship already. Everyone I've met in the office so far is wonderfully nice and determined to help us interns gain experience. My first assignment was researching several business-oriented events and conferences in select European cities for a sidebar, then writing up a summary and formatting each event. It was quite simple to do and I enjoyed doing it. And I think this means my words will appear in the magazine, so that's exciting.

Brielle, the other American intern who's already been here for a week, has been showing me the ropes a bit and I know we're going to have a good time working together this summer. For lunch we went out for Indian food at Meráz Café, a sweet little restaurant right off Brick Lane - the Brick Lane, the center of London's Indian and Pakistani community. I had to read the novel Brick Lane for my European history class my sophomore year of college. I'd really wanted to visit the neighborhood during my trip to London last summer but never managed it, so I'm pleased that we work so close. Meráz has an absolutely scrumptious chicken korma (my favorite Indian dish; of course I must love anything with coconut milk in it) and I know we'll be going back many times this summer.

Crossword!

2008-06-19T15:33:00.000-07:00

Saturday, June 7

I tried to do the London Paper crossword this morning and failed utterly. Out of 30 clues across and down I got exactly two: Jennifer Ehle who was Elizabeth Bennet in the 1995 BBC Pride and Prejudice, which they just showed on PBS last February and which any major P&P fan (such as myself) should know, and the gila monster of the US and Mexico. So yes: the two I got were an actress and an American lizard. Heh. Could my Americanness be any more apparent? All the rest of the clues were exclusively on British actors, authors, singers and soccer players that are completely unknown to me. Now I feel like I don’t know anything about this country.

British TV

2008-06-19T15:25:00.000-07:00

Friday, June 6

Friday night, nothing to do. I've spent the last two days exchanging money, getting a phone, and riding the Tube to map out my route to work. It is now time to watch some quality British television.

Oooh, EastEnders is on. I’m totally watching. All I know about the show is that Bridget Jones loved it, so hopefully it’s entertaining. I’m pretty sure this is supposed to be a soap opera. In American soaps everyone is rich and beautiful with glamorous jobs and houses all perfectly lit. EastEnders . . . not so much. I think the characters aren’t supposed to be that wealthy – hence living on the cheaper east side of London – but man, those are some shabby flats. A lot of the actors are rather out of shape and all the indoor scenes are quite dark; the actors’ faces are all in shadow. Production values are definitely a lot higher in the US.

The show is a little hard to follow because I can’t figure out who anyone is. I don’t think anyone has been named in a whole hour. On The Bold and the Beautiful people are always having long conversations where they state each other’s names dramatically: “Ridge!” “Brooke!” “Taylor!” I’m impressed with the variety of scenes on EastEnders, though. There are several different (shabby) flat interiors, a dance club, a pub, a restaurant, and quite a few outdoor street scenes. I don’t think they ever go outside on B&B.

Oh, they’re playing Amy Winehouse’s "Rehab" while a character is sitting in her car drinking. HAHA.

Next on: a show on that relates the news of the day while making fun of it. The host and his panelists are pretty funny; he looks familiar but I can’t place who he is. They had a long section on the American presidential primaries, basically making lots of jokes about Hillary and Barack. They pronounce Barack Ba-RAAAAAAAK. Heee. Apparently they think all our candidates are very silly. Man, we finally get some good candidates and we still get no respect. At least they’re making fun of their own politicians too.

Arrival

2008-06-19T15:15:00.000-07:00

Thursday, June 5

I have arrived in London! Terminal 4 of Heathrow was quite familiar to me from my visit last year and I had no problem making my way through immigration and baggage claim down to the Tube. I had a bit more trouble using my Oyster card. I forgot how it worked and tried to use it the way it’s done in Japan, by slipping the card into a slot that shoots it out the other end as you walk through the gate. I tried bumping it a few times against a depression in the front of the machine that looked like a slot. Obviously it didn’t go in, and I basically reenacted part of my trip to Spain last year where our Madrid hostel manager showed us very carefully that we were to use our keycard only for our room, not the outer door: “Like this!” *swipe* “NOT like this:” *tap tap tap against the solid wood*

A worker had to help me locate the huge yellow buttons at each gate. Right.

Once I made it through it was just a few steps further to the waiting train. However, the train looked pretty full and I was not at all certain of my luggage-wrangling abilities, and I preferred for any embarrassing struggles to be enacted in front of the fewest people possible. The board also said the train was leaving in two minutes, which I took to be not enough time for me to heave my stuff on board. Wrong. Two minutes when you’re waiting for a train to depart that is full of people staring at you is the longest time in the world. No one could understand why I wasn’t trying to board the train. A worker came up and pointedly told me “That’s your train.” “Ah, yeah, I know,” I said. “I’m . . . just going to wait for the next one.” Oh, the weird looks and elaborate shrugs people can give you. I turned aside and started rummaging in my purse just to have something to do. Boy did I rummage.

At last, at last, the doors closed and that horrid train left. The next one was near empty and I had plenty of space to position my massive luggage in a good spot and nab a seat right next to it. See, it was all part of the plan. The train departed just about 8:15 a.m., which meant . . . just in time for morning rush hour! As we continued along the Piccadilly line more and more people piled on, forcibly squeezing themselves around my luggage. Awkward. I was getting really nervous that I’d never be able to get through them all to get off, but the three stops directly before Russell Square are Piccadilly Circus, Leicester Square, and Covent Garden. That took care of nearly everyone, much to my relief.

I was not so relieved to gaze upon the impressive set of stairs at Russell Square. I began to haul my suitcase up one agonizing step at a time. I’d only made it a few steps when the next train arrived and a crowd of people filled the staircase and once again I was the star of the show. My saviors were first a woman and then a man, who both stopped and asked if I needed any help. Oh, I love people. With their assistance I made it to the street, and from there it was just a test of endurance to drag my things to Megan’s a few blocks away. I nearly thought I would die, and my hands got calluses from gripping the suitcase handle, and the steep narrow stairs to Megan’s 2nd floor flat nearly did me in, but I made it at last.

I collapsed on the couch, stared blankly into space, and I was in England.

Takeoff

2008-06-19T15:09:00.000-07:00

Wednesday, June 4th

I'm sitting at the gate, waiting to board my flight to London, and I feel fabulous. And not just because my checked bag barely squeaked by under the weight limit at 48 pounds exactly. The whole ride down I was anxious and queasy, nervous about spending 3 months in a foreign city with a hideous exchange rate. I don’t know what my internship will be like, I still don’t have housing figured out yet . . . a lot of things are up in the air. But it’s fine. I know that everything will work itself out somehow. I’m excited more than anything else. This is exactly what I’m meant to be doing right now, and only good things can come from it.

I don’t know anything about what my tasks will be for my internship, except that my contact lady assured me I wouldn’t “just be making tea,” which strikes me as delightfully British.

And even if my housing isn’t totally figured out, it’s very close. I’ve been writing back and forth quite a bit with a Greek girl who’s lived in London for the past 8 years; she and her flatmate have a 3-bedroom on Museum Street in Bloomsbury, exactly where I want to be. The rent is great, they sound super nice, I can move in right away and stay through the whole summer – it is just about as perfect as you could ask for. I’m going to visit the place this weekend. I really really really hope it works out. I have visions of them showing me how to cook mouth-watering Greek food. Mmm, feta.

They just called boarding. Time to go!