Uncategorized – Page 2 – paralyzedbynotcaring

King’s Cross

Yesterday I chose sleep over art. Before you label me an uncultured swine, note that I had to scroll to the second page of museums listed on TripAdvisor before I found one I hadn’t visited. I did manage to haul myself to a magical place though: that’s right, another train station.

As it turns out, King’s Cross is a real train station where people go to get on trains. Incredibly, they seemed unperturbed by the proximity of Hogwarts Express. I asked the Starbucks barista where the Harry Potter store is. She said, it’s at 9 and three quarters. Then she said, it’s to the left.

After a quick but necessary detour into the Urban Decay shop, I found the line for the Harry Potter store. I wasn’t expecting a line to get into a store, but it serpentined across the floor and outside the station. The line was so long I worried I was going to actually end up on a train, but the dividers were reassuring.

Once the front of the line was within eyesight, it became clear that everyone took a picture with the trolley that was half through the portal.

Look at this trolley!

I wasn’t sold on this and in fact tried to skip it, but was shamed into performing this pose.

That’s right, I’m a Ravenclaw.

The store itself was a madhouse of sweating bodies and merchandise flying off the shelves, though usually not of its own volition.

Sadly the items I had in mind were out of stock, and there wasn’t a single tank top to be had in any size. The store has a separate wand room which would be fun if not for the crushing and madding crowd. And anyway I had already bought eyeliner from Urban Decay, which is the closest thing to a magic wand I’ll ever need. I made a few—9.75?—selections, and then I let the crowd push me out.

The weather has been warm and beautiful in London, a fact my Uber driver commented on between questions about American politics.

The store was fun and a bit surreal, but this was definitely the most magical moment.

Goodbye, Italy

As a result of a narrowly won altercation with a gastro intestinal disagreement, today was spent in a dark room listening to the sweet sound of hotel demolition. I did manage to get out and have a pizza, which was served uncut and as one size. It’s easy to forget those European details—the street signs as placards on the side of buildings, the ubiquitous cigarettes, the shoe-destroying cobble stones, the rationed water in restaurants. I did run across an exciting new issue, and that is the fact that Italian post offices do not sell stamps. You have to get stamps at tobacco shops. I went to about five tobacco shops over the course of two days, and none had stamps. I am starting to wonder if mail is a thing here. I haven’t seen any compelling evidence. So, this means that my Italian post cards will be posted from England

In my stamps search, I ventured into the Milan central TRAIN STATION whaaaat. Yes I did. As expected, the building is impressive and huge. Inside is a mall, which included a post office that did no sell stamps and also a tobacco shop that did not sell stamps.

Overall though I will say the train station had some charm.

Also, I had tiramisu, which made me forget about everything else for a bit.

Tomorrow I fly to England!

Back in the saddle

Well well well look where we are. For those of you sick enough to still follow this airing of grievances thinly veiled as a blog, here is that sweet, sweet payoff.

I am in Milan.

Milan is in northern Italy, a country I missed on my last international trip. I didn’t avoid Italy on purpose–it just didn’t work out. I did end up visiting a baker’s dozen countries, though, so consider that before you label me an uncultured swine.

This trip was no less spur of the moment. One day I wake up and go to work, and the next day I wake up and go to Milan. This is how I roll now*.

The morning was a little tense for me as I realized I am again far from home and alone, but as soon as I got back on that beautiful red tour bus, I felt at ease again.

When I think of Milan I think of fashion, and indeed this was the first place to have a centuries-old cathedral smell like the mall.

This is the Duomo, a Gothic masterpiece with a facade so detailed, I could hardly focus on any one thing. I had a hard time understanding some of the sculptures. Hagiography is certainly not my strong suit, but doesn’t this guy look like he’s hitting a bong?

And what about this guy, is he about to do some lumber jacking?

I do not understand religion I guess.

I could not see the inside of the Duomo today because silly me I wore a tank top in the 90 degree heat. One MUST cover one’s shoulders. Never mind that the pillars across the street are sculptures of topless women.

In addition to not going into the Duomo, I did not go into the Castle Sforzesco.

Inside the castle itself is a castle museum, which I skipped and instead went through the courtyard and into the Parco Sempione. On the other side of the park is the arch–every European city must have an arch–though instead of victory, this is the Arch of Peace.

I’m not sure the sculptures atop this beauty scream peace at me, but maybe the warriors are all waving a cheery ciao.

Of course, what is a European city with out some gratuitous fountains?

It has been too hot to eat, but after this siesta/blog time I will venture back out to investigate the culinary arts.

For those in the know, Milan houses one of the most famous paintings of all time, The Last Supper. I will not be able to see it with my own eyeballs as one must secure tickets months in advance. So, dear reader, if you do follow in my stumbling footsteps, plan ahead if you wish to see that spicy meatball.

Stay tuned for more uncropped pictures and unsolicited advice.

Currently reading: Rick Steves Italy, The Magician’s Land by Lev Grossman, and The Winter’s Tale by Shakespeare.

*very, very occasionally

Stratford-upon-Avon

I visited the place of William Shakespeare’s birth and his burial site. Stratford-upon-Avon is about two hours from London by train, so I was riding the rails again. The only hiccup was that the bus that was to take me to the metro that was to take me to the train was late. I’ve taken this line several times and never waited more than the posted 8-12 minutes. I waited 20 minutes before I decided that if I ran to the metro station I would make it in time to catch the metro to catch my train. That may be so, but if I ran that far I might not make it in general (as in my body would die from torture/shock). Nonetheless I ran 30 steps and walked 30 steps all the way to the next bus stop, where I met the bus with that volatile mixture of relief and resentment. Relief and Resentment in Europe, that’s another good title.

So after I was drenched with sweat and had long since melted all my makeup off, I was on the train. Upon arriving at Stratford-upon-Avon, I wished I had done more than download the town map on my offline google maps cities list because I seemed to be on the edge of an endless brick housing development. Less than half a mile in, though, I was relieved to see the first of many Shakespeare tributes.

Each of the four sides has a quote carved into the stone. Here are two:

“Ten thousand honours and blessings on the bard who has gilded the dull realities of life with innocent illusions.” Washington Irving

“Honest water which ne’er left man in the mire.” Timon of Athens

The other two were a bit cumbersome.

The town itself is adorable. Look, even the mail boxes seem cheerful.

I had fish and chips (for the first time!) in the Garrick Inn, which claims to be the oldest pub or at least the oldest local pub.

I am not sure why the American flag made an appearance, but I am fine with it!

I made my way to the Avon, which is just a bastardization of “river” or “stream” or “water” or something in another language, so there are actually several Avons in England that are separate and unrelated. Don’t get confused. There are also several Stratfords.

This is the Avon. After an excellent boat tour of not drowning I visited Holy Trinity, which is where William Shakespeare was baptized and (much later) buried. The church wasn’t agog to host his mortal remains; he paid to have them housed here.

Past the lady in the yellow is an alcove with several tombs, including Shakespeare’s and his wife, Anne’s.

Here is a close up of that wooden carving on the bottom left.

Just your common, everyday CURSE on a tomb. That’s our guy.

Down the street is the Royal Shakespeare Company Theater. They were playing Lear and Cymbeline.

Throughout the town there are many references to our bard, including short quotes on the sidewalk. I found this one to be particularly relevant.

I think this is from All’s Well that Ends Well.

Here is a bench.

Because you can’t have just a regular bench! Side note, there WERE a lot of benches here which I really, really appreciate in a town. Probably because my fellow tourists were mostly old people (my people).

This house is where WS spent his formative years. I have seen only fancy buildings–palaces and castles–from this era, so I didn’t know what to expect.

Maybe it’s just because I spent MY formative years in a trailer, but this place looks friggin nice. Look, it has TWO stories. I mean really! I guess I had imagined more of a thatched roofed shack!

Near his childhood home is the Jester.

Four quotes–

“O noble fool! A worthy fool!” As You Like It

“The fool doth think he is wise. But the wise man knows himself to be a fool.” As You Like It

“Alas! Poor Yorick. I knew him, Horatio: A fellow of infinite jest.” Hamlet

“Foolery, Sir, does walk about the orb like the sun: it shines everywhere.” Twelfth Night

As I waited at the cutest train station in the world (observe)

I found myself feeling almost nostalgic, though what for was unclear until I realized I missed the Oregon Shakespeare Festival in Ashland, and that the black and white buildings, the brickwork, and the names in Stratford-upon-Avon are imitated in Ashland. I was missing the copy when I was in the original.

I am reading All the Light We Cannot See and The Night Manager (things are finally starting to maybe happen in The Night Manager)

More famous things

I spent some time at the Churchill War Rooms, which are near Westminster. They are all underground, and a Churchill museum is in the center. As you wind your way through the narrow, airless hallways, you see not only what it was like to have to exist in a constant state of anxiety, but also what it must have been like working with Churchill himself, who put up signs like this:

There will BE no WHISTLING. I SAY.

And keep the typing noise down!

That’s right, a noiseless typewriter.

All the clocks are at two to five (16:58), which is two minutes before the daily meeting.

The offices and work rooms and bedrooms looked a bit like jail cells with doilies.

It was hard to stay in one area without getting claustrophobic. Once in the museum part, though, it opened up a lot and I discovered that Churchill was an honorary American.

and the recipient of many, many medals and awards

including this old thing, just the Nobel Prize for literature. NBD.

Churchill was a prolific writer, beginning with war reports to newspapers and ending with nonfiction novels describing everything from WWII to the joy of painting. He was always busy with something.

Here’s his pistola.

Here’s part of his underground map room.

That’s about all I could digest from this guy.

I can’t decide if his expression is bemused or really, really angry.

Time for tea!

Today, after taking care of this tea train, I went to the British Museum. This place is massive and holds far too much art. That’s right. Too much. I think they should consider toning it down. It’s not a competition.

Here are some highlights.

Venus, my ruling goddess and general badass.

The most famous chess set in the WORLD (Lewis Chessmen)

A docent was giving a talk about them but I couldn’t hear anything she said because other people were talking and laughing and carrying on. Story of my academic life. Anyway, Harry Potter fans should recognize them.

I recognized this cat from an exhibit I saw many years ago at the Legion of Honor in SF. I don’t think it’s the same cat, but maybe related?

I have rarely seen a feline this pissed off, and I have seen some angry friggin cats in my life.

Here are some delightful weapons should you ever come across a cat with such ferocity.

and some VIKING weaponry

And some pretty violent looking what I can only assume are hair pins.

Here is a famous thing you might have heard of

Yep, it’s the Rosetta Stone. What, you can’t read the hieroglyphics?

Here ya go then

It’s been awhile since I have been able to find the Weirdest Jesus in a museum, but the British Museum does not disappoint. Look here.

This is a 4th-century mosaic of Mr. Christ, one of the first known images of Him. But to me he looks pretty modern, like someone I’d meet at an SF party who says Haiiiiiiii Girrrrrrrllll.

Guarding this masterpiece is the sphinx gate from the Neverending Story

Atreyu would’t quit now.

Three more pictures of the inexplicable.

A demon on a horse hanging from the ceiling looking like you owe him five quid.

A fight that cost an arm and a leg

and a head

And finally finding the best thing at a museum–a free bench!

I am reading All the Light We Cannot See by Anthony Doerr and The Night Manager by le Carré.

Take the trains they said. It will be easy they said.

Today was a travel day from Eysines/Bordeaux to Bruges/Zedelgem. Bus to bus to train to metro to train to train. The first three proceeded pretty well except the St Jean train station McDonald’s line had the rumblings of a riot. Hungover soccer fans want their nuggets and they want them now.

The first train took me to Paris, where I had to take the metro to another Paris train station to catch the train to Brussels. Online tips said this was a pretty easy process as the metro is right there at both train stations.

This is not so.

There are signs at both train stations pointing you into long, urine-soaked, twisting tunnels that eventually lead to the metro station. This was no short walk. And considering the metro ticket kiosk had already rejected my credit card, my coins, my 5 dollar bill and my pleadings before finally accepting a 10 spot, I didn’t think I had acres of time to get to the next train station to catch the Brussels train. One bright spot was that an Irishman carried my suitcase up a flight of stairs without me asking.

It went downhill from there. I found the right metro line and crammed into the car only to have the homeless passenger next to me pee his pants. I had to make some enemies to escape the widening puddle. This poor man stood there for eight stops. Don’t feel too sorry for him though–I had to stand nearby for 10.

When I escaped the pee puddle metro and found the other Paris train station, I found I had about 20 minutes to spare, so I bought a coca-cola lite for 4 Euros and the remainder of my dignity.

One benefit of my Eurail ticket (the only benefit so far?) is that it is 1st class. The tour books I have read advise against 1st class because it’s so isolated. It is isolated indeed. Gloriously so. I didn’t have to talk to anyone at all AND no one peed. It was amazing.

It was amazing until we got to Brussels, stopped at the station, but the doors wouldn’t open. Everyone was pushing towards the exit, ready to disembark, except the doors would not open. I had to transfer trains here to get on the Bruges train, and I had 15 minutes from the arrival time of my train to the departure time of my next train. The sweat I started sweating smelled of the clove cigarettes and wine of Bordeaux and also garlic, onions, and possibly propane.

When the doors finally opened I tumbled out with all my luggage and walked as fast as I could to the nearest departure screen. My train wasn’t listed. The departure board listed only the departure time and final city–not the train number. Bruges is not the final city for my train, and I didn’t know what was. I found an information desk eight minutes until departure time. He told me the platform and I started running. Three pieces of luggage in tow. Sweat flying off me like in a Gatorade commercial. I came to the gate only to see I had to ascend three flights of stairs. By now I had asthma, osteoporosis, and possibly TB. I don’t know how I got up those stairs. I left my body. I may have dislocated something.

The train came in only a minute later and I had an entire 1st class car to myself.

This was fantastic until a longer than usual announcement came over the PA (in German, I think). I had no one to ask wtf was going on. We stopped in the middle of nowhere for about 15 minutes.

Now, my Airbnb hosts were kind enough to offer to meet me at the train station to pick me up. My arrival time was already a bit late–9pm–and now it was getting later and there is no wifi on the train.

Can I take a time out for a second and say wtf is with the no wifi on the train? How advanced can you be without wifi? What is this, 1982? How hard can it be?

We eventually rolled in to Bruges at 9:30. I miraculously found the correct parking lot and met my hosts, who had checked the board and saw that someone had thrown themselves under the train before mine, so mine had to wait and then take an alternate route. I’m not convinced this person threw himself or herself under the train. I think it was a Eurail passenger who had just had enough.

So that’s how easy, comfortable, sanitary, logical, and safe rail travel is on a normal (non-strike) day, folks. How come you haven’t signed up yet? For realsies.

Pardon my French

Today I took the bus to Bordeaux and was greeted with a ticker sign saying that the buses will strike starting Saturday. Merde.I just checked to see if they have Uber here; they do, but the nearest car is 18 minutes away. Not the best thing ever. France is annoying me a lot.

I made it to downtown Bordeaux in time for a deluge that soaked the meandering soccer fans. That umbrella purchase yesterday was just in time. I took the tram to the Palace de le Bourse, but I couldn’t find the palace. You see, every building on the waterfront has a very similar facade–four story limestone. I walked right by the palace twice. It was raining pretty hard, in my defense. When I had incontrovertible evidence that I had indeed found the palace, which houses a museum, I could not find the museum’s entryway. I found an information desk within the palace and asked where the museum is. The informative lady asked if I spoke any French AT ALL? And the museum is right in front of me? The only door right in front of me was the exit, which I went through before I revealed exactly which French words I do know.

Never found the museum, but I had a wine bar in mind and walked a few blocks in the rain towards it. I came by a full tourist information center and bought a ticket to the city bus tour.

Differences between French and Spanish city bus tours:
France expects you to wear seat belts
France checks your purse for forbidden items before you get on the bus
Spain provides disposable earbuds
Everyone else on the French bus was at least 65
No on-and-offs in France
Spain had wifi on the bus

Even though the French bus was a bit too heavy on the rules, I am glad I got a tour of the city. I don’t think I would have gone across the river otherwise.

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The view from the bridge was pretty spectacular once it stopped raining for five seconds. This is the River Garonne. #Cloudporn.

This, Saint-Michel Basilica, is the third tallest church spire in France. It’s the only thing this tall in Bordeaux because in Bordeaux you can’t build over 4 stories because they want everything to remain the same as it was in the 18th century. Limestone and rococo and shitty wifi.

The bridge has 17 arches, one for each letter in Napoleon B’s name. Vive le resistance!

Then we came to this stunner.

Ho-ly shit. This thing is so high, storm clouds were swirling around it. That’s Liberty up there slashing through prices or chains or gender roles or something, I can’t really see that high, and then down at the bottom, it’s just chaos.

Water spurting from statue horse nostrils. I. Can’t. Even.

This spicy meatball was right next to one of the “fan zones” set up for the Euro Cup soccer fans who have swarmed Bordeaux with their wigs and flags and high socks. I walked by the fan zone, which was set up in a big courtyard. Along the perimeter you could buy refreshments, and in the center there was a large area with picnic tables. A lot of fans, mostly dudes in red, were watching a game (0-0, I checked) on a megatron. I was walking along the center of the courtyard towards the wine bar I had in mind when disaster struck. Someone scored a goal. The courtyard turned upside down like it was a snowglobe and every beer-drinking, flag-waving, wig-wearing lunatic jumped from his seat, threw his beer, and screamed and yelled and ran and moshed right in the middle of the courtyard.

Where I was now cowering.

It wasn’t just a stand and yell sporting crowd affair like you might expect at AT&T park. This was like if everyone in the bleachers at AT&T grew into a troll, took acid, and was given 44 seconds to live.

I was too surprised to be scared but soccer fans are scary.

Though, upon further reflection, that may have been the first goal they’ve ever seen.

Soccer is like that.

Though I was covered in beer and PTSD, I found the wine bar and did that to the nth degree. I even managed to catch the right bus on the first try.

France is trying to break me but I’m hard to break when I’ve been drinking.

Shopping in France

Yesterday was a travel day and not much of interest happened other than me getting lucky because of soccer (finally, a redeeming quality from a snoozer of a sport). The Euro2016 is happening and Bordeaux is hosting some games. Because of that, there was a special train from Narbonne to Bordeaux to accommodate soccer fans. I was on a train filled with drunk, singing, smelly soccer fans, but it was ok because I was on the correct train. And the singers helped me with my luggage. Thank you, soccer. Now carry on with your exciting 0-0 gaming.

I have discovered that buses and trains in not America do not have the same type of people on them. For example, unlike on MUNI, I didn’t think it was likely I’d get shanked at any moment. Also, people got up from the handicapped seats for elderly or pregnant people without having to be asked. I guess what I’m saying is it’s civilized. I am still me, though, so the whole time I’m checking the stops against the map, anxious that I will miss my stop or that the bus won’t actually stop at my stop or that I am on the wrong bus or that this is actually the movie Speed.

My airbnb is a full apartment in Eysines, a bit west of Bordeaux. The good thing is that I have so much space to myself. The bad thing is that the buses are on semi-strike here as well, so there are fewer buses to catch to Bordeaux and they don’t run as late as usual. Ce sera baiser, France.

I looked at a few places I want to visit in Bordeaux, (a palace but mostly wine bars) and then walked to the grocery store. Two notables about the store:

Tomatoes look like this.

The rosé section looks like this (that is just the rosé section).

I decided not to go to Bordeaux proper today and just enjoy the patio at my airbnb with my groceries.

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Which means I am eating BREAD and life is wonderful. Do you even know how good bread is? Bread from France? FRENCH BREAD? You don’t. You don’t know. You couldn’t possibly. You need to come here and eat this bread.

The forecast is thundershowery so I bought an umbrella. Oh, and I can’t figure out how to lock the front door of my apartment so I barricaded it with empty bottles like a local/pro.

I learned sortie means exit and going in that door doesn’t win you any friends.

I’m trying to talk myself down from the cliffs of panic about trains. I will soon not have to deal with the French, and so far I’ve eventually gotten where I need to go, right?

Wine is helping with this process. Santé

“Success is going from failure to failure without losing enthusiasm.” Churchill.

Lists, pt 2

Things I’m happy about:

How comfortable my new sandals are (17000 steps!)
How I brought my medium suitcase, not the large one
How many snacks I packed
Finding the Seat61 website

Things that are pissing me off:
French rail strike
Spotty wifi
Pay-to-use toilets
The French language
The apocalyptical wind in Narbonne right now
Eurail “help” centers
Lack of elevators at train stations or hotels
How 1 & 2 dollar Euros are coins
Nightsweats
Meatsweats

Walking around looking around

Today was my last day in Barcelona. I wish logistical issues hadn’t clouded my time here. It’s a fun city if you can endure the heat. I walked down La Rambla and took a left at Christopher Columbus to head to Barceloneta beach. Along the way I met this thing.

A child was pointing at it and crying.

Baceloneta, part of old Barcelona, is a bit winding and narrow as you would expect. It smells like salt and laundry soap.

The curving roads were a bit disorienting but I eventually found the beach. It was 22 degrees Celsius and people were swimming, sunbathing, playing soccer or volleyball, or just drinking a lot.

I touched the Mediterranean Sea for the first time in 17 years.

A bit cold.

I haven’t been feeling all that wonderful and consequently haven’t eaten much in the way of local fare. My stomach hasn’t been up to it. Today, though, I was on a Paella or Bust mission.

Bust. (Good subtitle for my autobiography, that)

Two places were out of Paella. I stayed at the second place and ordered shrimp tapas.

These shrimp were a bit uncooperative at first and a dog kept staring at me while I was trying to delicately pry off the legs and shells.

He looked away as soon as he saw me take out my phone. Isn’t that always the way.

My iphone pedometer says I walked 17,000 steps today. Time to put my feet up and rest.

Tomorrow I go to Narbonne to try to negotiate a ticket to my actual destination, Bordeaux. Maybe the strike will be done by then…?

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