There's not much to say. I loved seeing my family and friends. Chicago is a great city, it just is, and I adjusted quickly enough to American society.
Some things were very strange, like how big everything is, the variety in the grocery store, and how I could walk down the street speaking English loudly. That one still feels strange.
My focus is turned towards the fall quarter, but my future lies in Europe.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
I can't do this. (Aug 23rd)
I knew that I could not stay. I didn't actually have a life in Paris anymore. Being back was not a continuation of the spring; I was tasting a moment of someone else's life, just like every other country. My hosts gave me a chance to feel as if I was living there again, gave me a space to immerse myself again and create new impressions. This time, I did not relive the past, recounting stories to my friend as we moved from place to place. Then, I was slowly closing doors, as I revisited each spot that held so many memories. This time, I made new ones.
Ending the epic journey, and facing American culture again, was not something I wanted to do.
I managed to get across the city, somehow, and evade buying a ticket for the train. It was more like throwing myself onto the airplane, instead of willfully departing. I sat on the flight, staring straight ahead, completely in shock at what I was doing.
It turns out that the women seated next to me where just returning from a two week trip in France organized by DePaul. I was literally surrounded by 30 people who had been on the trip. Their stories and company on the long flight to Chicago helped me to slowly transition, to accept what was happening.
Though I did spend a lot of time staring at the seat back in front of me.
Ending the epic journey, and facing American culture again, was not something I wanted to do.
I managed to get across the city, somehow, and evade buying a ticket for the train. It was more like throwing myself onto the airplane, instead of willfully departing. I sat on the flight, staring straight ahead, completely in shock at what I was doing.
It turns out that the women seated next to me where just returning from a two week trip in France organized by DePaul. I was literally surrounded by 30 people who had been on the trip. Their stories and company on the long flight to Chicago helped me to slowly transition, to accept what was happening.
Though I did spend a lot of time staring at the seat back in front of me.
Last Few Moments of Paris (Aug 22nd)
I meandered around the city, accomplishing my last few errands. Mostly picking up new gifts for my family to replace the ones stolen in the Spanish mail (a common occurrence, I recently learned).
I was walking across a bridge, not far from Notre Dame, when I saw a young couple holding a single red rose. The woman was slowly peeling petals from the bloom, and dropping them one by one into the Seine. Tourists bustled along around them, cars roared by (Paris is a real city, after all), and they were holding a quiet ritual.
I thought about whether they had always dreamed of Paris, whether they were here after long hopes. Paris as the city of love never rang true for me. It was too real, too much of a metropolis to stand up to my expectations of a paradise for lovers. I love the city, but I do not share the same sentiments I have found in other people, the earnestly described pull of its romanticism.
I have been fortunate enough in my time living there to have moments of heightened awareness, of a strong sense of place. Sometimes it would hit me while I sat with a friend, chatting over a glass of wine (I prefer red, if anyone was wondering). Or the classic market scene, or an obscure bookstore. But in the last 36 hours in Europe, I was intensely aware of where I was, trying to take in every moment, every word in French spoken, even in the places I had visited the most. I knew that I was leaving, and instead of being home, Paris became a place to memorize so I could take it with me.
I did not want to leave. At all.
I was walking across a bridge, not far from Notre Dame, when I saw a young couple holding a single red rose. The woman was slowly peeling petals from the bloom, and dropping them one by one into the Seine. Tourists bustled along around them, cars roared by (Paris is a real city, after all), and they were holding a quiet ritual.
I thought about whether they had always dreamed of Paris, whether they were here after long hopes. Paris as the city of love never rang true for me. It was too real, too much of a metropolis to stand up to my expectations of a paradise for lovers. I love the city, but I do not share the same sentiments I have found in other people, the earnestly described pull of its romanticism.
I have been fortunate enough in my time living there to have moments of heightened awareness, of a strong sense of place. Sometimes it would hit me while I sat with a friend, chatting over a glass of wine (I prefer red, if anyone was wondering). Or the classic market scene, or an obscure bookstore. But in the last 36 hours in Europe, I was intensely aware of where I was, trying to take in every moment, every word in French spoken, even in the places I had visited the most. I knew that I was leaving, and instead of being home, Paris became a place to memorize so I could take it with me.
I did not want to leave. At all.
Friday, August 21, 2009
A Night in Paris, the Calm Way (Aug 21st)
Back at the apartment, I managed to call home on skype, since I have my computer. Lovely to hear from my parents. I have been out of contact for long patches of time, before.
I had offered to cook dinner, and was a little nervous, because I was completely making it up. The classic sort of what-vegetables-do-we-have kind of plan. They gave me free range of the kitchen, made me a martini, and kept on popping in to see if they could help.
The weather was beautiful today: blue skies dotted with white puffy clouds, a gentle breeze, and just the perfect summer temperature that isn't too warm. Typical Paris, really. The tall window was open, looking out onto the courtyard and over the rooftops. Standing in their kitchen, with the fresh vegetables I had picked up that day, I felt entirely connected to the experience. Highly aware of where I was, how very French it all felt. If you can say that, I suppose. I can see the kitchen clearly now, as I reflect on it, like a picture I am holding. I remember thinking about how sorry I would be to leave.
I managed, by accident, to pull off an American version of ratatouille. Vegan, of course. Started out as beans and rice, but I added more vegetables and only had French herbs. Cooked eggplant for the first time. I had watched a friend do it in Germany, and it seemed simple enough.
After dinner, we played Scrabble in French. Not easy.
I had offered to cook dinner, and was a little nervous, because I was completely making it up. The classic sort of what-vegetables-do-we-have kind of plan. They gave me free range of the kitchen, made me a martini, and kept on popping in to see if they could help.
The weather was beautiful today: blue skies dotted with white puffy clouds, a gentle breeze, and just the perfect summer temperature that isn't too warm. Typical Paris, really. The tall window was open, looking out onto the courtyard and over the rooftops. Standing in their kitchen, with the fresh vegetables I had picked up that day, I felt entirely connected to the experience. Highly aware of where I was, how very French it all felt. If you can say that, I suppose. I can see the kitchen clearly now, as I reflect on it, like a picture I am holding. I remember thinking about how sorry I would be to leave.
I managed, by accident, to pull off an American version of ratatouille. Vegan, of course. Started out as beans and rice, but I added more vegetables and only had French herbs. Cooked eggplant for the first time. I had watched a friend do it in Germany, and it seemed simple enough.
After dinner, we played Scrabble in French. Not easy.
J'aime Paris...ce sera difficile a partir (Aug 21st)
Sitting on a bench this afternoon, trying to recover from my shopping experience, I realized that even though I wanted to see my family and friends again, I did not actually want to leave Paris. At all.
I had just gone into the small Franprix (a grocery store) near where I used to live, and just the smell of the place when I walked in reminded me of my life in Paris. Even though I can't eat half of what is in there, the sight of it all, how it is so very French, I suppose, made me not want to leave. I remembered life back in the spring, and cherished the simple things that I had taken for granted so long. The variety of jam after being in the U.K. for so long, where I swear they only eat marmalade, or knowing that I will not be able to get the shredded carrot salad in the States....
Writing it out, it all seems silly to get nostalgic over food, but I think it is indicitive of how I feel about life here in general. Yes, the Parisians are not the most friendly, but I made this place a home. Even though I felt deeply connected to the U.K. (a surprise for me), I did not have the time there the way I did in Paris.
France, for me, then, becomes the place the most difficult to leave. That's not true. I practically had to rip myself away from Wales. But the culture here is more different, distinct, than the U.K., and I think I love pieces of it. I tried to make a list of what I cared about, as I have been doing this entire trip, so that I can manifest it in my life back wherever. But I realized that trying to divide it up into pieces didn't work, that it lacked its draw for me. I realized that it needs to be whole, in context, to be itself.
Even though I want to see my family and friends, I don't know how to come back to America.
I had just gone into the small Franprix (a grocery store) near where I used to live, and just the smell of the place when I walked in reminded me of my life in Paris. Even though I can't eat half of what is in there, the sight of it all, how it is so very French, I suppose, made me not want to leave. I remembered life back in the spring, and cherished the simple things that I had taken for granted so long. The variety of jam after being in the U.K. for so long, where I swear they only eat marmalade, or knowing that I will not be able to get the shredded carrot salad in the States....
Writing it out, it all seems silly to get nostalgic over food, but I think it is indicitive of how I feel about life here in general. Yes, the Parisians are not the most friendly, but I made this place a home. Even though I felt deeply connected to the U.K. (a surprise for me), I did not have the time there the way I did in Paris.
France, for me, then, becomes the place the most difficult to leave. That's not true. I practically had to rip myself away from Wales. But the culture here is more different, distinct, than the U.K., and I think I love pieces of it. I tried to make a list of what I cared about, as I have been doing this entire trip, so that I can manifest it in my life back wherever. But I realized that trying to divide it up into pieces didn't work, that it lacked its draw for me. I realized that it needs to be whole, in context, to be itself.
Even though I want to see my family and friends, I don't know how to come back to America.
Across to Arcueil and Back (Aug 21st)
This morning was not that eventful. I just trekked all the way across Paris and back to get my suitcase, where I had left it at another host's place.
I am just glad to have it back.
I did get a chance to talk with one of my host's roommates, a very kind Frenchman going to Thailand soon. It is kind of common for me to hear about amazing adventures; long periods traveling and far away destinations are nearly ho-hum common among couchsurfers I meet. Nearly, since actually everyone gets very excited about it all.
I spent the afternoon, when I finally left the apartment after taking everything out of my bags, rearranging it, and putting it all back in again. Since most of my gifts for my family were stolen, I set out to search the city for more.
Let me say this. I hate shopping. It sucks the soul out of my body. I am terrible at choosing things, so put me into the most complicated sweet shop I have every seen, and I can do nothing. Completely overwhelmed by this afternoon, to the point where I couldn't speak French. Stared at someone asking me the simplest question...
I am just glad to have it back.
I did get a chance to talk with one of my host's roommates, a very kind Frenchman going to Thailand soon. It is kind of common for me to hear about amazing adventures; long periods traveling and far away destinations are nearly ho-hum common among couchsurfers I meet. Nearly, since actually everyone gets very excited about it all.
I spent the afternoon, when I finally left the apartment after taking everything out of my bags, rearranging it, and putting it all back in again. Since most of my gifts for my family were stolen, I set out to search the city for more.
Let me say this. I hate shopping. It sucks the soul out of my body. I am terrible at choosing things, so put me into the most complicated sweet shop I have every seen, and I can do nothing. Completely overwhelmed by this afternoon, to the point where I couldn't speak French. Stared at someone asking me the simplest question...
Under the English Channel to Paris (Aug 20th)
Nothing very exciting can happen on a bus. Although now I know never to take a 24 hour bus ride again, as it does not go well with my claustrophobia.
To go under the channel, we took the strangest train I have ever seen. It is like a ferry, a very long, narrow, ferry. The bus drove right onto it, and parked in a series of chambers that were wide enough for the bus and a walkway on either side. Fortunately, we were able to get out. The Jamaican in front of me had his seat leaned back, my backpack was wedged beneath my knees, and at any moment I was going to burst out of my seat, flailing about.
Though the ferry-train was interesting to see at first, I wish I could have actually seen the crossing. I missed the one to Wales as well, since it was dark.
I arrived in Paris exhausted and dirty, and managed to get myself to the other end of the city to meet my new hosts. I was just glad to be there.
They are a young couple living in Colombes, a suburb ten minutes from the St. Lazare station. I was welcomed in immediately, and able to take a cold shower right away.
Their small dog is energetic and loving, and adores to stick her head through the bars of the decorative grate on the window, watching the people below. The windows in this tiny Parisian apartment are classic: tall, with glass doors that open inward, and white metal shutters to block out the sun.
Before dinner, they offered me a martini, which I gladly took, and then we sat down to a summer salad that was a relief after days of eating bread and beans (Ireland).
My two hosts are relaxed, fun, kind, and generally a joy to be around. It is as if it is entirely normal that I am here, and I feel completely welcome. There are some couchsurfing hosts where you feel as if you are friends immediately.
To go under the channel, we took the strangest train I have ever seen. It is like a ferry, a very long, narrow, ferry. The bus drove right onto it, and parked in a series of chambers that were wide enough for the bus and a walkway on either side. Fortunately, we were able to get out. The Jamaican in front of me had his seat leaned back, my backpack was wedged beneath my knees, and at any moment I was going to burst out of my seat, flailing about.
Though the ferry-train was interesting to see at first, I wish I could have actually seen the crossing. I missed the one to Wales as well, since it was dark.
I arrived in Paris exhausted and dirty, and managed to get myself to the other end of the city to meet my new hosts. I was just glad to be there.
They are a young couple living in Colombes, a suburb ten minutes from the St. Lazare station. I was welcomed in immediately, and able to take a cold shower right away.
Their small dog is energetic and loving, and adores to stick her head through the bars of the decorative grate on the window, watching the people below. The windows in this tiny Parisian apartment are classic: tall, with glass doors that open inward, and white metal shutters to block out the sun.
Before dinner, they offered me a martini, which I gladly took, and then we sat down to a summer salad that was a relief after days of eating bread and beans (Ireland).
My two hosts are relaxed, fun, kind, and generally a joy to be around. It is as if it is entirely normal that I am here, and I feel completely welcome. There are some couchsurfing hosts where you feel as if you are friends immediately.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Long Road Back to Paris
To be honest, I have lost my ability to focus on travel planning in the past couple of weeks. Chicago and life back in America was brought back to my attention at the end of July, and since then I have been focused entirely on the moment or thinking about the future.
I have sort of dropped any bit of travel magic I used to have.
For example, in the business of planning a trip for two across a few countries, moving every day, and the cheapest way possible, I managed to forget to buy my ryanair ticket back to Paris. Where my suitcase is.
At the moment, I am in Dublin. I was in Kenmare with Megan, but left for Limerick yesterday. Couchsurfed there with an awesome guy from Wales who loves Chicago (we are opposites). Talked about travel and philosophy, whether you could prove the nonexistence of a purple elephant.
Mostly I shocked him by how little of a plan I had. I cannot find a couch in Paris, no matter how many people I apply to. Basically, I have a plan up to 7 p.m. tomorrow.
So far: took a train to Dublin, and have spent the afternoon wandering around here.
Plan: bus, ferry to Wales, bus to London, bus to Dover, ferry to France, bus to Paris. I think.
Then, I am not sure.
I went back to Hamburg for a towel, and now to Paris for a suitcase. And the biggest thesaurus I can carry.
I have sort of dropped any bit of travel magic I used to have.
For example, in the business of planning a trip for two across a few countries, moving every day, and the cheapest way possible, I managed to forget to buy my ryanair ticket back to Paris. Where my suitcase is.
At the moment, I am in Dublin. I was in Kenmare with Megan, but left for Limerick yesterday. Couchsurfed there with an awesome guy from Wales who loves Chicago (we are opposites). Talked about travel and philosophy, whether you could prove the nonexistence of a purple elephant.
Mostly I shocked him by how little of a plan I had. I cannot find a couch in Paris, no matter how many people I apply to. Basically, I have a plan up to 7 p.m. tomorrow.
So far: took a train to Dublin, and have spent the afternoon wandering around here.
Plan: bus, ferry to Wales, bus to London, bus to Dover, ferry to France, bus to Paris. I think.
Then, I am not sure.
I went back to Hamburg for a towel, and now to Paris for a suitcase. And the biggest thesaurus I can carry.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Day in Kenmare (Aug 18th)
This morning, we slept in, and after some confusion over a water hose that needed to be turned off and losing electricity for awhile, we wandered out of the house, back to town.
But before, I was able to go for a walk by the water, which I accessed through a little path behind the house. Fog was descending over the mountains, the green-patched hills rolled in the distance, and the water gently rolled over the stones and massive piles of deep green seaweed. The coast is quite unlike any other, much more rugged and stony, almost desolate yet alive.
Since I had borrowed my host's Wellies, I was able to muck through the mossy woods to stand on a small stone slab laid over a creek. I saw the water flow beneath my feet, stumbling over rocks, and making its way towards the sea. I realized that I was looking at something, that famous bit of Irish countryside, that I had only actually seen in movies and pictures. It seemed so odd that I could be separated from it for most of my life, and stood there, in the quiet wood, trying to remember how much time I had spent outdoors in my childhood. How strange it was to live in the city.
But before, I was able to go for a walk by the water, which I accessed through a little path behind the house. Fog was descending over the mountains, the green-patched hills rolled in the distance, and the water gently rolled over the stones and massive piles of deep green seaweed. The coast is quite unlike any other, much more rugged and stony, almost desolate yet alive.
Since I had borrowed my host's Wellies, I was able to muck through the mossy woods to stand on a small stone slab laid over a creek. I saw the water flow beneath my feet, stumbling over rocks, and making its way towards the sea. I realized that I was looking at something, that famous bit of Irish countryside, that I had only actually seen in movies and pictures. It seemed so odd that I could be separated from it for most of my life, and stood there, in the quiet wood, trying to remember how much time I had spent outdoors in my childhood. How strange it was to live in the city.
A Little House by the Sea and a Couple of Trad Sessions (Aug 17th)
A bus driver gave us a lift down the road about a mile and a half on his route out of Kenmare, so that we wouldn't have to walk to our next CS host's house.
Another couchsurfer, a woman from Poland, happened to be on the same bus, doing the same thing.
So together we walked down to the little house, where we met our next host, a medicinal herbalist named Dean, and the young German woman who is here to learn the fiddle. After sitting around chatting for awhile, Dean took our Polish friend and me on a tour of the yard.
There are gardens overflowing with plants, and pots of different ones lined, stacked and piled all around the house, just everywhere. And he has two ducks.
He walked us around, pointing out different plants, their properties, and giving us things to taste and smell. We picked little wild raspberries and his strawberries. After awhile, it started to rain (as it tends to do in Ireland), and we went back inside.
Then Dean and the young German took out their fiddles, and started playing together while Megan and I cooked dinner.
Eventually, Dora (our Polish fellow CSurfer), Megan, and I walked into town to see what was to be seen. Both Dean and Julia, the German, were playing in different pubs in town. After getting quite lost, we found Dean's pub, where he was playing. A group of young kids were there as well with fiddles and accordions, playing for a little while. Music is in the people here...
Then we went to listen to Julia play in another pub, and I was able to get a Guinness.
Walking the streets in Kenmare, you can hear traditional music pouring out from the pubs lining the streets.
Another couchsurfer, a woman from Poland, happened to be on the same bus, doing the same thing.
So together we walked down to the little house, where we met our next host, a medicinal herbalist named Dean, and the young German woman who is here to learn the fiddle. After sitting around chatting for awhile, Dean took our Polish friend and me on a tour of the yard.
There are gardens overflowing with plants, and pots of different ones lined, stacked and piled all around the house, just everywhere. And he has two ducks.
He walked us around, pointing out different plants, their properties, and giving us things to taste and smell. We picked little wild raspberries and his strawberries. After awhile, it started to rain (as it tends to do in Ireland), and we went back inside.
Then Dean and the young German took out their fiddles, and started playing together while Megan and I cooked dinner.
Eventually, Dora (our Polish fellow CSurfer), Megan, and I walked into town to see what was to be seen. Both Dean and Julia, the German, were playing in different pubs in town. After getting quite lost, we found Dean's pub, where he was playing. A group of young kids were there as well with fiddles and accordions, playing for a little while. Music is in the people here...
Then we went to listen to Julia play in another pub, and I was able to get a Guinness.
Walking the streets in Kenmare, you can hear traditional music pouring out from the pubs lining the streets.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Spanish Mail
I happened to be talking to my mother on skype while she opened the box I had mailed home from Spain, full of gifts for my family.
"There is a length of rope in here with hooks. I swear to god, Bridget. Looks like someone's climbing gear."
Also, various dirty clothes, a letter to someone else, and a video camera, along with about half of the things I had tossed in there. All the gifts were gone.
We're guessing that a corrupt official dumps out all the boxes on the floor, takes what looks valuable, and throws anything back into the boxes and sends it along. Which is why half of somebody else's box got into mine.
The camera must have been missed. Now we just want to get it back to the owner, somehow.
Was funny at first, then sad when we realized that everything I had carefully chosen was gone. Since Spain is not in Africa, I was pretty surprised.
An Accidental Detour (Aug 16th)
Sunday was about leisurely leaving Paris. Going back to the most annoying airport, aside from Dublin, where your passport is checked five times. I nearly choke from the beaurocracy.
Nothing much exciting happened for most of the evening. Just a quiet bus ride through the slowly darkening Irish countryside, a thing that I find entirely comforting.
Except we took the wrong bus. Our ticket was printed with the number 13, but we were supposed to take the 14, and our bus was late. So instead of going to Killarney as planned, we arrived in Tralee at 11 p.m. last night.
I have never been to Tralee, by the way.
In the end, it wasn't really a problem at all, because our bus driver gave us a lift to a hostel in town (like a proper Irish bus driver). And waited to make sure there was space, in case he needed to take us to another one.
The Finnegan hostel was in a very old house, and the rooms were named after famous Irish writers. The Yeats room was mixed, which isn't a problem. Except that the three or so Italian men sleeping in there who snored so loud that I couldn't sleep. Honestly, it was awful.
Megan didn't notice. She took a sleeping pill and wore earplugs.
Nothing much exciting happened for most of the evening. Just a quiet bus ride through the slowly darkening Irish countryside, a thing that I find entirely comforting.
Except we took the wrong bus. Our ticket was printed with the number 13, but we were supposed to take the 14, and our bus was late. So instead of going to Killarney as planned, we arrived in Tralee at 11 p.m. last night.
I have never been to Tralee, by the way.
In the end, it wasn't really a problem at all, because our bus driver gave us a lift to a hostel in town (like a proper Irish bus driver). And waited to make sure there was space, in case he needed to take us to another one.
The Finnegan hostel was in a very old house, and the rooms were named after famous Irish writers. The Yeats room was mixed, which isn't a problem. Except that the three or so Italian men sleeping in there who snored so loud that I couldn't sleep. Honestly, it was awful.
Megan didn't notice. She took a sleeping pill and wore earplugs.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
A Night in the Marais (Aug 15th)
We slept in late, a special luxury we have not enjoyed in a long time, and were (well, I was) so long in leaving the apartment that we missed the catacombs again.
Back to the Marais (a region in the north, central part of Paris for those who don't know), for dinner and to wander along the streets, looking into shop windows.
Even after eating falafel in cities across Europe, no one makes it quite like the shops in the Jewish district. Most of the places were closed for vacation, except for this one restaurant that was always open later, even after midnight.
Embodying the flaneur like never before, we strolled through the tiny streets, taking in the atmosphere and observing people. I will admit that I bought a fantastic pair of heels. I am in Paris...
Megan had crepes for the first time, from a little place not far from Les Halles. You can order them from a stand in Paris, like a hot dog, actually. Since she doesn't speak French, I have been translating the whole time here, and we tend to get labeled as English speakers. Honestly, I have had a lot of fun surprising people by speaking French, and using that terribly-offended-French-woman to fend off vendors and men.
Though the crepe cook did ask me out, which was sweet.
I had a martini at a bar called Les Etages, a place I had been to before (I seem to be going back to many old spots); we sat for awhile and talked, a leisurely opportunity to just be.
Later, sitting on the sloping square of the Centre Georges Pompidou, the modern art museum, an older man from Sweden who grew up in Vienna heard us speaking, and asked if he could sit with us and practice speaking English.
He chatted with us for awhile about where we were all from, and gave me the address of his blog. It turns out that he is homeless, and has been in Paris for a few weeks. He reminded me of the drug addicts I met in Vienna, and not only for his accent which I found comfortingly familiar, but because he was normal. And entirely open about his situation, non-threatening, and curteous. I still wonder a little bit, because we left after talking for a moment, about who he is and where he is going. I value those moments where I meet someone entirely unexpected.
When we got back to the apartmet, we spoke with our host's roommate for a long time, mostly about travel and our different countries. I am not sure I have mentioned this before, but my experience with French man has been basically entirely negative. So, it is a huge deal for me to feel safe among at this apartment, to speak with them, hear their stories, and laugh. I actually was entirely relieved to meet them, even though I knew that we would have a good host, because I was starting to despair that I was becoming prejudiced.
Back to the Marais (a region in the north, central part of Paris for those who don't know), for dinner and to wander along the streets, looking into shop windows.
Even after eating falafel in cities across Europe, no one makes it quite like the shops in the Jewish district. Most of the places were closed for vacation, except for this one restaurant that was always open later, even after midnight.
Embodying the flaneur like never before, we strolled through the tiny streets, taking in the atmosphere and observing people. I will admit that I bought a fantastic pair of heels. I am in Paris...
Megan had crepes for the first time, from a little place not far from Les Halles. You can order them from a stand in Paris, like a hot dog, actually. Since she doesn't speak French, I have been translating the whole time here, and we tend to get labeled as English speakers. Honestly, I have had a lot of fun surprising people by speaking French, and using that terribly-offended-French-woman to fend off vendors and men.
Though the crepe cook did ask me out, which was sweet.
I had a martini at a bar called Les Etages, a place I had been to before (I seem to be going back to many old spots); we sat for awhile and talked, a leisurely opportunity to just be.
Later, sitting on the sloping square of the Centre Georges Pompidou, the modern art museum, an older man from Sweden who grew up in Vienna heard us speaking, and asked if he could sit with us and practice speaking English.
He chatted with us for awhile about where we were all from, and gave me the address of his blog. It turns out that he is homeless, and has been in Paris for a few weeks. He reminded me of the drug addicts I met in Vienna, and not only for his accent which I found comfortingly familiar, but because he was normal. And entirely open about his situation, non-threatening, and curteous. I still wonder a little bit, because we left after talking for a moment, about who he is and where he is going. I value those moments where I meet someone entirely unexpected.
When we got back to the apartmet, we spoke with our host's roommate for a long time, mostly about travel and our different countries. I am not sure I have mentioned this before, but my experience with French man has been basically entirely negative. So, it is a huge deal for me to feel safe among at this apartment, to speak with them, hear their stories, and laugh. I actually was entirely relieved to meet them, even though I knew that we would have a good host, because I was starting to despair that I was becoming prejudiced.
The City Center, and the Vache (Aug 14th)
We walked from St. Germain-des-Pres, the oldest church in Paris, to the Seine, along tiny streets, by cafes and shops.
I wanted Megan to stand on Pont des Arts, the wooden pedestrian bridge in the center of Paris, because you can see famous monuments...the Eiffel tower, Notre Dame, the Louvre. All lit up for the night.
It was not as crowded as I expected, since most of the Parisians are on holiday, but to be honest the atmosphere was much friendlier and safer than usual. I did not feel as threatened as I tend to, there.
But we were harassed by a French man at the other end of the bridge. He came up right up to me and spoke in English, so I told him that I spoke French and basically acted as if I was a very offended French woman. That seemed to work, because he started calling after me in French, but then he followed us. "Laissez-moi, Monsieur". I couldn't remember what my dad had taught me, something that was more like "go away". But eventually, by walking quickly enough and ignoring him, he left us alone.
Typical.
We walked up to one of my favorite bars, Le Piano Vache, which is near the Pantheon in the Latin Quarter. The walls are plastered with posters, photos, and drawings; think old dark wood walls and worn tables. After having a glass of wine (there are no menus, the bartender knows what they have), we went back to the apartment.
I wanted Megan to stand on Pont des Arts, the wooden pedestrian bridge in the center of Paris, because you can see famous monuments...the Eiffel tower, Notre Dame, the Louvre. All lit up for the night.
It was not as crowded as I expected, since most of the Parisians are on holiday, but to be honest the atmosphere was much friendlier and safer than usual. I did not feel as threatened as I tend to, there.
But we were harassed by a French man at the other end of the bridge. He came up right up to me and spoke in English, so I told him that I spoke French and basically acted as if I was a very offended French woman. That seemed to work, because he started calling after me in French, but then he followed us. "Laissez-moi, Monsieur". I couldn't remember what my dad had taught me, something that was more like "go away". But eventually, by walking quickly enough and ignoring him, he left us alone.
Typical.
We walked up to one of my favorite bars, Le Piano Vache, which is near the Pantheon in the Latin Quarter. The walls are plastered with posters, photos, and drawings; think old dark wood walls and worn tables. After having a glass of wine (there are no menus, the bartender knows what they have), we went back to the apartment.
Sunset at the Eiffel Tower (Aug 14th)
The large park next to the Eiffel Tower was full of people; there were families, groups of friends, couples. Tourists mixed with locals. All watching the sun set behind the tower. We joined them, with a carton of sorbet and our cameras.
I am still in awe of the sky that night. It gently faded from the bright day blue to a gentler, deeper, yet still light color. Sitting there did not feel as touristy as I expected. The atmosphere was festive and friendly; everyone seemed to simply be happy to be in Paris in the summer.
The sky shifted colors, and the tower lit up. I had not told Megan that it sparkles every hour, and when it began, the crowd called out and laughed.
I am still in awe of the sky that night. It gently faded from the bright day blue to a gentler, deeper, yet still light color. Sitting there did not feel as touristy as I expected. The atmosphere was festive and friendly; everyone seemed to simply be happy to be in Paris in the summer.
The sky shifted colors, and the tower lit up. I had not told Megan that it sparkles every hour, and when it began, the crowd called out and laughed.
Too Late for the Skeletons (Aug 14th)
After resting for awhile, we set out to see the catacombs, the only thing that Megan wanted to do in Paris.
But, we had slept too long, and arrived late. So, I promised her that we would come the next day, and we wandered around looking for an organic that I had seen from a bus over two months before.
Needless to say, it took awhile to find it. But after finally giving up, we turned a corner and there it was. Beautiful loaves of bread in so many shapes and sizes, as well as the classic tiny pastries, were laid out on the shelves. Sometimes, in Paris, things seem too traditionally French to be real, if that makes sense. Those things we read about in our language books, actually before me, seem imaginary.
Megan ordered a tiny chocolate tart, and I found a small hazelnut bread roll, which was a lovely surprise. Then, we took refuge in an air-conditioned Monoprix (grocery/department store) after walking in the heat.
Since I had my laptop again, we had brought it; sitting in a park, attempting to shout over on the not-working Skype, we caught a lot of attention. Giving up, we poked around on the internet, and Megan had me adjust blog posts with forgotten details.
If all this sounds boring for a day in Paris, it was just what we needed. Sometimes, we get a bit of attention because we are speaking English, but there are so many tourists in Paris in August, it is a little hopeless.
But, we had slept too long, and arrived late. So, I promised her that we would come the next day, and we wandered around looking for an organic that I had seen from a bus over two months before.
Needless to say, it took awhile to find it. But after finally giving up, we turned a corner and there it was. Beautiful loaves of bread in so many shapes and sizes, as well as the classic tiny pastries, were laid out on the shelves. Sometimes, in Paris, things seem too traditionally French to be real, if that makes sense. Those things we read about in our language books, actually before me, seem imaginary.
Megan ordered a tiny chocolate tart, and I found a small hazelnut bread roll, which was a lovely surprise. Then, we took refuge in an air-conditioned Monoprix (grocery/department store) after walking in the heat.
Since I had my laptop again, we had brought it; sitting in a park, attempting to shout over on the not-working Skype, we caught a lot of attention. Giving up, we poked around on the internet, and Megan had me adjust blog posts with forgotten details.
If all this sounds boring for a day in Paris, it was just what we needed. Sometimes, we get a bit of attention because we are speaking English, but there are so many tourists in Paris in August, it is a little hopeless.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Changing Residence (Aug 14th)
Our former hosts are going to Marseilles today, fortunately. Staying with them was a learning opportunity, a way for me to acclimate to French society again.
They clearly had never had a couchsurfer before, and seemed to feel entirely uncomfortable with the idea after awhile. I feel as if they did not know what to do. We weren't really their guests, or welcome, and certainly not their friends as I have been so fortunate to feel in my travels, staying with other people.
They insisted on speaking English, which was likely out of respect for Megan, but I had a feeling that the husband enjoyed practicing. Not a fault, but when he ignored basically everything I said (I am still not sure if he actually knows that I speak French, and that I lived in Paris for ten weeks), and attempted to control most of what we did.
I have heard criticism of the United States across Europe, and accept what is deserved, and reason out what is not. His comments about politics seemed to come from a place of superiority instead of discussion, and I was given little opportunity to respond. Despite our fatigue, they kept us up late, and even though we kindly described our plans, he suggested the most random things for us to do. I am not sure that Megan would have enjoyed the exhibit on Bulgarian icons on display at the castle of Vincennes, instead of going into the center of Paris for the first time.
His wife was much easier to like, but he spoke about a hundred times more than her. I hate to be controlled, and I felt as if I was constantly bowing and dancing around to play his games, so that we could get away. He was not pleased to hear that we would be spending Thursday evening away, since I had to fetch my suitcase from my host mom's. Anyone that has heard "comme vous voulez" understands...
They clearly wanted us to leave at the same time as them in the morning, and we had difficulties accessing the bathroom.
They entirely ignored us last night, after saying hello at the door. Megan and I decided to be as polite as possible, and stay out of the way. At this point, we had passed the point where we could reason it away with cultural differences, and just decided to be as offended as we felt.
Tea, but no breakfast in the morning, and we were off; I believe we thanked them graciously, and wished them well in their travels. They went to work, and we had a picnic in the park.
Our next host lives just south of Paris on the RER B, so we hauled my suitcase onto the metro, and worked our way there.
Not realizing that the stop was in zone 3, our tickets were invalid at that point. I had been afraid of this when I looked at the map on the train, and turned to Megan saying "I am not sure that we're going to be able to get out, but we'll find a way." When we arrived, I found the right exit, and sure enough, our tickets wouldn't open the turnstile.
Without much of a pause, I threw my suitcase and bags underneath it, and crawled. Megan saw me and followed. I am not going to pretend that it was anything graceful, because we had bags falling everywhere, and I am still surprised that we weren't caught.
After getting a little lost, partly due to my tendency to take things literally (we have to get onto the aquaduct, Megan), we found the apartment building. My British phone was dead, my French phone was out of money, and the door had no way to call up to the apartment. You would think that with three phones, I wouldn't keep on getting stuck in this kind of situation. "He has to come out sometime". Luckily, our host called us, and came to let us in.
Like a true CS host, he offered us drinks, food, a computer, our own room with a bed, a shower, and the key to his apartment. Definitely feel welcome at his flat, and since not all of his flatmates speak English, I can practice French.
They also have a small cat who likes avocadoes.
They clearly had never had a couchsurfer before, and seemed to feel entirely uncomfortable with the idea after awhile. I feel as if they did not know what to do. We weren't really their guests, or welcome, and certainly not their friends as I have been so fortunate to feel in my travels, staying with other people.
They insisted on speaking English, which was likely out of respect for Megan, but I had a feeling that the husband enjoyed practicing. Not a fault, but when he ignored basically everything I said (I am still not sure if he actually knows that I speak French, and that I lived in Paris for ten weeks), and attempted to control most of what we did.
I have heard criticism of the United States across Europe, and accept what is deserved, and reason out what is not. His comments about politics seemed to come from a place of superiority instead of discussion, and I was given little opportunity to respond. Despite our fatigue, they kept us up late, and even though we kindly described our plans, he suggested the most random things for us to do. I am not sure that Megan would have enjoyed the exhibit on Bulgarian icons on display at the castle of Vincennes, instead of going into the center of Paris for the first time.
His wife was much easier to like, but he spoke about a hundred times more than her. I hate to be controlled, and I felt as if I was constantly bowing and dancing around to play his games, so that we could get away. He was not pleased to hear that we would be spending Thursday evening away, since I had to fetch my suitcase from my host mom's. Anyone that has heard "comme vous voulez" understands...
They clearly wanted us to leave at the same time as them in the morning, and we had difficulties accessing the bathroom.
They entirely ignored us last night, after saying hello at the door. Megan and I decided to be as polite as possible, and stay out of the way. At this point, we had passed the point where we could reason it away with cultural differences, and just decided to be as offended as we felt.
Tea, but no breakfast in the morning, and we were off; I believe we thanked them graciously, and wished them well in their travels. They went to work, and we had a picnic in the park.
Our next host lives just south of Paris on the RER B, so we hauled my suitcase onto the metro, and worked our way there.
Not realizing that the stop was in zone 3, our tickets were invalid at that point. I had been afraid of this when I looked at the map on the train, and turned to Megan saying "I am not sure that we're going to be able to get out, but we'll find a way." When we arrived, I found the right exit, and sure enough, our tickets wouldn't open the turnstile.
Without much of a pause, I threw my suitcase and bags underneath it, and crawled. Megan saw me and followed. I am not going to pretend that it was anything graceful, because we had bags falling everywhere, and I am still surprised that we weren't caught.
After getting a little lost, partly due to my tendency to take things literally (we have to get onto the aquaduct, Megan), we found the apartment building. My British phone was dead, my French phone was out of money, and the door had no way to call up to the apartment. You would think that with three phones, I wouldn't keep on getting stuck in this kind of situation. "He has to come out sometime". Luckily, our host called us, and came to let us in.
Like a true CS host, he offered us drinks, food, a computer, our own room with a bed, a shower, and the key to his apartment. Definitely feel welcome at his flat, and since not all of his flatmates speak English, I can practice French.
They also have a small cat who likes avocadoes.
Je retourne à Paris (Aug 12th)
Arriving in Paris was exciting, but mostly a very strange experience for me. I have been in new places, moving relatively quickly, for nearly 9 weeks now. It turns out that the longest I spent in one country was a week, and the longest in one place was just over four days, maybe five.
We were exhausted; after slipping into the Alliance Francaise to use the bathroom, we went to Naturalia, a health food store, to get things for lunch. After sitting for awhile on a bench in the Jardin du Luxembourg, we walked to the patch of grass that you are allowed to sit on, and fell asleep.
Sometime in the late afternoon, we walked through the Latin Quarter to Notre Dame, and then to the flower market.
My French came back, though a bit choppy, and the most difficult to recall after a long conversation in English. At one point, a family of tourists was asking directions from a police officer. I heard them struggling to communicate, and even though I usually don't do this, I stepped in and translated.
In the evening, we met our CS hosts, who were a young couple living just at the border of Paris. Their apartment is small but classy, and we cooked vegetables and rice. Sitting outside in their little garden, we had a very French meal: distinct courses, rosé wine in drinking glasses, fruit for dessert... It was all very familar.
After dinner, we went for a walk around the neighborhood and heard the history of the area. A cup of tea, and off to bed.
In the morning, we left early, and bought fruit at the marché at the Bastille, and fell asleep in the little park along the canal.
Later, we walked from the Louvre, to Place de la Concorde, then across the river and back up to Notre Dame, so that Megan could see the famous sights. We wandered along Book East, where I found an old copy of Les Fleurs du Mal by Baudelaire. After flipping a few pages, it fell open to ¨Recueillement¨, the poem I memorized for class. I still know it.
We picked up some things for a picnic, and went to the parc de Bercy, near where I used to live. After sitting for awhile on a bench, we walked through the gardens, sat by the pond with the willow trees (where there is now a small reed reconstruction of the Eiffel Tower).
Then we explored the shops of Bercy Village, listened to live music, and went to the local grocery store so Megan could see the many different kinds of cheese, yogurt, and jam.
We went to my French mother's apartment to pick up my suitcase, and sat with her and chatted for awhile. Then, we returned to our host's apartment, and opened it up to see what I had actually put in there in June.
It was like Christmas: I am wearing new clothes after carrying the same two shirts for months. I already had to donate a pair of pants that did not fit anymore, and I wore large holes into my sneakers. They are pretty much destroyed...
We were exhausted; after slipping into the Alliance Francaise to use the bathroom, we went to Naturalia, a health food store, to get things for lunch. After sitting for awhile on a bench in the Jardin du Luxembourg, we walked to the patch of grass that you are allowed to sit on, and fell asleep.
Sometime in the late afternoon, we walked through the Latin Quarter to Notre Dame, and then to the flower market.
My French came back, though a bit choppy, and the most difficult to recall after a long conversation in English. At one point, a family of tourists was asking directions from a police officer. I heard them struggling to communicate, and even though I usually don't do this, I stepped in and translated.
In the evening, we met our CS hosts, who were a young couple living just at the border of Paris. Their apartment is small but classy, and we cooked vegetables and rice. Sitting outside in their little garden, we had a very French meal: distinct courses, rosé wine in drinking glasses, fruit for dessert... It was all very familar.
After dinner, we went for a walk around the neighborhood and heard the history of the area. A cup of tea, and off to bed.
In the morning, we left early, and bought fruit at the marché at the Bastille, and fell asleep in the little park along the canal.
Later, we walked from the Louvre, to Place de la Concorde, then across the river and back up to Notre Dame, so that Megan could see the famous sights. We wandered along Book East, where I found an old copy of Les Fleurs du Mal by Baudelaire. After flipping a few pages, it fell open to ¨Recueillement¨, the poem I memorized for class. I still know it.
We picked up some things for a picnic, and went to the parc de Bercy, near where I used to live. After sitting for awhile on a bench, we walked through the gardens, sat by the pond with the willow trees (where there is now a small reed reconstruction of the Eiffel Tower).
Then we explored the shops of Bercy Village, listened to live music, and went to the local grocery store so Megan could see the many different kinds of cheese, yogurt, and jam.
We went to my French mother's apartment to pick up my suitcase, and sat with her and chatted for awhile. Then, we returned to our host's apartment, and opened it up to see what I had actually put in there in June.
It was like Christmas: I am wearing new clothes after carrying the same two shirts for months. I already had to donate a pair of pants that did not fit anymore, and I wore large holes into my sneakers. They are pretty much destroyed...
Last Night in the U.K. (Aug 12th)
After a slightly harrowing walk through the streets of Glasgow late at night, we found the train station. I had begun my epic journey there way back in June, so it was relatively easy to find. The central train station is large, built of gray stone, of course, with a creepy clock and angular trim; it is pretty frightening when you come around a corner in the dark, and Megan laughed when she saw it.
Relatively silly at this point out of exhaustion, we took the train to the airport. I expected to have problems all along the way, but my plan actually worked, which is always a surprise.
We slept in the airport, woke up early, and went through security, where I drank an enormous cup of coffee.
It was around six a.m., and men of all ages were sitting in the bar, wearing kilts (and one group had on plastic horned hats) and drinking beer. Megan claims that this is the origin of American rednecks.
I almost forgot about the guy wearing a kilt and a cowboy hat. Since he was Scottish, I am not sure what he thought he was doing. Maybe he is going to Texas.
Relatively silly at this point out of exhaustion, we took the train to the airport. I expected to have problems all along the way, but my plan actually worked, which is always a surprise.
We slept in the airport, woke up early, and went through security, where I drank an enormous cup of coffee.
It was around six a.m., and men of all ages were sitting in the bar, wearing kilts (and one group had on plastic horned hats) and drinking beer. Megan claims that this is the origin of American rednecks.
I almost forgot about the guy wearing a kilt and a cowboy hat. Since he was Scottish, I am not sure what he thought he was doing. Maybe he is going to Texas.
The Fringe (Aug 11th)
We attempted to find an art exhibit that I wanted to see, but the venue had changed. No one knew where to, though, and the schedule booklet was out of date. There is so much going on that they can actually lose an entire art exhibit...
So we walked through the park, by the castle up on the cliff, to a craft fair at an old church. It was basically set up around the graveyard, with different levels and types of shops. Some seemed permanent, because there were a few spaces inside. I did not spend much time looking through the stalls (though Megan did), because I became completely distracted by a little library dedicated to books on peace and justice.
I had wandered in, curious, and an older man sitting with a young woman explained that it was a free library and I was welcome to join. After telling him that I was only in Scotland that day, we started a conversation (since I asked; I tend to ask things like this) about politics, war, peace, and relations between Scotland and England. He spoke about the unwanted nuclear weapon being stored in Scotland, the reactions to the Iraq war, and the destruction of the rainforest. I have never heard someone express these thoughts so clearly, and it was an incredible opportunity to have found him. When I asked about hope for peace, they were positive, and believed that there were many decent people out there that just needed to be united; I tend to ask about hope after someone expresses a particularly negative view.
I remember that at one point he said that when he was young, all they had to worry about was the Vietnam War...
I eventually had to say goodbye, and Megan and I went to sit on a bench to have lunch. It rained on and off, and was quite cold, but I prefer that weather to oppressive heat. I had an umbrella, but Megan only had a poncho that she kept on putting on and taking off, and that swished when she walked.
We spent the afternoon wandering along the main street of Edinburgh, looking in various shops for the tartan wool associated with her family clan, and other various emblems that belong to them.
We stopped to watch street performers juggle, ride unicycles, and toss flaming torches. We also saw a very strange excerpt performed in the streets as an advertisement for a production of Metamorphosis by Kafka. Strikingly similar to the Theatre School's production of The Trial...
When we stopped in M&S for some lunch and so that Megan could get a cup of cocoa, the fire alarm went off just as she sat down with her cup. So she took it outside with her, and eventually she, quite embarassed, had to hand the mug back to the security guard at the door who was keeping people from entering.
After wandering a bit, seeing a collection of funny signs, and getting a little lost (ended up going down a tall, anciet set of steps, towards the train tracks), we went to a club that had free comedy shows.
And ended up seeing one by two intense atheists, who used a slide show and a few props to challenge religion. Even though their arguments were ones I had read before, I thought they were pretty funny. I actually had a great time, and really loved being able to see a side of Scottish interpretation; we had been in the U.K. long enough to get the jokes, even the one about Middlesbrough.
After the show, we went to the bus station, and went to Glasgow.
So we walked through the park, by the castle up on the cliff, to a craft fair at an old church. It was basically set up around the graveyard, with different levels and types of shops. Some seemed permanent, because there were a few spaces inside. I did not spend much time looking through the stalls (though Megan did), because I became completely distracted by a little library dedicated to books on peace and justice.
I had wandered in, curious, and an older man sitting with a young woman explained that it was a free library and I was welcome to join. After telling him that I was only in Scotland that day, we started a conversation (since I asked; I tend to ask things like this) about politics, war, peace, and relations between Scotland and England. He spoke about the unwanted nuclear weapon being stored in Scotland, the reactions to the Iraq war, and the destruction of the rainforest. I have never heard someone express these thoughts so clearly, and it was an incredible opportunity to have found him. When I asked about hope for peace, they were positive, and believed that there were many decent people out there that just needed to be united; I tend to ask about hope after someone expresses a particularly negative view.
I remember that at one point he said that when he was young, all they had to worry about was the Vietnam War...
I eventually had to say goodbye, and Megan and I went to sit on a bench to have lunch. It rained on and off, and was quite cold, but I prefer that weather to oppressive heat. I had an umbrella, but Megan only had a poncho that she kept on putting on and taking off, and that swished when she walked.
We spent the afternoon wandering along the main street of Edinburgh, looking in various shops for the tartan wool associated with her family clan, and other various emblems that belong to them.
We stopped to watch street performers juggle, ride unicycles, and toss flaming torches. We also saw a very strange excerpt performed in the streets as an advertisement for a production of Metamorphosis by Kafka. Strikingly similar to the Theatre School's production of The Trial...
When we stopped in M&S for some lunch and so that Megan could get a cup of cocoa, the fire alarm went off just as she sat down with her cup. So she took it outside with her, and eventually she, quite embarassed, had to hand the mug back to the security guard at the door who was keeping people from entering.
After wandering a bit, seeing a collection of funny signs, and getting a little lost (ended up going down a tall, anciet set of steps, towards the train tracks), we went to a club that had free comedy shows.
And ended up seeing one by two intense atheists, who used a slide show and a few props to challenge religion. Even though their arguments were ones I had read before, I thought they were pretty funny. I actually had a great time, and really loved being able to see a side of Scottish interpretation; we had been in the U.K. long enough to get the jokes, even the one about Middlesbrough.
After the show, we went to the bus station, and went to Glasgow.
To Edinburgh (Aug 10th)
We arrived in Edinburgh in the late afternoon, and fought through the crowds to find the bus station. The first thing Megan said to me was ¨There are too many people here¨. But then, we had just spent the last few days out in the countryside.
With the little time we had in the city before taking our bus to our CS host's place, we wandered a little.
The buildings lining the hills of Edinburgh are built with a grayish stone that gives it a dim feeling, but the intense green of the parks and the excitement of the people brightens it. The Fringe Festival was going on; imagine street performers everywhere, hundreds of shows, concerts, art exhibits, and events going on in venues scattered across town.
While the tourist shops in England have all the flags of the British countries, you will only find the Scottish flag, with the rare British one, in a shop in Edinburgh. The strong individual identity of the country would only become more apparent.
Our host lived in a town on the sea, about an hour north of the city. She had hot soup waiting for us when we arrived, and our room had a view of the water. After being a little flustered by the surging crowds of the city, we settled in with a cup of tea to chat.
We spoke about the Iraq war, relationships between Scotland and England (always bad), and the world's transition over time. Her intensity when speaking about these things seems to be common in Scotland: people express a feeling of being oppressed by their ¨neighbor¨, and frustrated with the state of the world.
After dinner, our host took out her guitar and sang folk songs for us. I feel that for me, and probably Megan as well, her kindness and wisdom gave us a short haven to express the challenges we're facing.
We gratefully fell asleep, and in the morning returned to Edinburgh to spend the dqy at the festival.
With the little time we had in the city before taking our bus to our CS host's place, we wandered a little.
The buildings lining the hills of Edinburgh are built with a grayish stone that gives it a dim feeling, but the intense green of the parks and the excitement of the people brightens it. The Fringe Festival was going on; imagine street performers everywhere, hundreds of shows, concerts, art exhibits, and events going on in venues scattered across town.
While the tourist shops in England have all the flags of the British countries, you will only find the Scottish flag, with the rare British one, in a shop in Edinburgh. The strong individual identity of the country would only become more apparent.
Our host lived in a town on the sea, about an hour north of the city. She had hot soup waiting for us when we arrived, and our room had a view of the water. After being a little flustered by the surging crowds of the city, we settled in with a cup of tea to chat.
We spoke about the Iraq war, relationships between Scotland and England (always bad), and the world's transition over time. Her intensity when speaking about these things seems to be common in Scotland: people express a feeling of being oppressed by their ¨neighbor¨, and frustrated with the state of the world.
After dinner, our host took out her guitar and sang folk songs for us. I feel that for me, and probably Megan as well, her kindness and wisdom gave us a short haven to express the challenges we're facing.
We gratefully fell asleep, and in the morning returned to Edinburgh to spend the dqy at the festival.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Ferniehurst or Bust (Aug 9th)
In the morning, they gave us a lift to a chunk of Hadrian's wall, which had been built by the Roman's, and crossed the width of England. It had been one of our goals to see it, so we jumped out of the car, danced across it, took pictures, and got back in.
They took us to a good spot on the highway going north to Scotland, and left us with a wave and a promise to call if we had trouble. They had wanted us to stay another night, but we wanted to reach our goal, the destination that inspired the trip.
You see, since it was Sunday, there were no buses to a town called Jedburgh, north of the border, in Scotland, from where we were. Near Jedburgh is a small castle called Ferniehurst, which was owned by the Kerr clan, and Megan's last name is Kerr. The entire trip was structured around "Let's go find your castle."
So there we were, standing on the side of the road, with two signs: "Jedburgh, Scotland", and "Ferniehurst or Bust" which has a drawing of a castle on it. It was too far for our hosts to take us, so we decided to hitchhike.
Basically surrounded by fields of sheep, we stood, laughing at the people who wave or honk at hitchhikers, including a tour bus that flashed its lights as the guide waved.
After about twenty minutes of waiting, Simon and his wife (I never caught her name) pulled over in a van, with their dog Megan in the back, and offered us a ride.
They were going to Fort Williams to go house hunting. On the way to Jedburgh, they told us some really funny stories, and we talked about our travels, their trips to Chicago, and life in the U.K. They sent us off with a fresh bottle of water, some spearmint chews, after making sure we knew where we were going. It was an incredible experience, and confirmed again my belief in the fundamental goodness of the world.
Megan is keeping the Ferniehurst sign.
The castle was actually closed, because the lord was in residence. After having a picnic, we walked to Ferniehurst, and since we had come so far, we ducked around the gate, and went in. Megan would like me to point out that it was officially trespassing, and we were taking arrest into consideration... therefore, where slightly jumpy. Megan climbed through the trees, to look over the hill and see if she could spot it, while I kept a lookout down on the road. Not sure what I was going to do if someone came, but I am sure I would have thought of something.
In fact, after Megan returned to tell me that all she could see was sheep, we continued to follow the path up into Ferniehurst, and soon a man was walking towards us. Megan: "What do we do?" Me: (Pause) "Keep walking." And we pretended that it was completely normal for us to be there. He said hello, and commented on the weather.
After walking up the long drive, we finally saw a Scottish flag hanging from the top of the tower. Almost to the castle, we saw two people standing by a parked car, with their backs to us. I said, "Oh shit. We're fucked."
For a long time, they did not turn around, and we could have walked away without being seen, but we were too close for Megan to leave. Once three tiny dogs came running out and barked at us, it was hopeless. The gameskeeper saw us, but he was a young, friendly Scottish guy, and after apologizing for the castle being closed, he invited us to walk around it, and then go through the grounds.
Took a ton of pictures, and then hiked up the hill, along a beautiful lane, back to Jedburgh to catch our bus to a little town, where we couchsurfed again with a young woman and her parents.
Last night, we walked by the abbey, and sent postcards.
They took us to a good spot on the highway going north to Scotland, and left us with a wave and a promise to call if we had trouble. They had wanted us to stay another night, but we wanted to reach our goal, the destination that inspired the trip.
You see, since it was Sunday, there were no buses to a town called Jedburgh, north of the border, in Scotland, from where we were. Near Jedburgh is a small castle called Ferniehurst, which was owned by the Kerr clan, and Megan's last name is Kerr. The entire trip was structured around "Let's go find your castle."
So there we were, standing on the side of the road, with two signs: "Jedburgh, Scotland", and "Ferniehurst or Bust" which has a drawing of a castle on it. It was too far for our hosts to take us, so we decided to hitchhike.
Basically surrounded by fields of sheep, we stood, laughing at the people who wave or honk at hitchhikers, including a tour bus that flashed its lights as the guide waved.
After about twenty minutes of waiting, Simon and his wife (I never caught her name) pulled over in a van, with their dog Megan in the back, and offered us a ride.
They were going to Fort Williams to go house hunting. On the way to Jedburgh, they told us some really funny stories, and we talked about our travels, their trips to Chicago, and life in the U.K. They sent us off with a fresh bottle of water, some spearmint chews, after making sure we knew where we were going. It was an incredible experience, and confirmed again my belief in the fundamental goodness of the world.
Megan is keeping the Ferniehurst sign.
The castle was actually closed, because the lord was in residence. After having a picnic, we walked to Ferniehurst, and since we had come so far, we ducked around the gate, and went in. Megan would like me to point out that it was officially trespassing, and we were taking arrest into consideration... therefore, where slightly jumpy. Megan climbed through the trees, to look over the hill and see if she could spot it, while I kept a lookout down on the road. Not sure what I was going to do if someone came, but I am sure I would have thought of something.
In fact, after Megan returned to tell me that all she could see was sheep, we continued to follow the path up into Ferniehurst, and soon a man was walking towards us. Megan: "What do we do?" Me: (Pause) "Keep walking." And we pretended that it was completely normal for us to be there. He said hello, and commented on the weather.
After walking up the long drive, we finally saw a Scottish flag hanging from the top of the tower. Almost to the castle, we saw two people standing by a parked car, with their backs to us. I said, "Oh shit. We're fucked."
For a long time, they did not turn around, and we could have walked away without being seen, but we were too close for Megan to leave. Once three tiny dogs came running out and barked at us, it was hopeless. The gameskeeper saw us, but he was a young, friendly Scottish guy, and after apologizing for the castle being closed, he invited us to walk around it, and then go through the grounds.
Took a ton of pictures, and then hiked up the hill, along a beautiful lane, back to Jedburgh to catch our bus to a little town, where we couchsurfed again with a young woman and her parents.
Last night, we walked by the abbey, and sent postcards.
Leaving Scarborough on a Squeaky Bus (Aug 8th)
As you can imagine, we took a long time to leave in the morning. Mostly from being incredibly tired, but also because we were thoroughly attached to this farm, and did not want to leave.
So we had breakfast, and slowly got ready, and lounged around outside in the sun, chatting.
Eventually, we caught the bus to Middlesbrough. I thought it was going to take an hour, but it took more than twice that. Packed with people, including babies and children, the bus went up and down huge hills, stopping at all the little towns along the sea. But it was overheating, and would make this horrific high pitched noise, and the driver would pull over until it stopped. I was surprised that we made it there at all, and entirely expected to be stranded out in the countryside.
Everyone told us not to go to Middlesbrough, that it is the worst town in the U.K. And they are right. It looks as if it could be anywhere in America: factories, car dealerships, large roads... It was embarassing actually, and entirely general. In comparison to the rest of the country, where the towns are distinct, with a lot of character, it was a miserable abyss.
We got our next two buses with little trouble, and ended up in Hexham, which is west of Newcastle, and met our next CS host.
Who was a young woman who had just returned from a two month trip to Thailand with her girlfriend. She was having a barbecue, and a large group of her friends were there. Vegan food, good beer, and their crazy stories made it a great night.
Finally begged to be let to go to bed (they wanted us to stay up even later), because we were completely exhausted.
So we had breakfast, and slowly got ready, and lounged around outside in the sun, chatting.
Eventually, we caught the bus to Middlesbrough. I thought it was going to take an hour, but it took more than twice that. Packed with people, including babies and children, the bus went up and down huge hills, stopping at all the little towns along the sea. But it was overheating, and would make this horrific high pitched noise, and the driver would pull over until it stopped. I was surprised that we made it there at all, and entirely expected to be stranded out in the countryside.
Everyone told us not to go to Middlesbrough, that it is the worst town in the U.K. And they are right. It looks as if it could be anywhere in America: factories, car dealerships, large roads... It was embarassing actually, and entirely general. In comparison to the rest of the country, where the towns are distinct, with a lot of character, it was a miserable abyss.
We got our next two buses with little trouble, and ended up in Hexham, which is west of Newcastle, and met our next CS host.
Who was a young woman who had just returned from a two month trip to Thailand with her girlfriend. She was having a barbecue, and a large group of her friends were there. Vegan food, good beer, and their crazy stories made it a great night.
Finally begged to be let to go to bed (they wanted us to stay up even later), because we were completely exhausted.
Harry and the Farm (Aug 6th to 8th)
We arrived in Scarborough, which is on the sea, on the northeastern coast of England.
Harry, our awesome CS host, who is studying law in Sheffield, met us at the bus stop. His parents live on a cute little traditional farm out in the country, which has a cool decrepit barn, rooms turned into art studios, four sheep, a donkey (all are pets), gardens, an old country stove, the list goes on...
His parents are a professor and an artist, so they rent out the land to farmers. There are cows, which are gentle, and a goose named Graham hangs out with one group. Apparently he was orphaned, and now thinks he is a cow.
Also, they have a little dog named Milo, who was a delight, totally energetic, and slept in Megan's lap, or on her foot.
It was sunny and beautiful, which is unusual, so the light falling on the land was gorgeous, across green hills and old trees. Two tall trees marked the entrance: an oak and an ash.
On the first night, I think we just chatted and had something to eat, and probably a cup of tea. Harry eats peanut butter, but doesn't like tea, and I think he was born in the wrong country. The next morning when we finally got out the door (which was nearly 2 p.m.) we went into town. Actually, we started off at the North Bay, where the locals hang out.
We walked along the cliff, which could compete with Wales for beauty, and could see out onto the glittering blue sea, and across the bay to the castle ruins. We were surrounded by waving flowers and grasses, and many bees...
We sat, with our feet hanging over the edge, and just looked out at the scene. Children were playing among the pools on the rocks below, birds flew by, people were chilling on the beach in the sun.
We walked into Scarborough, past the pier with the carnival, up the winding streets. It definitely looked like it could be a pirate town...
We took the bus back to the farm, and had fish and chips (I didn't of course) with Harry's parents, since he wouldn't be back from work until 10.
Megan and I went for a walk, and took Milo, the dog, with us. We ran through fields, under a full moon, jumping over fences (Megan fell off one of them). Milo decided to go home, but we crept up to see the 400 year old house-turned-inn, and sat in their gazebo, looking out on the rolling fields before we decided to head back.
Harry, and his friend Jack, came by at around 10:30, and we went to the village pub for a pint.
It was full of late middle aged people, as village pubs are, so we sat outside beneath a gas powered heating lamp. They lit their cigarettes from the flames, actually.
We talked about differences between America and the U.K., their opinions on government and the monarchy, and heard stories from a slightly drunk local who came out to smoke. The owner closed the pub, but left the gate open for us, just asking us to close it when we left.
Around 2 a.m., we walked back to the farm, and since Megan and I did not have a couch yet for Paris, I stayed up until after 4 applying for places to stay.
Harry, our awesome CS host, who is studying law in Sheffield, met us at the bus stop. His parents live on a cute little traditional farm out in the country, which has a cool decrepit barn, rooms turned into art studios, four sheep, a donkey (all are pets), gardens, an old country stove, the list goes on...
His parents are a professor and an artist, so they rent out the land to farmers. There are cows, which are gentle, and a goose named Graham hangs out with one group. Apparently he was orphaned, and now thinks he is a cow.
Also, they have a little dog named Milo, who was a delight, totally energetic, and slept in Megan's lap, or on her foot.
It was sunny and beautiful, which is unusual, so the light falling on the land was gorgeous, across green hills and old trees. Two tall trees marked the entrance: an oak and an ash.
On the first night, I think we just chatted and had something to eat, and probably a cup of tea. Harry eats peanut butter, but doesn't like tea, and I think he was born in the wrong country. The next morning when we finally got out the door (which was nearly 2 p.m.) we went into town. Actually, we started off at the North Bay, where the locals hang out.
We walked along the cliff, which could compete with Wales for beauty, and could see out onto the glittering blue sea, and across the bay to the castle ruins. We were surrounded by waving flowers and grasses, and many bees...
We sat, with our feet hanging over the edge, and just looked out at the scene. Children were playing among the pools on the rocks below, birds flew by, people were chilling on the beach in the sun.
We walked into Scarborough, past the pier with the carnival, up the winding streets. It definitely looked like it could be a pirate town...
We took the bus back to the farm, and had fish and chips (I didn't of course) with Harry's parents, since he wouldn't be back from work until 10.
Megan and I went for a walk, and took Milo, the dog, with us. We ran through fields, under a full moon, jumping over fences (Megan fell off one of them). Milo decided to go home, but we crept up to see the 400 year old house-turned-inn, and sat in their gazebo, looking out on the rolling fields before we decided to head back.
Harry, and his friend Jack, came by at around 10:30, and we went to the village pub for a pint.
It was full of late middle aged people, as village pubs are, so we sat outside beneath a gas powered heating lamp. They lit their cigarettes from the flames, actually.
We talked about differences between America and the U.K., their opinions on government and the monarchy, and heard stories from a slightly drunk local who came out to smoke. The owner closed the pub, but left the gate open for us, just asking us to close it when we left.
Around 2 a.m., we walked back to the farm, and since Megan and I did not have a couch yet for Paris, I stayed up until after 4 applying for places to stay.
Oops (August 6th)
So our reservation on Megabus was for a train and a coach, but it did not tell me this anywhere online or in email.
Running around the station looking for a bus meant that we missed the train, and ended up going back to my friend's place so that Megan could sleep (since I kept her out until 4 and then made her get up for an imaginary bus) and I could make a plan.
We ended up deciding to just go on the regular bus up to Scarborough.
When we got to the station, after saying goodbye again, we had about ten minutes before the bus left, and still had to buy the tickets.
I told the bus driver we were there, and left Megan with the bags in line, and ran to the ticket office. They had no machines, and the line was very long. I panicked, and asked the first person in line if I could go in front of them. She said yes. At this point I had five minutes before it left. The ticket agent refused to sell them to me. He said that I could not refund them, that the bus would leave, and that it did not matter that the bus driver knew we were coming. I demanded that he sell them to me, looking at the clock over my head, saying there were two minutes left. He slowly put them in the envelope, took his time giving me my twenty pence change... I took them and sprinted, cutting through the bus lot (where you are not supposed to go), flying between buses and turning the corner to see Megan standing with the bus driver. He waited for us.
I nearly ran into him as I sprinted up, and he laughed, took our tickets, and put my bag on the bus.
It took me nearly half an hour to calm down, knowing that I had risked all of our money and been so unrelenting.
Running around the station looking for a bus meant that we missed the train, and ended up going back to my friend's place so that Megan could sleep (since I kept her out until 4 and then made her get up for an imaginary bus) and I could make a plan.
We ended up deciding to just go on the regular bus up to Scarborough.
When we got to the station, after saying goodbye again, we had about ten minutes before the bus left, and still had to buy the tickets.
I told the bus driver we were there, and left Megan with the bags in line, and ran to the ticket office. They had no machines, and the line was very long. I panicked, and asked the first person in line if I could go in front of them. She said yes. At this point I had five minutes before it left. The ticket agent refused to sell them to me. He said that I could not refund them, that the bus would leave, and that it did not matter that the bus driver knew we were coming. I demanded that he sell them to me, looking at the clock over my head, saying there were two minutes left. He slowly put them in the envelope, took his time giving me my twenty pence change... I took them and sprinted, cutting through the bus lot (where you are not supposed to go), flying between buses and turning the corner to see Megan standing with the bus driver. He waited for us.
I nearly ran into him as I sprinted up, and he laughed, took our tickets, and put my bag on the bus.
It took me nearly half an hour to calm down, knowing that I had risked all of our money and been so unrelenting.
A Long Walk and A Late Night (Aug 5th)
On her second day in Europe, Megan and I wandered through Camden market, the best collection of strange clothes I have every seen, and wish we had in Chicago. Also, there were several Goth stores, where peole can buy long black coats, corsets, and odd Vampiresque dresses. Now I know where they get their clothes.
We went to see the Tower of London and its Bridge (which I particularly enjoyed walking across. It is freaking huge.), then to the Science Museum, where we did tons of experiments and saw some scary medical exhibits. I thought they were scary, Megan does not agree. She just said so.
Last thing, before going back to the house, was to see Coven Garden, a collection of shops, cafes, and market stalls.
After resting for awhile, we joined my English friend (and the same group of people) at a club called Zoo Bar in central London.
It was absolutely packed. We had a few drinks, and danced until 3. Being in a group of mixed gender, made it a safe, fun night, especially since we knew a whole crowd of people by this point.
We took the night bus back, riding on the second level; I fell asleep, I think, especially since we were planning to take a bus at 8 a.m. to the northeast part of England.
We went to see the Tower of London and its Bridge (which I particularly enjoyed walking across. It is freaking huge.), then to the Science Museum, where we did tons of experiments and saw some scary medical exhibits. I thought they were scary, Megan does not agree. She just said so.
Last thing, before going back to the house, was to see Coven Garden, a collection of shops, cafes, and market stalls.
After resting for awhile, we joined my English friend (and the same group of people) at a club called Zoo Bar in central London.
It was absolutely packed. We had a few drinks, and danced until 3. Being in a group of mixed gender, made it a safe, fun night, especially since we knew a whole crowd of people by this point.
We took the night bus back, riding on the second level; I fell asleep, I think, especially since we were planning to take a bus at 8 a.m. to the northeast part of England.
Megan Arrives, and a Busy Day (Aug 4th)
As some of the people who might be reading this blog know, my friend Megan (from Chicago) is joining me for the first two weeks of August.
We met her at Heathrow, by some miracle, since I did not know if she had actually gotten onto the plane from Chicago, and she did not have a phone.
My English friend took her bag back to her house, while Megan and I went to visit Big Ben. And then, Westminster Abbey, across the Thames when we got a little lost, then by Downing street, to Trafalgar square, then off to Oxford circus so that I could get a new pair of trousers (a word that I struggle to use, which is a problem since "pants" means underwear here).
Megan was exhausted and jetlagged, but still managed to come out with the same crowd of friends from the night before, to the Flowerpot which had live music. Her first pint of cider, and a rocking band, marked her first day in England. I loved seeing the group again, but eventually we wandered back to my friend's place.
We met her at Heathrow, by some miracle, since I did not know if she had actually gotten onto the plane from Chicago, and she did not have a phone.
My English friend took her bag back to her house, while Megan and I went to visit Big Ben. And then, Westminster Abbey, across the Thames when we got a little lost, then by Downing street, to Trafalgar square, then off to Oxford circus so that I could get a new pair of trousers (a word that I struggle to use, which is a problem since "pants" means underwear here).
Megan was exhausted and jetlagged, but still managed to come out with the same crowd of friends from the night before, to the Flowerpot which had live music. Her first pint of cider, and a rocking band, marked her first day in England. I loved seeing the group again, but eventually we wandered back to my friend's place.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
A Very Serious Pub Quiz (Aug 3rd)
I met up with another one of my English friends in London on that Monday afternoon. She and I met in Paris at our language school.
After cooking dinner, we went out to a pub not far from her house, to meet up with her friends. These are people that she has known since she was eleven; they are all loud, energetic, affectionate and hilarious.
When I walked in, there was a pub quiz going on. The questions were being announced over the speakers, and the group was carefully discussing their answers. There were at least three questions about American presidents, and I think I only got one of them. When the U.S. came up, all six of them would look at me, expecting an answer.
Definitely a lot of fun, just having a pint and chatting with them.
After cooking dinner, we went out to a pub not far from her house, to meet up with her friends. These are people that she has known since she was eleven; they are all loud, energetic, affectionate and hilarious.
When I walked in, there was a pub quiz going on. The questions were being announced over the speakers, and the group was carefully discussing their answers. There were at least three questions about American presidents, and I think I only got one of them. When the U.S. came up, all six of them would look at me, expecting an answer.
Definitely a lot of fun, just having a pint and chatting with them.
A Day in Ballina (Aug 2nd)
My cousin Gerry picked me up at the airport, and back at Padraig's house I had another cup of coffee before he dropped me off at the church. Even though I had had no desire to leave Wales, once I was with my family I was incredibly happy to see them again.
The baptism did not last long, and we all went back to have a massive barbecue to celebrate. Anne had gotten vegetables and peanut butter for me, and I was able to talk with more friends and family. They ended up cooking 60 steaks, and there was just a crowd of people coming, wave after wave.
I had another cup of coffee, but eventually fell asleep in a chair in the corner, so Anne took me back. I made it to 8 p.m. before absolutely crashing. I think that was just 36 hours awake.
I woke up the next morning at 10, with enough time for a cup of tea, to say goodbye, and to head to the airport.
I wish I had been able stay longer, and am already planning to return in December.
The baptism did not last long, and we all went back to have a massive barbecue to celebrate. Anne had gotten vegetables and peanut butter for me, and I was able to talk with more friends and family. They ended up cooking 60 steaks, and there was just a crowd of people coming, wave after wave.
I had another cup of coffee, but eventually fell asleep in a chair in the corner, so Anne took me back. I made it to 8 p.m. before absolutely crashing. I think that was just 36 hours awake.
I woke up the next morning at 10, with enough time for a cup of tea, to say goodbye, and to head to the airport.
I wish I had been able stay longer, and am already planning to return in December.
From Wales to Ireland (Aug 1st to 2nd)
When I left my cousins in June, I promised to come back for the new baby's baptism on August 2nd.
My flight was from Bristol on Sunday morning, arriving about an hour or so before it started. But since it is difficult to get anywhere in Wales after midnight, I left Corris at 8p.m. on a train to Shrewsbury.
I remembered borrowing 10 pence from the station workers, because I was just short of change for a bottle of water. They seemed so happy, joking around and asking me to sing and dance for it...
The plan was to sleep in Bristol airport, and by that I mean take a train from Shrewsbury to Newport (south Wales), arrive at midnight, have a pint in a pub to wait for the 2 a.m. bus. I had heard about the insanity of nightlife in Wales, but it is still slightly horrific to see. The way the girls dress is a thousand times worse than Ireland, and people literally walk around in costumes worthy of Halloween even though it is the summer.
I arrived at Bristol around 3, I think, and waited an hour for the airport bus.
When I arrived at 4 a.m., the place was absolutely packed, and even though I found a few seats where I could lay down, there was no way I was going to sleep.
So I got a cup of coffee and waited for my 11 a.m. flight.
My flight was from Bristol on Sunday morning, arriving about an hour or so before it started. But since it is difficult to get anywhere in Wales after midnight, I left Corris at 8p.m. on a train to Shrewsbury.
I remembered borrowing 10 pence from the station workers, because I was just short of change for a bottle of water. They seemed so happy, joking around and asking me to sing and dance for it...
The plan was to sleep in Bristol airport, and by that I mean take a train from Shrewsbury to Newport (south Wales), arrive at midnight, have a pint in a pub to wait for the 2 a.m. bus. I had heard about the insanity of nightlife in Wales, but it is still slightly horrific to see. The way the girls dress is a thousand times worse than Ireland, and people literally walk around in costumes worthy of Halloween even though it is the summer.
I arrived at Bristol around 3, I think, and waited an hour for the airport bus.
When I arrived at 4 a.m., the place was absolutely packed, and even though I found a few seats where I could lay down, there was no way I was going to sleep.
So I got a cup of coffee and waited for my 11 a.m. flight.
Friday, August 7, 2009
Back to Wales
I flew into Birmingham airport, and was immediately greeted with beautiful fresh cool air. My train to Machynlleth was not until the next morning, so I slept in the airport. I was lucky enough to find a couch, in the lounge of a coffee shop.
I was so tired, though, that I had the wrong time for the train, and ended up having to buy a new ticket on the 8:30 one. I made it to Machynlleth sometime in the early afternoon, so I wandered around town and then caught the bus out to my friend's house in Corris.
Coming from Spain to Wales was a strange transition. Not only the weather, but the people, the trains, everything.
Corris is such a special place for me that I was delighted to be back. I fell asleep since I was so tired, and when I woke up my friend was back.
I returned to Wales under the pretense of getting the things I had left behind, but I was actually going to speak with this friend, to share what I had seen and heard and to have help processing it. I was entirely right in that instinct, and being in Wales helped to clear up a few things.
The next day, I walked for about an hour towards town. The road winds around next to a river lined with mossy trees. I glanced down at one point, and saw a small island below. I felt drawn to it immediately, and found a way down to the water, climbed a fence, and left my things beneath a tree, slipped off my shoes, and sat on a stone next to a small pool in the river before crossing through the cold water to the island.
There were five thin oak trees, and two sycamores, and on the other end the little river crashed down over boulders. I climbed on top of one of them and let my feet dangle over the rushing water.
Wales is a magical place, full of life and beauty, that reaches me in a way no other land has. I am so glad that I followed my instincts to travel there. It was wrenching to leave.
I was so tired, though, that I had the wrong time for the train, and ended up having to buy a new ticket on the 8:30 one. I made it to Machynlleth sometime in the early afternoon, so I wandered around town and then caught the bus out to my friend's house in Corris.
Coming from Spain to Wales was a strange transition. Not only the weather, but the people, the trains, everything.
Corris is such a special place for me that I was delighted to be back. I fell asleep since I was so tired, and when I woke up my friend was back.
I returned to Wales under the pretense of getting the things I had left behind, but I was actually going to speak with this friend, to share what I had seen and heard and to have help processing it. I was entirely right in that instinct, and being in Wales helped to clear up a few things.
The next day, I walked for about an hour towards town. The road winds around next to a river lined with mossy trees. I glanced down at one point, and saw a small island below. I felt drawn to it immediately, and found a way down to the water, climbed a fence, and left my things beneath a tree, slipped off my shoes, and sat on a stone next to a small pool in the river before crossing through the cold water to the island.
There were five thin oak trees, and two sycamores, and on the other end the little river crashed down over boulders. I climbed on top of one of them and let my feet dangle over the rushing water.
Wales is a magical place, full of life and beauty, that reaches me in a way no other land has. I am so glad that I followed my instincts to travel there. It was wrenching to leave.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Update, Aug 4th
Was in Wales, then in Ireland on Sunday, then got to London yesterday evening. Went out for a pint with my English friend's friends.
Meeting a friend from Chicago today at the airport, then poking around London for the day.
Meeting a friend from Chicago today at the airport, then poking around London for the day.
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