My American friends at York:
The summary of my time in England:
Friday, June 22, 2007
A picture is worth a thousand words
The Nouse crew in all our glory (I'm on the bottom):
My American friends at York:
The summary of my time in England:
My American friends at York:
The summary of my time in England:
Sunday, June 17, 2007
Weekend trip to Edinburgh
In all my "I'm leaving in two weeks and therefore must begin to freak out" mode, I forgot to mention the weekend trip I took to Edinburgh last weekend! I was actually pretty shocked that Genevieve and I managed to pull it off—we booked tickets and hostels at the last minute, and Genevieve is usually gone during the weekend to see her boyfriend in London. I'm usually sleeping in my room or wandering around York. So the fact that we got our shit together to make it up there was pretty impressive.
We left Saturday morning, which is the only way to do it. The most important thing I have learned about public transportation in England is this: don't try to travel on a Friday afternoon/night or a Sunday afternoon/night. Trains are CRAMMED with people, and I don't mean every seat full—I mean people standing in the vestibules and aisles (most of the time at least half of the aisle is taken up by bodies). We weren't expecting much as the train trip to London is pretty boring (green field, green field, flowers), but WOW. The trip to Scotland is AMAZING. About halfway through, we saw a big blue expanse, which Genevieve realized first was the ocean. It had been so long since we had seen the ocean that we barely recognized it!
Of course, in England when there are oceans, there are also adorable little coastal towns. The one to top them all was right at the border between England and Scotland: Berwick-Upon-Tweed. I got out my guidebook (feeling quite touristy) and found out it was the part of the UK that had changed hands between Scotland and England the most times: a grand total of 13. No wonder! Even though it was foggy and cloudy, it had a huge river running into the center and an old arched bridge.
I didn't know it, but its beauty foreshadowed the things to come.
The streets of Edinburgh were so pretty. They reminded Genevieve and I of a larger York: still cobbled and old feeling, but a lot bigger and longer. It was lined with kitschy souvenir shops, even more than York. The main street (called the Royal Mile) had more restaurants than I had seen together in any city. Because Genevieve's friend David was coming the next day, we knew he wouldn't want to shop and ratted around vintage stores for the afternoon. We then took our obligatory afternoon siesta at the Starbucks and people-watched outside of the second floor window.
For some unknown reason, "outside the Starbucks" is the main hangout for the emo kids in Edinburgh (think My Chemical Romance, not Dashboard Confefssional), so most of our time was spent on the kids with long black hair falling into their eyes and skinny jeans so tight we wondered how they wriggled into them every morning. We made up a love triangle with two boys and a girl in the group and Genevieve developed a little crush on one of the boys, who she would have hit on, she said, if he wasn't 15 years old. It was great fun.
We ate dinner that day at Wannaburger, which (we didn't know it) was basically American. The milkshakes there were actual MILKSHAKES. For some reason, milkshakes in England are flavored milk—it's DISGUSTING. These had icecream in them, which brought us close to tears. And the burgers were also incredibly delicious. We weren't sure whether this was because they were actually that tasty or that the ones in England taste so sucky.
That night, we went out, but didn't have much luck. The first place was a fun little bar with live music, but it was small, hot and mostly made up of 30- and 40-year-olds. A very, very drunk Scottish guy tried to talk to us, but we had no idea what he was saying, partly because of his slurring and partly because of his accent. The next place we went (Finnegan's Wake—so we were in Scotland but at an Irish place... what?) This had a younger crowd, but one of the patrons was this creepy guy in a grey-striped sweater who instead of, I don't know, TALKING to Genevieve, pretended like he was trying to get by her by putting his hand on her back and pushing slightly. At first we just thought, "OK, he needs to get somewhere," but then he did it multiple times and even once when we were standing in the corner. There was NO WHERE TO GO. He just looked sort of confused and went back the way he came. We left. At our third bar, a nice Australian guy with bad teeth kind of fell down upon us and kept talking and talking. We excused ourselves and went back to the hostel, discouraged.
The next day, David came and took us to the Last Drop Inn, where they hung people. Next it was off to the Greyfriar's Bobby statue, a monument to the terrier this guy owned and when he died, Bobby came and slept at his grave every night for 14 years until he died. It was adorable and the statue looked like my old dog, a Cairn terrier named Hamish.
We walked to the castle on the hill, but it was £11 ($22). No freaking way. So we looked at it from the outside, then hiked in the parks around the castle. Walking up Princes St., David saw the sea (which looked incredibly far away) and decided he wanted to go there. We kept getting lost and every Scottish person that we asked (including this red-haired lady with a little red-haired kid) told us it was way too far and we should give up. After about 45 minutes, a riverside walk and a Royal Botanical Garden later, we made it (I couldn't quite believe it).
We sat on a stone wall and watched the water and talked for a little bit, then walked down a mile-long pier there. Of course, being so far outside of the city center, there were no other tourists, just fisherman who lived nearby who watched us with great amusement. It didn't help that I had a bag emblazoned with THE SCOTTISH EXPERIENCE and the Scottish flag on it (I turned it inside out). We got to a fishing shack where I guess they scored their gear and one of the old, crusty men jumped out at us, making me shriek, then burst into laughter as we all went a little red in the face.
At the end of the pier, we found 13-year-olds who were hiding from the adults and smoking. When they found out we came from California, they were so pleased. Their accents too were basically impossible to understand, but I managed to get that they were talking about how the man down the pier "gave us a fright." Love little phrases like that.
The next day, we walked to Arthur's Seat, a huge hill near the city. Originally it was just to see it, but David convinced us to walk halfway up. I got a little scared of the height, but not so for a little boy climbing with us who sat on the very edge and dangled his legs down the side of the 500-foot drop. Nerve-wracking to say the least.
We finished the visit with lunch at Elephant House, the cafe where J.K. Rowling wrote "Harry Potter." She used to buy one cup of coffee and make it last as long as possible because she couldn't afford another. Now she is richer than the Queen. Craziness! I spent the ride home on the train looping "Here Comes the Sun" on my iPod as it was sunny outside and I don't think I will ever take sun for granted again.
We left Saturday morning, which is the only way to do it. The most important thing I have learned about public transportation in England is this: don't try to travel on a Friday afternoon/night or a Sunday afternoon/night. Trains are CRAMMED with people, and I don't mean every seat full—I mean people standing in the vestibules and aisles (most of the time at least half of the aisle is taken up by bodies). We weren't expecting much as the train trip to London is pretty boring (green field, green field, flowers), but WOW. The trip to Scotland is AMAZING. About halfway through, we saw a big blue expanse, which Genevieve realized first was the ocean. It had been so long since we had seen the ocean that we barely recognized it!
Of course, in England when there are oceans, there are also adorable little coastal towns. The one to top them all was right at the border between England and Scotland: Berwick-Upon-Tweed. I got out my guidebook (feeling quite touristy) and found out it was the part of the UK that had changed hands between Scotland and England the most times: a grand total of 13. No wonder! Even though it was foggy and cloudy, it had a huge river running into the center and an old arched bridge.
I didn't know it, but its beauty foreshadowed the things to come.
The streets of Edinburgh were so pretty. They reminded Genevieve and I of a larger York: still cobbled and old feeling, but a lot bigger and longer. It was lined with kitschy souvenir shops, even more than York. The main street (called the Royal Mile) had more restaurants than I had seen together in any city. Because Genevieve's friend David was coming the next day, we knew he wouldn't want to shop and ratted around vintage stores for the afternoon. We then took our obligatory afternoon siesta at the Starbucks and people-watched outside of the second floor window.
For some unknown reason, "outside the Starbucks" is the main hangout for the emo kids in Edinburgh (think My Chemical Romance, not Dashboard Confefssional), so most of our time was spent on the kids with long black hair falling into their eyes and skinny jeans so tight we wondered how they wriggled into them every morning. We made up a love triangle with two boys and a girl in the group and Genevieve developed a little crush on one of the boys, who she would have hit on, she said, if he wasn't 15 years old. It was great fun.
We ate dinner that day at Wannaburger, which (we didn't know it) was basically American. The milkshakes there were actual MILKSHAKES. For some reason, milkshakes in England are flavored milk—it's DISGUSTING. These had icecream in them, which brought us close to tears. And the burgers were also incredibly delicious. We weren't sure whether this was because they were actually that tasty or that the ones in England taste so sucky.
That night, we went out, but didn't have much luck. The first place was a fun little bar with live music, but it was small, hot and mostly made up of 30- and 40-year-olds. A very, very drunk Scottish guy tried to talk to us, but we had no idea what he was saying, partly because of his slurring and partly because of his accent. The next place we went (Finnegan's Wake—so we were in Scotland but at an Irish place... what?) This had a younger crowd, but one of the patrons was this creepy guy in a grey-striped sweater who instead of, I don't know, TALKING to Genevieve, pretended like he was trying to get by her by putting his hand on her back and pushing slightly. At first we just thought, "OK, he needs to get somewhere," but then he did it multiple times and even once when we were standing in the corner. There was NO WHERE TO GO. He just looked sort of confused and went back the way he came. We left. At our third bar, a nice Australian guy with bad teeth kind of fell down upon us and kept talking and talking. We excused ourselves and went back to the hostel, discouraged.
The next day, David came and took us to the Last Drop Inn, where they hung people. Next it was off to the Greyfriar's Bobby statue, a monument to the terrier this guy owned and when he died, Bobby came and slept at his grave every night for 14 years until he died. It was adorable and the statue looked like my old dog, a Cairn terrier named Hamish.
We walked to the castle on the hill, but it was £11 ($22). No freaking way. So we looked at it from the outside, then hiked in the parks around the castle. Walking up Princes St., David saw the sea (which looked incredibly far away) and decided he wanted to go there. We kept getting lost and every Scottish person that we asked (including this red-haired lady with a little red-haired kid) told us it was way too far and we should give up. After about 45 minutes, a riverside walk and a Royal Botanical Garden later, we made it (I couldn't quite believe it).
We sat on a stone wall and watched the water and talked for a little bit, then walked down a mile-long pier there. Of course, being so far outside of the city center, there were no other tourists, just fisherman who lived nearby who watched us with great amusement. It didn't help that I had a bag emblazoned with THE SCOTTISH EXPERIENCE and the Scottish flag on it (I turned it inside out). We got to a fishing shack where I guess they scored their gear and one of the old, crusty men jumped out at us, making me shriek, then burst into laughter as we all went a little red in the face.
At the end of the pier, we found 13-year-olds who were hiding from the adults and smoking. When they found out we came from California, they were so pleased. Their accents too were basically impossible to understand, but I managed to get that they were talking about how the man down the pier "gave us a fright." Love little phrases like that.
The next day, we walked to Arthur's Seat, a huge hill near the city. Originally it was just to see it, but David convinced us to walk halfway up. I got a little scared of the height, but not so for a little boy climbing with us who sat on the very edge and dangled his legs down the side of the 500-foot drop. Nerve-wracking to say the least.
We finished the visit with lunch at Elephant House, the cafe where J.K. Rowling wrote "Harry Potter." She used to buy one cup of coffee and make it last as long as possible because she couldn't afford another. Now she is richer than the Queen. Craziness! I spent the ride home on the train looping "Here Comes the Sun" on my iPod as it was sunny outside and I don't think I will ever take sun for granted again.
Saturday, June 16, 2007
So far away
Since returning home from spring break, things have been a lot calmer... in both good ways and bad. I feel somewhat adjusted here and don't want to say, "Oh, look at how different and cute!" every minute. However, this does take some of the excitement out of life. You forget how fun it is to have every moment of the day be something new and different for you. I also think this is why I took such a long break from writing here--it felt comfortable and normal, rather than something I needed to tell people about right away to revel in its strangeness.
My two classes this term have been Modern Irish Poetry and Charles Dickens. I adore the latter, as I love the reading material and have a small crush on the professor (he is just so ENGLISH). At the start of term, I was convinced the MIP professor hated my guts, but she actually liked my essay I just got back and I am allowed to revise it for my final paper. All in all, I'm happy with these classes (even if I'm TERRIBLE at dissecting poetry).
Francie came to visit and enjoyed herself, as did Ann. I've helped put out another two issues of Nouse, one of which required one late night and an all-nighter to put out, but looked gorgeous, so it was worth it. I distributed the papers and everyone laughed at me that I was so nice about it, asking people if they wanted one instead of just shoving it in their face. I have eaten too much curry (the English word for all Indian food) and steak and ale pie. I went to see a movie in mid-May and when I got out of it, I wandered around York for two hours knowing how much I was going to miss it.
Currently, I feel like I have relapsed into how I felt at the start: ricocheting between loving this place (being in Nouse and wondering how I will ever leave them all while they still have each other) and hating it (getting a sucky, sucky grade on my essay while it begins to pour outside and having no umbrella. This is when the sentence "Get me OUT of this hellhole!" crosses your mind). It has been rainy and cold lately and that hasn't helped much. I could see my breath yesterday at 1 p.m., which made me want to laugh and cry simultaneously.
My parents just finished visiting me and I took them to Betty's (supposedly the best teahouse in England. I believe it.), my favorite Indian restaurant (twice... I told you, I'm a tikka masala whore) and Monk Bar, where my dad remembers going to 23 years ago. We went to Haworth today (the town where the Brontes lived) and saw their house (now a museum that reminds me somewhat of the Louisa May Alcott museum in Concord). When we were walking out of the museum, the sun started shining and the Yorkshire Dales were so verdantly green that it looked like a movie backdrop. As we made our way down the windy stone streets, I looked around at the much-too-cute-to-actually-exist houses and stores and thought, "This, I will miss."
It's strange though. As much as I will miss things like pubs, the duck pond and kids that you want to kidnap because they sound so cute speaking in their accents, I know that I will be able to make do without these things. I know I will adjust to not having them, as much as I do love them now.
There is one thing that will be hard, though: the Nouse staff. I know I make such a fuss over them, but they really are the people I have become closest too, and it makes me tear up every time I think of leaving them. If all of us were dispersing across the world, I would be sad, but the fact that I am the only one leaving, that they will all be together next year having adventures and fun without me, is what makes me want to sob in the bathroom during production nights. I will probably see some again--two plan to make a trip to America next summer and one plans to go to graduate school in California--but even then, I will see them rarely. The rest of them I probably won't see ever again. Even just next year, I will be a memory from last year. Though they will remember me fondly, it won't be like being one of them, one of the people who is there for three years and becomes a true friend. I will be that "nice American girl" who crosses their minds only occasionally before more important, immediate things demand their attention.
I feel like I should end this in some "life lesson" or "but it will all be OK in the end" way, but I still don't know how this will turn out, so I will leave it open-ended for now. After all, I still have two weeks here and two well-sized essays to finish, so I shouldn't be talking like I'm leaving tomorrow. But I can feel that "needing closure" desperation starting to set in on me, which is discouraging and makes me feel like panicking.
14 days left. I hope I can do it.
My two classes this term have been Modern Irish Poetry and Charles Dickens. I adore the latter, as I love the reading material and have a small crush on the professor (he is just so ENGLISH). At the start of term, I was convinced the MIP professor hated my guts, but she actually liked my essay I just got back and I am allowed to revise it for my final paper. All in all, I'm happy with these classes (even if I'm TERRIBLE at dissecting poetry).
Francie came to visit and enjoyed herself, as did Ann. I've helped put out another two issues of Nouse, one of which required one late night and an all-nighter to put out, but looked gorgeous, so it was worth it. I distributed the papers and everyone laughed at me that I was so nice about it, asking people if they wanted one instead of just shoving it in their face. I have eaten too much curry (the English word for all Indian food) and steak and ale pie. I went to see a movie in mid-May and when I got out of it, I wandered around York for two hours knowing how much I was going to miss it.
Currently, I feel like I have relapsed into how I felt at the start: ricocheting between loving this place (being in Nouse and wondering how I will ever leave them all while they still have each other) and hating it (getting a sucky, sucky grade on my essay while it begins to pour outside and having no umbrella. This is when the sentence "Get me OUT of this hellhole!" crosses your mind). It has been rainy and cold lately and that hasn't helped much. I could see my breath yesterday at 1 p.m., which made me want to laugh and cry simultaneously.
My parents just finished visiting me and I took them to Betty's (supposedly the best teahouse in England. I believe it.), my favorite Indian restaurant (twice... I told you, I'm a tikka masala whore) and Monk Bar, where my dad remembers going to 23 years ago. We went to Haworth today (the town where the Brontes lived) and saw their house (now a museum that reminds me somewhat of the Louisa May Alcott museum in Concord). When we were walking out of the museum, the sun started shining and the Yorkshire Dales were so verdantly green that it looked like a movie backdrop. As we made our way down the windy stone streets, I looked around at the much-too-cute-to-actually-exist houses and stores and thought, "This, I will miss."
It's strange though. As much as I will miss things like pubs, the duck pond and kids that you want to kidnap because they sound so cute speaking in their accents, I know that I will be able to make do without these things. I know I will adjust to not having them, as much as I do love them now.
There is one thing that will be hard, though: the Nouse staff. I know I make such a fuss over them, but they really are the people I have become closest too, and it makes me tear up every time I think of leaving them. If all of us were dispersing across the world, I would be sad, but the fact that I am the only one leaving, that they will all be together next year having adventures and fun without me, is what makes me want to sob in the bathroom during production nights. I will probably see some again--two plan to make a trip to America next summer and one plans to go to graduate school in California--but even then, I will see them rarely. The rest of them I probably won't see ever again. Even just next year, I will be a memory from last year. Though they will remember me fondly, it won't be like being one of them, one of the people who is there for three years and becomes a true friend. I will be that "nice American girl" who crosses their minds only occasionally before more important, immediate things demand their attention.
I feel like I should end this in some "life lesson" or "but it will all be OK in the end" way, but I still don't know how this will turn out, so I will leave it open-ended for now. After all, I still have two weeks here and two well-sized essays to finish, so I shouldn't be talking like I'm leaving tomorrow. But I can feel that "needing closure" desperation starting to set in on me, which is discouraging and makes me feel like panicking.
14 days left. I hope I can do it.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
London again
We got back to London and slept for the whole day. That night, we went to the bar beneath the hostel and both of us scored. Although for Genevieve, this was a night living up to her expectations, this had never happened for me before.
To tell you the truth, guys, the guy I kissed in the bar was my first kiss (hides face in shame).
It's a very long story with kind of a sad ending, so I won't go into it. But he was a mid-20s British journalist. It had been my goal ever since deciding on studying in England to kiss a British boy, and this one was actually cute, a journalist and asked to kiss me. I would have been a fool to turn him down.
Genevieve, however, was even luckier. The boy she met (the guy's friend) is now her boyfriend and she goes to visit him most weekends in London. Envious? You have no idea!
The next day, we went to the Tate Modern. I was so glad I wasn't there with my father, who would have called most of the works there "trash." Although I'm a little more open minded, some of the stuff was pretty unintentionally laughable. When the plaque describes a white plastic tube as being "representative of the hollowness felt by the population after WWII," you have to kind of take a step back and wonder at the state of the world. However, the place didn't disappoint--even if a work was ridiculous, it was nonetheless interesting. And there were some pretty amazing paintings, including multiple works by Dali.
That night, we finally met the people in our room. There were three Tasmanians who were incredibly nice and fun and took us out to drink and dance. (I couldn't stop them from buying me drinks despite all the feminist protests I could muster. I finally bought my own when they actually ran out of money!) I bonded with one of the boys, Tim, as he kept talking about how his friend got all the girls because he was much more attractive. I could definitely relate after spending four weeks with Genevieve in tow--a pretty, super-confident blonde. Nothing is more damaging to the ego.
We got to the subway and got to a station pretty far away before it closed for the night and we didn't know where the clubs were. Genevieve opted to search for one with one of the boys, and me (as I am never a big party animal) and Tim decided to head back to the hostel. We were both very, very drunk however, and headed back in the direction we thought was the hostel.
Finally, we saw the London millenium ferris wheel and Big Ben. We then came upon a really beautiful building . We couldn't for the life of us figure out what it was, as we were on the side of the building and there were no signs.
So Tim decided to be a boy and climbed the fence to go look at a doorway to see if there was a plaque or something. I started yelling at him, telling him we would get in SO much trouble, but he didn't seem to listen to me (or was too drunk to). He couldn't find anything and climbed back over the fence and we set off for home again. Or so we thought.
In about 20 seconds, there was a huge burly security guard in front of us who asked what we were doing. Freaking out in my mind, we told him we just wanted to know what the building was.
"This is Parliament," he said, "and there are two men coming who want to talk to you."
I have never felt more scared in my life (except for maybe climbing the Eiffel Tower). I had know idea what to do as the three men grilled Tim on his name, his address, what he was doing. What would I do if he went to jail? Would I go with him and try to bail him out? Would I try to go back to the hostel and tell his friend? Where was the hostel anyway? I was this close to crying.
Finally, the men said that they realized he had just had "one too many drinks" and that he shouldn't do it again. When they asked us where we were going and we told them London Bridge, they paused for a moment (probably marveling at our utter stupidity).
"That's in the opposite direction on the other side of the river," one of them said.
We powerwalked away as fast as we could. If I ever visit Parliament again, I might have to wear sunglasses.
Despite a quick bathroom run at the Savoy, the ritziest hotel in London that was the only one open at that point and required me basically begging the concierge and telling him I wouldn't take more than 30 seconds tops), it was an otherwise screw-up free trip back. London at 1 a.m. is so beautiful with all of the lights reflecting on the river and (in a unusually ballsy move by me), I held Tim's hand most of the way, not necessarily in a romantic way, but just in a safe, friendly-type way. It was a nice night.
We got back at around 2:30 or so, but Genevieve didn't make it into bed until 7 a.m. So when I woke up, I wrote postcards, read and got lunch for us at our favorite sandwich place that we went to eery day we were there (the staff started to recognize us). We went to clubs near Liverpool Street that night, which was nice for dancing (I dance like a fiend) but a killer on the wallet for drinks. We got Indian food at 2 a.m., though, which always makes the night better.
The next day we went back to the neighborhood to a huge vintage store we saw while walking around at night. We also ate gelato in the open air, which was amazing because it was about 70 degrees out (they made announcements over the tube intercom about ways to "beat the heat," with Genevieve and I trying not to crack up). That night, I met up with three of my newspaper friends with Genevieve. Although the three were about two hours late, they took us to pubs around Angel (which has always been one of my favorite tube stops, as my parents call me "Angel" and put the tube sign on my room when I was little). It was nice being in a city with actual natives, and the fact that it was so warm was a bonus.
Being Sunday, every single bar was shut up tight by midnight. Raf and Nicky got the bright idea to have rum and coke in the park, "just like middle school" (or whatever it is they call middle school, I forget). However, two things should have been warning signs for us at that point:
1) Beer before liquor, never been sicker (we had consumed about four pints of cider by that time).
2) English kids can drink you under the table any time, any place. Because of basically being soaked in alcohol since they were 13 or 14, they can handle rum and coke with about 1/16 being Coke and the rest being rum.
The hour or so we spent in the park was really fun and we were all talkative, including Genevieve telling of her boy adventures so far in England. At the one-hour point, though, we both... got upset stomachs and the rest of the night and the next day was kind of a blur. When I got back to York at 6 p.m. or so, I fell into bed and spent the next two days hanging out alone in my room in my underwear--just because I could.
Sometimes, you just need some time alone. Preferably in your underwear.
To tell you the truth, guys, the guy I kissed in the bar was my first kiss (hides face in shame).
It's a very long story with kind of a sad ending, so I won't go into it. But he was a mid-20s British journalist. It had been my goal ever since deciding on studying in England to kiss a British boy, and this one was actually cute, a journalist and asked to kiss me. I would have been a fool to turn him down.
Genevieve, however, was even luckier. The boy she met (the guy's friend) is now her boyfriend and she goes to visit him most weekends in London. Envious? You have no idea!
The next day, we went to the Tate Modern. I was so glad I wasn't there with my father, who would have called most of the works there "trash." Although I'm a little more open minded, some of the stuff was pretty unintentionally laughable. When the plaque describes a white plastic tube as being "representative of the hollowness felt by the population after WWII," you have to kind of take a step back and wonder at the state of the world. However, the place didn't disappoint--even if a work was ridiculous, it was nonetheless interesting. And there were some pretty amazing paintings, including multiple works by Dali.
That night, we finally met the people in our room. There were three Tasmanians who were incredibly nice and fun and took us out to drink and dance. (I couldn't stop them from buying me drinks despite all the feminist protests I could muster. I finally bought my own when they actually ran out of money!) I bonded with one of the boys, Tim, as he kept talking about how his friend got all the girls because he was much more attractive. I could definitely relate after spending four weeks with Genevieve in tow--a pretty, super-confident blonde. Nothing is more damaging to the ego.
We got to the subway and got to a station pretty far away before it closed for the night and we didn't know where the clubs were. Genevieve opted to search for one with one of the boys, and me (as I am never a big party animal) and Tim decided to head back to the hostel. We were both very, very drunk however, and headed back in the direction we thought was the hostel.
Finally, we saw the London millenium ferris wheel and Big Ben. We then came upon a really beautiful building . We couldn't for the life of us figure out what it was, as we were on the side of the building and there were no signs.
So Tim decided to be a boy and climbed the fence to go look at a doorway to see if there was a plaque or something. I started yelling at him, telling him we would get in SO much trouble, but he didn't seem to listen to me (or was too drunk to). He couldn't find anything and climbed back over the fence and we set off for home again. Or so we thought.
In about 20 seconds, there was a huge burly security guard in front of us who asked what we were doing. Freaking out in my mind, we told him we just wanted to know what the building was.
"This is Parliament," he said, "and there are two men coming who want to talk to you."
I have never felt more scared in my life (except for maybe climbing the Eiffel Tower). I had know idea what to do as the three men grilled Tim on his name, his address, what he was doing. What would I do if he went to jail? Would I go with him and try to bail him out? Would I try to go back to the hostel and tell his friend? Where was the hostel anyway? I was this close to crying.
Finally, the men said that they realized he had just had "one too many drinks" and that he shouldn't do it again. When they asked us where we were going and we told them London Bridge, they paused for a moment (probably marveling at our utter stupidity).
"That's in the opposite direction on the other side of the river," one of them said.
We powerwalked away as fast as we could. If I ever visit Parliament again, I might have to wear sunglasses.
Despite a quick bathroom run at the Savoy, the ritziest hotel in London that was the only one open at that point and required me basically begging the concierge and telling him I wouldn't take more than 30 seconds tops), it was an otherwise screw-up free trip back. London at 1 a.m. is so beautiful with all of the lights reflecting on the river and (in a unusually ballsy move by me), I held Tim's hand most of the way, not necessarily in a romantic way, but just in a safe, friendly-type way. It was a nice night.
We got back at around 2:30 or so, but Genevieve didn't make it into bed until 7 a.m. So when I woke up, I wrote postcards, read and got lunch for us at our favorite sandwich place that we went to eery day we were there (the staff started to recognize us). We went to clubs near Liverpool Street that night, which was nice for dancing (I dance like a fiend) but a killer on the wallet for drinks. We got Indian food at 2 a.m., though, which always makes the night better.
The next day we went back to the neighborhood to a huge vintage store we saw while walking around at night. We also ate gelato in the open air, which was amazing because it was about 70 degrees out (they made announcements over the tube intercom about ways to "beat the heat," with Genevieve and I trying not to crack up). That night, I met up with three of my newspaper friends with Genevieve. Although the three were about two hours late, they took us to pubs around Angel (which has always been one of my favorite tube stops, as my parents call me "Angel" and put the tube sign on my room when I was little). It was nice being in a city with actual natives, and the fact that it was so warm was a bonus.
Being Sunday, every single bar was shut up tight by midnight. Raf and Nicky got the bright idea to have rum and coke in the park, "just like middle school" (or whatever it is they call middle school, I forget). However, two things should have been warning signs for us at that point:
1) Beer before liquor, never been sicker (we had consumed about four pints of cider by that time).
2) English kids can drink you under the table any time, any place. Because of basically being soaked in alcohol since they were 13 or 14, they can handle rum and coke with about 1/16 being Coke and the rest being rum.
The hour or so we spent in the park was really fun and we were all talkative, including Genevieve telling of her boy adventures so far in England. At the one-hour point, though, we both... got upset stomachs and the rest of the night and the next day was kind of a blur. When I got back to York at 6 p.m. or so, I fell into bed and spent the next two days hanging out alone in my room in my underwear--just because I could.
Sometimes, you just need some time alone. Preferably in your underwear.
Rome
Ignorantly booking our Rome stay for the weekend of Easter without knowing it (we are such heathens), the only place we could find with beds was a hostel a 30-minute train ride outside of the city in Ostia, a beachside town. Although this may sound barf-worthy, it was actually nice to be able to escape to the less-crowded town and have the ocean nearby. It was also a huge, clean place with movies every night and a cafeteria-type place (with a bartender who translated the Italian MTV for us, where they basically just interviewed Italian teens about their sex lives... good times.)
The first day, we went to the Spanish steps, which were INFESTED with tourists. You could barely find a place to walk up them. The John Keats museum was right next door, so we popped into it (actually the location where he died at the ripe old age of 25). It was beautiful and touching, but also kind of creepy. In the room where he died, there were flowers sculpted on the ceiling and he liked to look at them and imagine that they were the flowers on his grave. CREEEEPY. Oh well, I guess you don't write world-changing poetry by being a well-adjusted person.
We then moseyed our way to the Trevi fountain via supposedly the best gelato in the world (according to the NY Times). The caramel flavor was delicious, but the gelato we had in Paris might have rivaled it. We then got to the Trevi fountain (again crawling with tourists), which was beautiful, despite the crowds and annoying street vendors (no, I do NOT want clacking balls or squishy toys. LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE.)
The second day, we woke up at 5:30 a.m. (those who know me know that this is like trying to forcefeed me celery--pretty much impossible) to go to the Sistine Chapel. Francie and I were pretty grumbly about it, but by the time we got there, it was a beautiful spring morning and we almost enjoyed lining up for two hours (almost). The paintings were nice, but the Vatican City grounds were the best part. The flora reminded me of San Mateo and made me miss the Bay Area. It was another place I wanted to get married (because, you know, the royal palace in Seville wasn't enough of a stretch).
We spent Easter in Ostia as we wanted to avoid the crowds the entire day. We just sat in the sun at the beach (finally!) and ate icecream and I spent about two hours collecting seaglass on the beach (there was a CRAPLOAD). There were even pieces of decorated tile, which made me wonder how old they were.
The next day, we went to the Colosseum (overcome with tourists), the Mouth of Truth (made famous in "Roman Holiday," with a line of tourists about 200 feet long) and finished our day at the Palantine Hill (filled with tourists, but that was OK because it was a big place). All of the ruins were beautiful and it was mind-boggling to think about how long they had been there.
I guess it's kind of hypocritical to get mad about tourists overrunning everything, but it was increasingly frustrating as time went on. There is the OK type of tourist (quiet, discreet, trying to blend in, nicely dressed, taking pictures but not like it was our last day on earth) and then there is the worst-nightmare tourist (ill-fitting shorts, fanny packs, baseball hats, saying "Oh, look at that big building!" with a Brooklyn accent, flashing cameras like the paparazzi). It was strange because I got mad at English people for their horribly stereotypical views of Americans, but most of the Americans we ran into on our trip were spitting images of the cliche. We were definitely in the minority for American tourists, which was so frightening.
In another smart move, Genevieve and I booked our flight to London at 6:30 in the morning. Not realizing Ostia was 30 minutes outside of Rome. Or that the airport was 45 minutes outside of Rome. And that the trains didn't run that early (or late, depending on how you look at it). So we had to catch a bus at 2 a.m., wait in the middle of Rome for an hour at 3 a.m. with a bum actually sleeping across the street from us, then catch a bus at 4 to actually get to the airport. Until this moment, I hadn't even told my parents about this, as there were so many sketchy characters out in the wee hours of the morning that I was scared we would get raped/stabbed/assaulted by a drunk homeless man/all three.
This may sound dramatic, but you try it and tell me if it's not scary as fuck. Waiting for two hours in the tiny airport on hard plastic benches was welcome after that.
The first day, we went to the Spanish steps, which were INFESTED with tourists. You could barely find a place to walk up them. The John Keats museum was right next door, so we popped into it (actually the location where he died at the ripe old age of 25). It was beautiful and touching, but also kind of creepy. In the room where he died, there were flowers sculpted on the ceiling and he liked to look at them and imagine that they were the flowers on his grave. CREEEEPY. Oh well, I guess you don't write world-changing poetry by being a well-adjusted person.
We then moseyed our way to the Trevi fountain via supposedly the best gelato in the world (according to the NY Times). The caramel flavor was delicious, but the gelato we had in Paris might have rivaled it. We then got to the Trevi fountain (again crawling with tourists), which was beautiful, despite the crowds and annoying street vendors (no, I do NOT want clacking balls or squishy toys. LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE.)
The second day, we woke up at 5:30 a.m. (those who know me know that this is like trying to forcefeed me celery--pretty much impossible) to go to the Sistine Chapel. Francie and I were pretty grumbly about it, but by the time we got there, it was a beautiful spring morning and we almost enjoyed lining up for two hours (almost). The paintings were nice, but the Vatican City grounds were the best part. The flora reminded me of San Mateo and made me miss the Bay Area. It was another place I wanted to get married (because, you know, the royal palace in Seville wasn't enough of a stretch).
We spent Easter in Ostia as we wanted to avoid the crowds the entire day. We just sat in the sun at the beach (finally!) and ate icecream and I spent about two hours collecting seaglass on the beach (there was a CRAPLOAD). There were even pieces of decorated tile, which made me wonder how old they were.
The next day, we went to the Colosseum (overcome with tourists), the Mouth of Truth (made famous in "Roman Holiday," with a line of tourists about 200 feet long) and finished our day at the Palantine Hill (filled with tourists, but that was OK because it was a big place). All of the ruins were beautiful and it was mind-boggling to think about how long they had been there.
I guess it's kind of hypocritical to get mad about tourists overrunning everything, but it was increasingly frustrating as time went on. There is the OK type of tourist (quiet, discreet, trying to blend in, nicely dressed, taking pictures but not like it was our last day on earth) and then there is the worst-nightmare tourist (ill-fitting shorts, fanny packs, baseball hats, saying "Oh, look at that big building!" with a Brooklyn accent, flashing cameras like the paparazzi). It was strange because I got mad at English people for their horribly stereotypical views of Americans, but most of the Americans we ran into on our trip were spitting images of the cliche. We were definitely in the minority for American tourists, which was so frightening.
In another smart move, Genevieve and I booked our flight to London at 6:30 in the morning. Not realizing Ostia was 30 minutes outside of Rome. Or that the airport was 45 minutes outside of Rome. And that the trains didn't run that early (or late, depending on how you look at it). So we had to catch a bus at 2 a.m., wait in the middle of Rome for an hour at 3 a.m. with a bum actually sleeping across the street from us, then catch a bus at 4 to actually get to the airport. Until this moment, I hadn't even told my parents about this, as there were so many sketchy characters out in the wee hours of the morning that I was scared we would get raped/stabbed/assaulted by a drunk homeless man/all three.
This may sound dramatic, but you try it and tell me if it's not scary as fuck. Waiting for two hours in the tiny airport on hard plastic benches was welcome after that.
Venice
Venice was my favorite city. Bar none (except for maybe the first day at Madrid). Although we were staying on the mainland (in this cute hotel where the front desk guy didn't even speak English! Charades were quite popular during our time there), it was actually a hotel and we got our own room and bathroom and free soap. Free soap seemed like a revolutionary idea to us after bumming it at so many scummy hostels. The bus stop was also about a three-minute walk away and we got at least 5 honkings every time we walked to it, almost rivaling Seville (and that's saying something).
The city was... wow, guys, I don't even know how to put into words the beauty. On the bus, you go over this huge bridge that takes about ten minutes to get to and you can see the city shining in the distance in the middle of the water. When you got to the bus stop, it was blue canals, white buildings, tiny stone streets and gondolas as far as the eye could see.
The unique thing about Venice was that there was "no culture," as our dad put it. No museums or touristy things to do. But this was a godsend for us. Not to sound too "Wahhh, my wallet's too small for my 50's and my diamond shoes are too tight," but at this point (three weeks in) we were SO OVER ratting around as tourists. If I had to go to one more museum, I was going to vomit all over the 173rd rendition of Christ's crucifixion. No, Venice was nothing but pizza, charming alleyways that lined the canals (or dead-ended at water), arched bridges, warm weather, happy tourists, beautiful masquerade masks and cheap sunglasses/knockoff bags.
On our second day there, we took the waterbus (a huge boat, since getting across the city is a NIGHTMARE because of said dead-ends and bridges) to the Piazza San Marco, the huge square right next to the ocean. We sat in the outside seats with a happy tourist family next to us, looking out on the sunset over the ocean (glowing pink on the water) and the gobsmacking buildings and the tiny pretty boats and had to pinch ourselves. We were really here, not slogging away at work in LA or braving the cold in York? That was the time when I felt most lucky to be on the trip--it was just SO goddamn gorgeous and I couldn't believe it wasn't a dream or a movie backdrop.
In the Piazza, there were a few old buildings that you could tour, but we decided to feed the pigeons instead. This sounds boring, but it's anything but. The pigeons there are so used to tourists feeding them that with your 1-euro packet of corn kernels, they will actually fly up TO YOUR HAND and eat out of it, perchng on your arm. If there was ever a time I felt most like the crazy bird lady in "Mary Poppins," this was it. We got to be pretty much pro bird feeders by the end, knowing you had to show the birds your packet and stretch out your hand if you wanted to coax a few up. At one point, I had three eating from my hand. I wonder if I could put such a thing on my resume...
Our last night there, we ate at a fancy cafe with tables right on the water and I again couldn't help but smile like a madman at my pizza magherita (the only thing in our price range), wondering how I got so lucky and how glad I was that I hadn't listened to my dad and waited to see Venice with someone "with whom I was romantically involved."
Although making out on a gondola would be pretty rad.
The city was... wow, guys, I don't even know how to put into words the beauty. On the bus, you go over this huge bridge that takes about ten minutes to get to and you can see the city shining in the distance in the middle of the water. When you got to the bus stop, it was blue canals, white buildings, tiny stone streets and gondolas as far as the eye could see.
The unique thing about Venice was that there was "no culture," as our dad put it. No museums or touristy things to do. But this was a godsend for us. Not to sound too "Wahhh, my wallet's too small for my 50's and my diamond shoes are too tight," but at this point (three weeks in) we were SO OVER ratting around as tourists. If I had to go to one more museum, I was going to vomit all over the 173rd rendition of Christ's crucifixion. No, Venice was nothing but pizza, charming alleyways that lined the canals (or dead-ended at water), arched bridges, warm weather, happy tourists, beautiful masquerade masks and cheap sunglasses/knockoff bags.
On our second day there, we took the waterbus (a huge boat, since getting across the city is a NIGHTMARE because of said dead-ends and bridges) to the Piazza San Marco, the huge square right next to the ocean. We sat in the outside seats with a happy tourist family next to us, looking out on the sunset over the ocean (glowing pink on the water) and the gobsmacking buildings and the tiny pretty boats and had to pinch ourselves. We were really here, not slogging away at work in LA or braving the cold in York? That was the time when I felt most lucky to be on the trip--it was just SO goddamn gorgeous and I couldn't believe it wasn't a dream or a movie backdrop.
In the Piazza, there were a few old buildings that you could tour, but we decided to feed the pigeons instead. This sounds boring, but it's anything but. The pigeons there are so used to tourists feeding them that with your 1-euro packet of corn kernels, they will actually fly up TO YOUR HAND and eat out of it, perchng on your arm. If there was ever a time I felt most like the crazy bird lady in "Mary Poppins," this was it. We got to be pretty much pro bird feeders by the end, knowing you had to show the birds your packet and stretch out your hand if you wanted to coax a few up. At one point, I had three eating from my hand. I wonder if I could put such a thing on my resume...
Our last night there, we ate at a fancy cafe with tables right on the water and I again couldn't help but smile like a madman at my pizza magherita (the only thing in our price range), wondering how I got so lucky and how glad I was that I hadn't listened to my dad and waited to see Venice with someone "with whom I was romantically involved."
Although making out on a gondola would be pretty rad.
Barcelona
Good things about Barcelona: the bizarre and enchanting Gaudi architecture (the church La Sagrada Familia is probably the only building that has actually taken my breath away), this pita wrap place we found on the big street in the center of town, meeting our friend Bryan from Oxy for drinks at a German beer hall, the location of our hostel, looking at the pets they were selling on the street, more catcalling Spanish boys, the brother and sister Aussie duo we met at our hostel, the Picasso museum (especially the Picasso versions of "Las Munecas"), churros and chocolate, the Starbuckses
Bad things about Barcelona: awful directions to get to our hostel, the cranky maid who slapped Genevieve on the butt to wake her up 45 minutes before we had to be out of the room, showers you have to push every 30 seconds to keep the water running, a really weird lady in our room who we all hated with a passion after only two days of knowing her, mean Barcelona people who push you on the bus, mean Barcelona bus drivers who seem intent on crippling you for life in the way they turn and brake, a crappy nightlife, mean Barcelona people who laugh at how bad you are at Spanish (at least we're trying!), a tourist-infested Park Guell, a day at the Park Guell with about an hour of pouring rain and having to huddle under an alcove to get out of it, an exorbitantly-priced entrance fee for the Erotic Museum (6 euros?? Seriously??), chain stores up the wazoo, having to use awfully expensive internet cafes to figure out what classes I wanted to take at Oxy in the fall, seeing a lady almost get her purse stolen right from beside her if it wasn't for a nice British man who scared the thief off (this made me miss England--the guy being so nice, not the purse stealing), meeting a girl who actually got her purse stolen with a two-year-old journal inside of it, the lack of Barclays, the security guards not letting us into the dance hall even though we had bought drinks from the bar, the guy with a camel-colored coat who didn't hit on Genevieve (c'mon, guy, she's hot)
The bad things far outweigh the good things. We were so done with Barcelona by the time we had to leave.
Bad things about Barcelona: awful directions to get to our hostel, the cranky maid who slapped Genevieve on the butt to wake her up 45 minutes before we had to be out of the room, showers you have to push every 30 seconds to keep the water running, a really weird lady in our room who we all hated with a passion after only two days of knowing her, mean Barcelona people who push you on the bus, mean Barcelona bus drivers who seem intent on crippling you for life in the way they turn and brake, a crappy nightlife, mean Barcelona people who laugh at how bad you are at Spanish (at least we're trying!), a tourist-infested Park Guell, a day at the Park Guell with about an hour of pouring rain and having to huddle under an alcove to get out of it, an exorbitantly-priced entrance fee for the Erotic Museum (6 euros?? Seriously??), chain stores up the wazoo, having to use awfully expensive internet cafes to figure out what classes I wanted to take at Oxy in the fall, seeing a lady almost get her purse stolen right from beside her if it wasn't for a nice British man who scared the thief off (this made me miss England--the guy being so nice, not the purse stealing), meeting a girl who actually got her purse stolen with a two-year-old journal inside of it, the lack of Barclays, the security guards not letting us into the dance hall even though we had bought drinks from the bar, the guy with a camel-colored coat who didn't hit on Genevieve (c'mon, guy, she's hot)
The bad things far outweigh the good things. We were so done with Barcelona by the time we had to leave.
Seville
Our train ride was perfect--such a juxtaposition from the hellhole of a station we had just left. The lady had booked us around a table, so we could talk, write postcards, look out the windows at the countryside, etc. The man at the sketchy hostel had told us that the countryside wasn't anything to write home about. He couldn't have been more wrong. The soil was almost red and it was all green hills, pastures, blue sky, and all that other cliche stuff you see in paintings. The sun was out (George Harrison himself could not have been happier than I was at that moment) and we watched Johnny Depp in "Finding Neverland" in Spanish. Possibly the most idyllic train ride I have ever been on, especially with Johnny Depp.
We got the train station and got on a bus having no idea where we were going. We ended up just bugging the bus driver at every single stop until we got to ours and had to walk for what the instructions said was 10 minutes. They must have had in mind Flo-Jo with no luggage, as it really took about half an hour. But we were so happy to find the place that we didn't mind much.
The next day we went to the humongous, over-the-top (but in a good way) cathedral in the heart of the city and had a picnic lunch on the church steps. We lost ourselves in the beautiful whitewashed, green plant, black iron gated squares of the city with a few stops in kitschy souvenir stores. We met Francie's and my friend Elizabeth (our dads have known each other since preschool and we go on vacation with each other every summer) who was studying abroad there for dinner. She took us to a vegetarian/vegan Cuban restaurant at the end of a twisting labrynth of streets. Genevieve could have kissed her. Francie and I could have kissed her for the amazing sangria we found there.
My memory of order of events gets a little hazy here because it has been so long. I think the next day we went to the beach on a two-hour long bus trip. Liz had class, but the three of us were excited for the ocean as we hadn't seen it since leaving California. When we got to the beach town--called Matalascanas--it was completely deserted. We found a few restaurant type places open and one souvenir store. Other than that, it could have had tumbleweeds. Liz told us it would be pretty empty not being the weekend, but we hadn't expected it to be eery, murder-us-in-broad-daylight empty. The beach was beautiful but it was incredibly cloudy and we almost cried that we couldn't even sunbathe on a BEACH.
The next day, Liz took us to the Royal Palace, where the king and queen stay when they are in Seville. Although the building was nice, it was the outside grounds that left me with my mouth hanging open. There were huge old trees making a canopy, fountains and wisteria galore, sunshine, beautiful smells, statues, etc. We all sat there for about an hour talking and I wished I could have had my wedding there. It was that beautiful.
Not that I would have had a hard time finding a potential husband in that city. The construction workers (out in full force to get roads rebuilt before Semana Santa) would have catcalled a female rhinoceros. Although Liz was disparaging and acted like it was just an annoyance to put up with, Francie and I were soaking up the male attention like a dehydrated man at an oasis. Although British accents are the hottest thing everrrrrr, all of the boys here act like you are a rock. They aren't even nice to you... or even look at you, for that matter. They dance in groups with their friends and act like they've never even heard the meaning of cleavage.
Coleridge phrased it perfectly when he said, "Water, water, everywhere, and not a drop to drink." Only "water" is "hot British boys with amazing accents that make me drool like a 95-year-old at a rest home" and "drop to drink" is "any sort of acknowledgement that boys are sexual beings and find you in the heart of their testosterone-pumping hearts any more attractive than Roseanne."
Liz took us to bars and clubs around Seville that night and although it was fun, it was mostly college kids studying abroad, which was somewhat disappointing. But a drink with Liz is like one of the most fun nights in England, so we didn't mind much.
The only thing I regret about Seville is not buying the orange stuffed animal in the Royal Palace gift shop. And when I say "orange," I mean an actual stuffed animal of an orange fruit with a rind. Damn, that thing was amazing. I'm still kicking myself.
We got the train station and got on a bus having no idea where we were going. We ended up just bugging the bus driver at every single stop until we got to ours and had to walk for what the instructions said was 10 minutes. They must have had in mind Flo-Jo with no luggage, as it really took about half an hour. But we were so happy to find the place that we didn't mind much.
The next day we went to the humongous, over-the-top (but in a good way) cathedral in the heart of the city and had a picnic lunch on the church steps. We lost ourselves in the beautiful whitewashed, green plant, black iron gated squares of the city with a few stops in kitschy souvenir stores. We met Francie's and my friend Elizabeth (our dads have known each other since preschool and we go on vacation with each other every summer) who was studying abroad there for dinner. She took us to a vegetarian/vegan Cuban restaurant at the end of a twisting labrynth of streets. Genevieve could have kissed her. Francie and I could have kissed her for the amazing sangria we found there.
My memory of order of events gets a little hazy here because it has been so long. I think the next day we went to the beach on a two-hour long bus trip. Liz had class, but the three of us were excited for the ocean as we hadn't seen it since leaving California. When we got to the beach town--called Matalascanas--it was completely deserted. We found a few restaurant type places open and one souvenir store. Other than that, it could have had tumbleweeds. Liz told us it would be pretty empty not being the weekend, but we hadn't expected it to be eery, murder-us-in-broad-daylight empty. The beach was beautiful but it was incredibly cloudy and we almost cried that we couldn't even sunbathe on a BEACH.
The next day, Liz took us to the Royal Palace, where the king and queen stay when they are in Seville. Although the building was nice, it was the outside grounds that left me with my mouth hanging open. There were huge old trees making a canopy, fountains and wisteria galore, sunshine, beautiful smells, statues, etc. We all sat there for about an hour talking and I wished I could have had my wedding there. It was that beautiful.
Not that I would have had a hard time finding a potential husband in that city. The construction workers (out in full force to get roads rebuilt before Semana Santa) would have catcalled a female rhinoceros. Although Liz was disparaging and acted like it was just an annoyance to put up with, Francie and I were soaking up the male attention like a dehydrated man at an oasis. Although British accents are the hottest thing everrrrrr, all of the boys here act like you are a rock. They aren't even nice to you... or even look at you, for that matter. They dance in groups with their friends and act like they've never even heard the meaning of cleavage.
Coleridge phrased it perfectly when he said, "Water, water, everywhere, and not a drop to drink." Only "water" is "hot British boys with amazing accents that make me drool like a 95-year-old at a rest home" and "drop to drink" is "any sort of acknowledgement that boys are sexual beings and find you in the heart of their testosterone-pumping hearts any more attractive than Roseanne."
Liz took us to bars and clubs around Seville that night and although it was fun, it was mostly college kids studying abroad, which was somewhat disappointing. But a drink with Liz is like one of the most fun nights in England, so we didn't mind much.
The only thing I regret about Seville is not buying the orange stuffed animal in the Royal Palace gift shop. And when I say "orange," I mean an actual stuffed animal of an orange fruit with a rind. Damn, that thing was amazing. I'm still kicking myself.
Madrid
I know it has been a long time. Second-year courses have proven to be a lot more difficult than first-year (one would hope so) and my computer died. Both of these things contributed to incredible slacking on my travel blog. Apologies to all.
Sooo... onto Spain. We got into Madrid early in the morning, but because we had been up since 3:45 that morning (*&%^$££ Beauvais airport and Ryanair), we stumbled into our hostel and slept most of the day. We woke up in the late afternoon and discovered that we were in the most beautiful and happening section of Madrid. We wandered around and ate icecream in the beautiful square near our hostel. It was high 60's and I felt like crying, I had missed the warmth so much. It was also so wonderful being able to converse again, since Francie and I could get by in Spanish.
We found a nearby park that we later read in our guidebook was the premiere makeout spot in Madrid. It did not disappoint. You couldn't walk past a beautifully manicured hedged without seeing a couple sucking face. But it wasn't gross. It was rather nice after being in such a sexually repressed country for so long.
That night we went for tapas (Genevieve had never tried them before) and discovered the biggest drawback of Spain: vegetarian food doesn't exist. While Francie and I didn't care much as we happily chomped away on our murdered animals, Genevieve is a vegetarian. We ended up just ordering a Spanish tortilla (potatoes and onions) and some cold cheese for her. That might have been the most lavish meal for her the entire time we were in the country.
The next day, we went to the Prado art museum to meet Genevieve's Oxy friend. Somehow I got totally mixed-up with the map (which hardly ever happens, as I have my dad's keen sense of direction) and we ended up walking the exact opposite direction and were a half-hour late. Genevieve was flipping out without a cell phone, but we told her that people had been late before the advent of cell phones and that her friend would wait. She did.
Genevieve went off with her and Francie and I had a leisurely cafe lunch and then went to the museum. It was stocked with Goya (including the Third of May 1808 and Saturn eating his children) and wasn't too big and therefore became a favorite. We then went to the huge park in the middle of the city and watched people lounging around and walking their dogs in the sunshine. There was also a huge lake crowded with rowboats. We had icecream again (this was a big trend in our travels, along with pointing out cute dogs) and soaked up the sun for the long slog ahead of us--that is, April, May and June in England (it is still high 50's here... but I digress).
We had to move that night to another hostel that was somewhat creepy. We had to ring the bell about five times before someone answered, the elevator creaked like it would plummet down any second and the man who met us at the door brought us into a dark empty room and left us for ten minutes. "We're going to die here, Kelly," Genevieve said, half-joking (and half not).
However, it turned out alright and we got two rooms (one for me and Francie and one for Genevieve) for the price of three beds in a six-bed room at the last hostel. We went to a nearby bar late at night and ordered some crappy bar food (mine appeared to be ham pureed with some type of milky substance and then deep fried) and watched the Spain vs. Denmark soccer game on TV that everyone else was watching intently. We had seen crazy Denmark fans in the subway, painted ALL OVER with red and white and surprisingly not yet murdered in the streets, although there was a fair amount of good natured booing and hissing from the Spanish.
The next day was probably the worst day of the entire trip. We got to the Madrid train station expecting a train station similar to that of England or America: clean, fast, efficient. Instead, it was crowded, noisy, confusing and took forever and a day to get a ticket. We realized you had to get a number and wait for about an hour before they would serve you. Every time a number was called, a beeping version of the "Dance of the Sugarplum Fairy" would play. We ended up missing our first number, eating bad train station food (again, about two vegetarian options, and one sandwich called a "vegetable sandwich" that had dried ham in it), getting stalked by a weird guy, and blowing up at one another out of frustration. Finally, we got our second number called and booked the seats together.
"215 euros," said the lady in Spanish. "In cash."
In cash?? In CASH???!!!! Do people seriously carry that much in cash even on them? Luckily, we had just hit up the ATM and threw every bill and coin we had at her and scraped by with about 17 cents to spare. Then we were on the train, heading to Seville.
Sooo... onto Spain. We got into Madrid early in the morning, but because we had been up since 3:45 that morning (*&%^$££ Beauvais airport and Ryanair), we stumbled into our hostel and slept most of the day. We woke up in the late afternoon and discovered that we were in the most beautiful and happening section of Madrid. We wandered around and ate icecream in the beautiful square near our hostel. It was high 60's and I felt like crying, I had missed the warmth so much. It was also so wonderful being able to converse again, since Francie and I could get by in Spanish.
We found a nearby park that we later read in our guidebook was the premiere makeout spot in Madrid. It did not disappoint. You couldn't walk past a beautifully manicured hedged without seeing a couple sucking face. But it wasn't gross. It was rather nice after being in such a sexually repressed country for so long.
That night we went for tapas (Genevieve had never tried them before) and discovered the biggest drawback of Spain: vegetarian food doesn't exist. While Francie and I didn't care much as we happily chomped away on our murdered animals, Genevieve is a vegetarian. We ended up just ordering a Spanish tortilla (potatoes and onions) and some cold cheese for her. That might have been the most lavish meal for her the entire time we were in the country.
The next day, we went to the Prado art museum to meet Genevieve's Oxy friend. Somehow I got totally mixed-up with the map (which hardly ever happens, as I have my dad's keen sense of direction) and we ended up walking the exact opposite direction and were a half-hour late. Genevieve was flipping out without a cell phone, but we told her that people had been late before the advent of cell phones and that her friend would wait. She did.
Genevieve went off with her and Francie and I had a leisurely cafe lunch and then went to the museum. It was stocked with Goya (including the Third of May 1808 and Saturn eating his children) and wasn't too big and therefore became a favorite. We then went to the huge park in the middle of the city and watched people lounging around and walking their dogs in the sunshine. There was also a huge lake crowded with rowboats. We had icecream again (this was a big trend in our travels, along with pointing out cute dogs) and soaked up the sun for the long slog ahead of us--that is, April, May and June in England (it is still high 50's here... but I digress).
We had to move that night to another hostel that was somewhat creepy. We had to ring the bell about five times before someone answered, the elevator creaked like it would plummet down any second and the man who met us at the door brought us into a dark empty room and left us for ten minutes. "We're going to die here, Kelly," Genevieve said, half-joking (and half not).
However, it turned out alright and we got two rooms (one for me and Francie and one for Genevieve) for the price of three beds in a six-bed room at the last hostel. We went to a nearby bar late at night and ordered some crappy bar food (mine appeared to be ham pureed with some type of milky substance and then deep fried) and watched the Spain vs. Denmark soccer game on TV that everyone else was watching intently. We had seen crazy Denmark fans in the subway, painted ALL OVER with red and white and surprisingly not yet murdered in the streets, although there was a fair amount of good natured booing and hissing from the Spanish.
The next day was probably the worst day of the entire trip. We got to the Madrid train station expecting a train station similar to that of England or America: clean, fast, efficient. Instead, it was crowded, noisy, confusing and took forever and a day to get a ticket. We realized you had to get a number and wait for about an hour before they would serve you. Every time a number was called, a beeping version of the "Dance of the Sugarplum Fairy" would play. We ended up missing our first number, eating bad train station food (again, about two vegetarian options, and one sandwich called a "vegetable sandwich" that had dried ham in it), getting stalked by a weird guy, and blowing up at one another out of frustration. Finally, we got our second number called and booked the seats together.
"215 euros," said the lady in Spanish. "In cash."
In cash?? In CASH???!!!! Do people seriously carry that much in cash even on them? Luckily, we had just hit up the ATM and threw every bill and coin we had at her and scraped by with about 17 cents to spare. Then we were on the train, heading to Seville.
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