| random obligatory update. |
[Dec. 8th, 2009|10:51 pm] |
| [ | feelin' a little... |
| |  sleepy | ] |
+It's raining here. Buckets, waterfalls, 64-oz Big Gulps. And I forgot my umbrella going to work. Nothing sucks worse than a cold, haggard rain. I came in the door tonight shivering and dripping and just generally feeling like a wet dog. I'd rather it snow. At least the snow has some aesthetic value.
+My iPhone died. Just randomly bit it. It stopped taking a charge on Sunday, and the battery ran down until it was done for. And since it won't charge, it won't come on anymore. I've been using my old Blackjack in the meantime, and it has only driven home the point of how awesome the iPhone is.
Good news: the phone can be replaced. Bad news: I have to drive to the Apple Store in Louisville to do it. So we're going tomorrow after work.
Oh, well. Other good news: The Apple Store is next to the Cheesecake Factory. Silver lining. :)
+I have no idea why I'm watching 'Teen Mom' on MTV, but I am as disgusted with myself as I am with the producers of this show. I knew it was going to be bad when I flipped to the channel and was treated to a scrapbook-style graphic of a young dark-haired teen mom and her valley-girl narration. Big cutesy block letters in highlighter yellow and robin's egg blue popped onscreen to introduce her -- FARRAH! Yeah. True Life it ain't. At least that show had some integrity about it.
So Farrah is a model, apparently, or something? And now she's dating Cole, another model. She asked him, on their first date, if it freaked him out that she had a child. "Nah," he said. "You're really hot."
+Sigh. And on that note, I'm going to bed. Getting up early to exercise before work tomorrow. :) |
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| What's the most important decision you've ever made? |
[Nov. 27th, 2009|01:22 am] |
| [ | feelin' a little... |
| |  artistic | ] |
I was talking to Jimmy earlier, complaining about how I used to write in this thing all the time. At the time, of course, I thought most of what I was putting down was completely trite and ridiculous. And a lot of it is. But at the same time, it's fun to go back and read entries from five years ago. To see how I've changed and how I've stayed the same.
Nowadays, I said, Facebook/Myspace/Twitter seem to take up a lot of everyone's time. He agreed: "If I put half the time I spent on them during a week toward something else. Wow. What I could accomplish."
So I said, hey, we should motivate each other. So I asked him for some writing prompts, something to get me posting here again. He sent over four good ones, so I'll start with the first:
What is the most important, life changing decision that you've made in your twenty-seven years? One of those choices that could have led you to a completely different place. Made you a completely different person. Made things a lot better or a lot worse for you.
In high school, I had lofty dreams of becoming a music video director, brought on by my love of Spike Jonze and 120 Minutes with Matt Pinfield. As I moved up in the ranks towards a senior, that career goal gradually toned down to video production, which then merged with my talent as a writer to become broadcast journalism.
So with that goal in mind, we shopped around for schools. I had a few rules. One: Morehead State University was OUT, and there was no way in hell I was even sending in an application. Two: The school needed to have a robust communications program. Three: I didn't really want to go out of state.
I narrowed the choices down to three: University of Kentucky, Centre College, Wake Forest University. Visited all three. Wake Forest was eliminated because it was far away, and when visiting the campus, I felt uncouth and unrefined, like I didn't belong in -- or deserve -- such poshness. Centre was beautiful, but it had no communications major. So UK it was. And at the time, the decision felt pretty solid.
So. When August of 2000 rolled around, my parents packed up my meager belongings and took me up to UK, while the rest of my friends headed the ten minutes up the interstate to Morehead. I went to UK alone, not knowing what to expect.
I've written before about being a lonely college freshman, years ago and in a much better, more succinct fashion. College, especially that first year, was brutal. I gained way too much weight, made no friends, and spent hours wasting away in my dorm room by myself. As I said before, I hated all my high school friends who had gone to Morehead and who were living out that stereotypical college dream of boys and alcohol and parties and fun while I became more and more introverted. And then Lauren died, and well, everything was shitty for everyone.
Reading back over that piece, this line sticks out: "I realized, then, that despite the difficulties I was having, I was the lucky one -- I had actually left all that behind, and I was perfectly capable of making a fresh start with people who actually understood me."
In the end, going to UK was probably one of the best decisions I ever made. I struggled. Things weren't fun for a long time -- classes were huge and impersonal, the girls in my dorm were sorority snits, many of my classmates were smarter than me and I hated feeling stupid. But sticking out those four years and graduating from that university made me strong. I really think of it as surviving a battle. Because while my friends clung to the comfort of each others' familiar company in Morehead, I had to kick myself in the ass and learn to do things on my own, because I had nothing and no one to fall back on in Lexington.
And I think that's where my inclination to tackle big projects really started up. If I hadn't gone to UK -- if I'd followed the leader and headed up to Morehead instead -- I don't think I would have become a creative writer. Or at the least, maybe not have developed the same voice. I don't think I would have gotten my shit together and changed my lifestyle habits, meaning I wouldn't have lost the weight and I wouldn't have become so inseparable from the gym. I wouldn't have worked at Cornett, wouldn't have the same connections that led to my first real job as a writer... in all likelihood, I would still be in Morehead now, trapped in the mountains working some government job that nepotism had given me.
At Morehead, because I would have had friends galore to occupy my social life, I probably wouldn't have developed quite an obsession with Hanson and spent so much time reading/researching/listening to their music... which means I probably wouldn't have joined the forums, wouldn't have joined the street team, and wouldn't have met half of you guys who I consider some of the most awesome people I know. I would have probably joined a sorority -- Delta Gamma -- succumbing to my mother's and sister's pressures, and that's a fucking scary thought.
It's crazy to think about it. To imagine how I would have turned out if I'd changed just that one decision. But I'm glad I went with my gut feeling. Because for all my flaws and ignorances, I like who I am. And for the most part, I like what I've done with my life. And even better, I like knowing what I'm capable of.
What about you guys? Anyone got a good life-changing decision story to tell? |
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| Halloween: the costumes. |
[Nov. 1st, 2009|11:29 pm] |
FRIDAY NIGHT: THRILLER PARADE.
As a zombie:
Anti-lulzing over the failure of the Thriller parade this year.
Zombie jump.
SATURDAY MORNING: THE GYM.
I taught Turbo Kick (Turboween) in a modifed-for-exercise version of last year's She-Ra costume.
SATURDAY NIGHT: TODD'S KARAOKE.
Where in the world?
Hard to tell here, but I'm "stealing" some of the Halloween jewelry from the bar.
Belting out "Paradise by the Dashboard Light" for the patrons of Todd's. :) With Jenny, aka "Babe-raham Lincoln." lulz. |
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| Costume! |
[Oct. 18th, 2009|10:53 pm] |
| [ | feelin' a little... |
| | accomplished | ] |
My Halloween costume is (mostly) complete. Minor changes to be made, such as switching out the current leather band on the fedora for some black ribbon, getting the right makeup, pantyhose, etc. Finding the right coat/shoes/dress ended up being harder than I had anticipated, but I eventually got it together. And the best part? I can wear all this stuff again, in non-Halloween fashion. The trench especially is pretty awesome.
My inspiration:
Instead of the black catsuit thingy, I went with a black dress:
Wheee! I love Halloween. :) |
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| Supernatural -- stay tuned. |
[Oct. 9th, 2009|12:00 am] |
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Due to my impending road trip to Detroit tomorrow morning, my Supernatural recap will be delayed a few days. Stay tuned. :) |
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| 250 down. |
[Sep. 29th, 2009|10:28 pm] |
| [ | feelin' a little... |
| | accomplished | ] |
| [ | listenin' to... |
| | "work it" -- missy elliott | ] |
And this, my friends, is what half a book looks like. :) |
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| More rewrites. :) |
[Sep. 24th, 2009|12:54 pm] |
Another rewrite, for those curious... the scene in which Alex returns home after discovering that Jay has been using her as his answer key all semester.
( I told you so. )( I told you so. ) |
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| Halloween! |
[Sep. 13th, 2009|01:51 am] |
I take Halloween very seriously. I'm normally starting on my costume ideas in the summer, but with the Europe trip and being sick and all that nonsense, I realized with horror this week that it was already SEPTEMBER and I didn't so much as have an idea of what I was going to do. The idea is always the hardest part, I hate costumes that are 'popular' for that particular year (i.e., everyone wanting to be Batman last year because of The Dark Knight), and I don't like generic costumes, I like them to be a specific person. In the past three years, I've been Tinkerbell, Alice in Wonderland, and She-Ra. I wanted to continue the tradition of bad-ass females, but not one who's overdone and cliche.
So, my friends, this year (if all goes as planned), I'm going to be Carmen Sandiego. ha!
I think it could work, and would be relatively easy to pull off. Plus, she's kind of a throwback, so I can't imagine anyone else around here showing up in the same costume. Wheeee. :)
And yes, Zeeba, this is really just an excuse for me to buy a red trench coat to add to my collection. ;) |
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| SPN fangirling. |
[Sep. 8th, 2009|10:21 pm] |
| [ | feelin' a little... |
| |  bouncy | ] |
| [ | listenin' to... |
| | "rise" -- public image ltd. | ] |
Castiel and Dean posing as agents. Yes, please! Look at Castiel and his cinched tie and buttoned suit jacket! Awww, he looks downright human. Though I do miss the messy hair.
I'm such a fangirl now.
I've been thinking of doing a regular TV show recap for awhile now, similar to the TV recaps over at Entertainment Weekly. I had been debating on what show I should follow, and then this summer as I was devouring Krystal's Supernatural DVD collection, I thought, this is it! Perfect choice. I'm coming in at just the right time, before the season starts. It's already fresh in my mind, so I don't have to do any of the pre-season research to get back up to speed like I would for another show. AND, I'm annoyed that EW doesn't do a SPN recap (they barely give the show any promotion at all), so I'm tempted to send the editor my recaps and tell them they should hire me. lulz. :)
So I'll give it a go! Starting this week. The season premieres Thursday @ 9 p.m. EST, yay. :) |
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| EURO THRILLER |
[Sep. 5th, 2009|02:48 pm] |
Jenny edited this faster than I expected. Thriller around Europe! :)
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| EUROPE: THE CONCLUSION |
[Sep. 2nd, 2009|11:23 pm] |
EUROPE -- THE CONCLUSION.
Back to Dublin, aka The Pink Bag Adventure:
We left France, flying out of the Charles de Gaulle airport back to Dublin to catch our international flight back (our overseas tickets had been roundtrip from Lexington-Atlanta-Dublin and back; for inter-Euro travel we went with supercheap AerLingus flights). We hadn't had any real plans for our last day in Dublin, which ended up being a good thing, since our entire day was spent on a frantic scavenger hunt.
First, some background. I hope Jenny isn't too embarrassed by this, but I have to tell it in order for people to get a feel for the frame of mind here. Jenny had bought a thick green IRELAND hoodie in Dublin during our first stay; she'd worn it for most of the trip but then noticed, when we were packing up to leave Paris, that she hadn't seen the hoodie in a day or two. We tore the room apart, and when we didn't find it, started looking through pictures to see when it had last been worn. She'd had it in London, but it hadn't appeared in Paris, so we realized that she had left it on the Eurostar train, up in the carry-on luggage bin... two days earlier.
Our attempt to go to the Eurostar Lost Items department were a pretty spectacular failure; only one of the three men in the tiny glass office spoke English, and he was barely decipherable. We spoke slowly, mimed, attempted to use what little French words we knew, everything, in order to get our point across, and it started to piss us off when the other two men inside began laughing. Finally, we managed to make the English-speaker understand that we were looking for a green sweatshirt that said IRELAND on it, but when he checked the logs (to see if anything had been brought in), found nothing.
Jenny was in an understandably foul mood after that, which only got worse when we realized our Metro tickets didn't work for the train we needed to take to the airport -- the RER. We'd bought three-day passes, assuming that we'd be using the trains on the third day, but instead we had to go buy ANOTHER separate train ticket just to get us to Charles de Gaulle. In addition, I was starving, as we'd been up for several hours and hadn't eaten, but when I attempted to buy a muffin and a Coke Zero at the train station's cafe counter, I was told they didn't take credit cards and I didn't have enough Euros to cover the cost. Fantastic.
When we arrived in Dublin, we took a bus to our hotel. We were staying in a different place than we had the first few days; the Skylon Hotel was closer to the airport, outside of the main Dublin area and not as busy. Taking a slew of luggage on a bus is a huge pain in the ass, but it was much, much cheaper than taking a taxi, and since my credit card was already on the verge of committing suicide, cheaper was better.
The nice thing about the Dublin buses is the fact that if you ask them to, your drivers will tell you where your stop is when they arrive -- very helpful for travellers unfamiliar with the city. When the driver turned and told us he was stopping at the Skylon Hotel, we all hopped up, grabbed our bags, and got off the bus. It was pouring down rain, cold and dreary.
When we walked inside the hotel to check in, Jenny suddenly turned around and said in a whispered half-scream, "I LEFT MY BAG ON THE BUS! I LEFT MY PINK BAG ON THE BUS!" and began hyperventilating. In addition to our big suitcases, we'd all had carry-ons and purses; Jenny's pink Vera Bradley carry-on had included, among other things, our hotel confirmation info AND her Macbook. Yes. HER MACBOOK.
I have to say, the desk clerks at the Skylon were wonderful. The brunette immediately picked up the phone and called the bus station headquarters; they in turn radioed every bus driver to alert them about a missing pink bag. We'd come in on the 41, and our driver was still on his route and couldn't stop, but we were told to call back in 20 minutes when he could park and have a look and they'd let us know what was going on.
When we called back, we got some good news -- the driver found the bag, and they had it in the lost & found. We were told to come to the carriage office -- a statement verified by the hotel clerk, who'd also spoken to them on the phone -- and we could pick it up. "Get back on the 41 going into town," the man said, "and tell them to take you to the carriage office." He gave us the phone number of his office, just in case we got lost, and so Jenny and I took off.
Okay. First, we got on the 41, continuing into Dublin, and we told our driver to tell us when we'd reached the carriage office. That turned out to be right in Dublin's city center, in the heart of all the shops and restaurants and traffic. "Get off here, walk down three lights, and turn left," the driver said. "That's where the office is."
We followed his orders, trekking in the rain, but when we reached the last light and looked left, we were confused -- it was Dublin Castle, an area we'd visited on our second day in the city. Confused, we walked into the nearest office -- a civic center of some sort -- and asked the man inside where the carriage office was.
"It's inside Dublin Castle," he said. "Just go back to that light and turn, then go all the way in through the arches. You'll see signs for it. What's the matter? You leave something in a taxi, yeah?" (just for clarification's sake, everyone in Dublin adds "yeah" onto the end of a question. Part of the dialect, I guess.)
"Oh, thank you," Jenny said. "No, I left my bag on a bus."
"A bus, yeah?" He started laughing, which pissed us off. "If it was on a bus, they're not gonna have it."
We both assumed he was saying that we were on a hopeless mission; that the bag had surely been stolen, and Jenny said, "No! I called! They said they have it!"
"Eh? All right." He pointed us in the right direction, and we left.
There was indeed a sign inside Dublin Castle: CARRIAGE OFFICE -----> and so we followed the arrow and went to the door. And... they were closed. Hours of operation: 9:30 - 4:30 (where can I get this kind of schedule, by the way?). Time of us standing outside the door in the rain desperate to get in: 6:15.
We beat on the door and yelled for several minutes, to no avail. Jenny ran over to an adjacent building and knocked, finding a janitor inside, who told us that we could try knocking on the back door, although everyone was probably gone. We ran to the back, beat on the door some more, and then it opened and a young man with glasses stared back at us.
"IleftmybagonthebusandIcalledandtheysaidyouhaveithere" was roughly Jenny's greeting to him, and the poor guy looked confused.
"Well, we're closed," he said. "You can come back tomorrow morning and see--"
"BUT WE GO BACK TO AMERICA TOMORROW MORNING!" I shouted, and that seemed to do the trick, because he meekly said okay and opened the door for us to step inside.
I don't know if this guy specifically worked for the Carriage Office or not, or whether he just happened to work in the room next to them, but he did take us up to the front and looked through the log of lost items. "I don't see it here," he said. "Did you say they had it here?"
"Yes, we called," Jenny said. "I left my bag on the bus and they said to come to the Carriage Office, that they had it."
"I don't know what to tell you... and the Carriage Office only takes things that have been found in taxis, not buses. I don't see it anywhere. And they've been closed for two hours. When did you call?"
We had called at about 4:45, which didn't make sense if they were already closed. Frustrated, Jenny got out her cell phone, and international rates be damned, called the number the man on the phone had given us, again. The same man answered, and when Jenny angrily said he'd told us to come to the Carriage Office and the place wasn't even open, he interrupted her.
"No, no, no," the man on the phone said. "I didn't say the Carriage Office, I said garage. Come to the garage!"
This won't make sense to Americans without this explanation: in some English-speaking dialects, the word "garage" does not have emphasis on the second syllable and have a long, soft "aaah"; in other words, it does not rhyme with "mirage." In some dialects, the emphasis is on the FIRST syllable, with a harder "a", making it rhyme with (and over the phone, making it sound just like) "carriage."
Yeah. We'd been told to go to the garage's office, and we'd gone to the carriage office.
So... next, we had to figure out how the hell to get to the bus garage. The man on the phone told us to get back on the 41; that the bus had a stop close to the garage, but our friend with the glasses pointed out that the closest bus stop for the 41 was all the way over on Abbey Street, and he wasn't even sure where along the street it was. Poor guy, he looked so befuddled by our hysterics and confusion and frustration. We thanked him (I think) and ran back out in the rain.
We grabbed a cab, thinking that it would be an easier (and drier) way to get over to Abbey Street. The driver, in addition to having a thick Irish accent, also mumbled, and Jenny couldn't understand a thing he said so I was left to converse with them. It went something like this:
AKP: "Hi, we need to get over to Abbey Street. Do you know where the bus stop for the 41 is?"
Asshole Irish driver: "Abbey Street, yeah? Bus stop... I don't know. Where are you going?"
AKP: "We just need to get to the bus stop on Abbey Street, but we don't know where it is."
AID: "You don't know where you're going? You don't know what part of town you're going to?"
AKP: "We're going to Abbey Street! I know that it's across the Liffey and runs parallel to the river!"
AID: "I know where Abbey Street is. I don't know where the bus stop is. It could be north, could be south. Where are you going?"
Basically, we spent 7 euros to take a five-minute cab ride to go three streets over; when he finally pulled onto Abbey Street, he started mumbling again about not knowing where the bus stop was. We just told him to pull over and we hopped out, asking the nearest shop clerk where to go. Luckily, we were only a few blocks down.
So, we found the 41 bus stop. Finally! We jumped on to tell the driver where we needed to stop.
"I need to go to the bus garage," Jenny said. "I left my bag on the bus and they said they had it there."
"What?" the driver said.
"The bus garage," Jenny said. "Do you stop close to there?"
"The bus GAR-age," I said helpfully, pronouncing it the way the man on the phone had done.
"What? I don't know what you're talking about." Annoyed, the driver began honking his horn -- the bus stop we'd come to served several different bus lines, so they had an official-looking man in a suit and sharp hat who appeared to be answering questions and helping people navigate. At the driver's insistent honking, the official walked over. "Tell your problem to him!" the driver said. Jenny explained herself for approximately the 35th time that day.
"Oh, yeah," the official said. He turned to the driver. "Just take them to the bus garage."
Okay. So the official pronounced it THE EXACT SAME WAY we had; I literally heard no fancy accent changes that would have made either Jenny or I hard to understand. But the drive then nodded quickly, as if everything had just been made crystal clear. "Oh, yeah!" he said. "The bus garage!"
"How much to go there?" I asked, holding out my pitiful handful of Euro coins.
The driver grunted, irritated that we'd held up his line so long, and waved us on. "Just get back there."
So, after all that, we made it to the bus garage office. Walking inside, Jenny said, "Hi, I called about a bag left on the bus..."
"Oh, the pink bag, yeah?" the man behind the counter said, holding up the Vera Bradley. Hallelujah.
In order to get back to the hotel, we then had to walk ALL the way back to the city center -- we knew there would be a bus stop there that could take us back to the Skylon. Our stop was on the same block as Carroll's, the Irish souvenir shop where Jenny had bought the now-gone IRELAND hoodie, so while we waited on the next bus to come, we went inside to grab another hoodie and a few last-minute items.
When we finally got back to the hotel -- two and a half hours after leaving -- Cindy was furious, thinking we'd been gone shopping the entire time without giving a thought to let her know we weren't dead in a gutter or something. Apparently, while she was waiting, the hotel manager had told her that we'd been gone too long -- the bus garage was only two miles from the hotel, he said, and it should have taken only minutes to go there and come back. In fact, he had wanted to call the police because there was just NO WAY we should have been gone that long without something happening.
Obviously, the guy doesn't know who he's talking about here. It doesn't surprise me one bit that it took us 150 minutes to do something that should have been taken care of in 20. At any rate, we got the bag back, contents intact, and everyone is alive and well.
Back to the USA, aka the Orangesama bin Laden incident:
This orange is a threat to our society and must be destroyed.
So, the flight back to Atlanta took much longer, due to head winds -- going over had taken six and a half hours, coming back took eight hours and 20 minutes. It really wasn't that bad, though. I watched Star Trek, which was very good, and Ghosts of Girlfriends Past, which is possibly the worst movie I've never seen (not that I was expecting much, but I am now 10% stupider for having allowed my brain to process such shit). They fed us twice (the airline food was surprisingly not bad), gave us plenty of snacks and drinks, and even gave out complimentary mini bottles of wine. I'd bought an orange in the cafe next to our gate and put it in my purse, thinking it would be a plane snack, but because they kept the food coming, I forgot it was there.
So, when you come back into the U.S., you have to re-check all your luggage if you have another connecting flight. Security is insane. We unboarded the plane and were led into a downstairs room with conveyor belts, all for incoming international flights. As we waited on our big luggage to come through, a guard with a drug-sniffing dog (a beagle, seriously) walked around, sniffing everyone.
The dog stops at me, and sniffs my purse. Then he sniffs again. THEN he jumps up and starts pawing the bag. Everyone turned to stare at me. "What's in the bag?" the guard asked.
"I don't know," I said.
"Well, he's trained to sniff out fruit, drugs..." he continued on with a long list, but as soon as I heard "fruit" I knew what the problem was.
"Oh," I said. "Well, I have an orange."
He looked at me gravely. "I'm going to need to see this orange, ma'am."
I opened my bag and dug to the bottom, presenting the orange. He took it, held it for the dog to sniff, and then asked to see my customs form -- when you come back to the U.S., you have to write down ("declare") everything you've bought overseas that's coming with you. He looked at my form, and said. "You didn't declare this orange."
"What? No, I bought it at the airport cafe next to the gate," I said. The thought of declaring a damn orange had never even occurred to me, especially not one from the airport I'd just flown out of.
"This orange is going to have to be destroyed," he said. "You need to take it to the agriculture line so they can destroy it."
"What? I can't destroy it by just eating it right now?" I asked.
"No, ma'am. If you open it up, the scent will carry and it will taint the room so the dog can't smell anything else."
Well, perfect. He scribbled a note on my customs form: CITRUS, K-9. A woman standing next to us, who had heard the whole thing, worriedly said. "Oh, I hope they don't fine you for that. My friend brought fruit in without declaring it and they fined him $350."
"That would be my luck," I said. Awesome.
When my suitcase finally came around, I grabbed it off the belt and walked over to the closest security guard.
"Hi," I said. "So apparently I have to have my orange destroyed. Where do I go?"
They pointed me to the agriculture line, which was separate from the non-offenders line, so Jenny and Cindy had to move on while I had to wait to take care of the offending citrus. By this point I was so pissed at the thought of paying $350 because of an 80-Euro-cent orange that I didn't care what they did with it; shoot it with a 9mm, blow it up with some TNT, roll it over with a tank, who gives a shit?
There were others in line; everyone had to go through the whole security screening again, throwing all their luggage onto the rack to be scanned. When it was my turn, I walked up to the guy running the scanner and smiled. "Hi," I said sarcastically. "I'm here to have my orange destroyed."
He didn't find the humor in that. "Just put your bags on the belt."
They scanned my stuff again, removing the offending fruit. On the opposite end of the scanner, where the machine spat out the baggage, another guard was taking our custom forms and pairing them up with everything that had been removed. He took my form and glanced at it. "Oh, citrus, huh? Yeah, we've had a lot of people trying to get it past us today, but we keep catching them."
Yeah, like my master plan all along had been to smuggle a single fucking orange injected with infectious diseases or anthrax into the country. "Well I didn't do it on purpose," I snapped.
"Get your bags at the end of the belt."
When I finally got to leave, I met up with Jenny and Cindy, where we rechecked our big luggage and went through ANOTHER security screening. Jesus! I was fully expecting the next step to be a full cavity search or a polygraph test, followed by a psychological evaluation and a round of vaccinations for swine flu, bird flu, and the soon-to-be-problematic Dublin Orange Flu. Working in airport security has to be the most miserable job; you spend your entire day yelling at confused, agitated people to take their shoes off and make sure all their liquids are properly placed in a one-quart baggie before they're allowed the privilege of going home. Not fun for either side.
Whew. As we were waiting for our connecting flight, Jenny and I pondered the fate of my orange. "Maybe they take it in a back room and blow it up," she said.
"Or maybe they kill it with fire," I said. "Or shoot it, like a firing squad." I guess we'll never know.
And there you go. Our last flight went smoothly, we all made it back to Lexington in one piece with all luggage accounted for, and now I'm sitting here pouting because I have to go back to work tomorrow. As the French would say, c'est la vie. |
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| Europe, Day 6: Paris |
[Sep. 2nd, 2009|01:05 am] |
EUROPE, DAY 6: "I NEVER THOUGHT I WOULD COME TO PARIS TO LEARN ABOUT KENTUCKY."
We slept in until about nine, since we'd had to get up at 4:30 a.m. the day before. Because it was our last official vacation day and we were in Paris, I decided to wear the dress I'd bought. I figured since we were going to the Louvre, I should at least attempt to class myself up a little (I should have thought of this before going to Harrod's, as well). Which also meant no tennis shoes, so I suffered in my wedge sandals until I thought my feet were going to disintegrate into a bloody pulp.
The first stop was the Catacombs of Paris, which is essentially an underground mass grave full of real skeleton bones... turned into a totally bizarre and creepy tourist attraction! Here's how I understand it: apparently back in the 1700s, the city was overrun with poorly maintained graves and the decomposing flesh from all the improper burials were contaminating the earth. Some genius had the idea to move all the cemeteries to a mass grave instead of individual cemeteries, adn thus Les Catacombes was born.
When we arrived, the line was twisted around the block and we waited nearly 40 minutes just to get in -- they only let about 15 people go inside at a time, which made sense once we started the tour. On a side note, signs warned that young, impressionable children and people with "a nervous disposition" were not advised to go into the tour.
We walked down a tight, winding staircase, which spiraled down several levels until, according to a sign at the bottom, we were underneath even the sewers of France. We walked down one low, dark, confined rock hallway after another, tripping over the bumpy, uneven ground. We went the length of several blocks until we finally arrived at the actual site (and by the time we stepped in muddy puddles -- little pockets of dropping condensation-- I was already regretting the sandals decision).
So, the Catacombs has a lot of bones. A LOT. Millions. The hallways are lined with them, neat little stacks of leg and arm bones with skulls decoratively placed (for flair, I guess). Interestingly enough, we didn't see any ribs, or pelvises, hands or feet -- maybe their shapes made them hard to stack. The bones were lined up so perfectly, and there were SO many of them, that I wondered about the poor souls who had been tasked with putting them in place. Talk about a dirty job.
As Keith had told Jenny, once you've seen a little of the Catacombs, you've seen them all. We had expected to maybe see some full skeletons on display, or something a little larger, like maybe a tall room stacked all the way to the ceiling, but it was essentially three or four block's worth of hallways of the same thing. We stopped to peer a little closer and take pictures in the first few hallways, but after that, we were a little bored and ready to finish. When we finally reached the end (and climbed up those windy stairs), we realized that the exit dumped us out on a random street we didn't recognize, so it took us about 15 minutes to figure out how to get back to the Metro station so we could leave. Thanks for the warning, Catacombs personnel.
MUSEE DU LOUVRE:
After lunch (pizza with fresh tomatoes & mozzarella and french fries -- I ate more Italian food and more french fries on this trip than I have eaten in years), we headed to Musee du Louvre, the largest (and probably most famous) art museum in the world. Keith had warned Jenny that he and his wife had waited in line for two hours to get tickets and get inside, but we just went to an automated machine, bought our tickets, and walked right in.
The Louvre is massive. If you wanted to go through every single exhibit and actually stop to appreciate all the art, I don't think you could do it in just one day. We spent three hours inside, taking time to go through the ancient egyptian, oriental, and greco-roman sections. We also sought out a few of the more famous pieces, such as the Venus de Milo, King Louis XV's crown jewels, and of course, the Mona Lisa.
The Mona Lisa room was packed, as we expected. The painting itself isn't very big, maybe 16 x 20 or so, and it sits on its own wall in the center of the room, surrounded by velvet ropes and two guards flanking either side to make sure no one comes too close. We had to fight to get close enough to take a few pictures and then quickly moved back. Growing up, I'd learned that one of the things that made the painting so special was the way her eyes followed you across the room, and it's true -- I tested it out by moving from one side to the other, and she appeared to be looking at me no matter where I stood. Which is interesting, but as Jenny said, I've seen other paintings that appear to do the same. So just what is it about the Mona Lisa that makes it so famous? What makes it any more special than the enormous, room-sized painting of the Wedding Dinner on the wall directly opposite?
Like I said, we spent three hours inside the Louvre, walking until we were exhausted, and we maybe saw about 30 percent of the art. Maybe. So if you ever plan to go, then remember: (B) don't wear sandals, wear comfortable shoes, (B) plan to get lost inside at least 20 times, and (C) expect to be hot and tired for most of the experience, because many of the rooms were stuffy and humid and felt like they weren't even air-conditioned. Totally worth it, though.
On the way back to our hotel for our break, we stopped at Blanche to see the real Moulin Rouge. We wanted to go to a show, however, the tour that included dinner and a show rang in at about 250 euros, so it was out of the question (that alone cost more than our plane tickets to get to Europe). We settled for a few pictures of the front marquee and some sweet, rich ice cream from the vendor by the train stop.
After a three-hour break to sleep and rest our feet, we went back out to eat dinner and see a few more sites. The Sacre Coeur Basilica was on our way back to the Eiffel Tower, so we stopped there first while we still had sunlight. The Basilica sits high up on butte Montmartre, which is the highest point in the city. And as it turns out, the plaza at the bottom was ideal for pictures... and another Thriller dance. During this performance, we got some catcalls, laughs, and a few people took pictures, including an American named Chris, who came up and asked us what the deal was with the dancing. We explained our "Thriller around the world" concept, the Michael Jackson concert we were supposed to attend, and introduced to him the concept of lulz.
Chris was from California, had been in Paris for four months, had spent a week or so in a monastery, and hadn't heard a real American accent in awhile. "Wow, I can't believe the accents," he kept saying. "Keep talking!" He had a snazzy Nikon Digital SLR and agreed to take a jump picture with us in front of the cathedral... which we're still waiting on him to e-mail. CHRIS, GET WITH THE PROGRAM.
We were just happy to have found someone who spoke understandable English, so we chatted with him for a few minutes. He made fun of our bad attempts at French ("Did you just say 'Troh-cah-DARE-oh'?") and the fact that we were too lazy to walk up the hill past the Cathedral to see the view even though it is supposed to be stunning. He also let me in on a helpful tip -- if you're an aspiring writer, you can go to the Shakespeare Company Bookstore close to Notre Dame and get free housing if you work in the bookstore for two hours a day (good to know). He then told us he needed to find one of a station to rent a bike, because he was going to the Eiffel Tower for wine at midnight with two girls he'd met at the bookstore. We said our goodbyes and moved on.
After doing a little shopping at the souvenir places along the street back to the bus station, we stopped to eat at Cafe Montmartre because the friendly waiter at the door coaxed us inside with an English-translated menu. We then made his life miserable by not understanding how or what we were ordering even WITH the English menu -- Cindy wanted a salad with only greens and kept saying "No meat" and he brought her a salad with a huge slab of greasy duck on it twice. So she asked for a hamburger instead, but the waiter didn't understand "hamburger", so we had to tell him a "cheeseburger, no fromage". We all ordered mixed drinks -- i wanted a pina colada but they were out of coconut, so Cindy and I got margaritas while Jenny ordered an LIT. And they were disgusting. Mine tasted like pure tequila with lemon juice, while Jenny said hers tasted like "Coke and rubbing alcohol." We choked them down because we'd paid five euros apiece for them.
We were finishing up dinner when California Chris showed up again, remembering that we had said we'd probably be going to Cafe Montmartre and disenchanted with the rented bike system, which wouldn't accept his borrowed ticket because he didn't know his friend's passcode. He sat with us for awhile, maybe an hour, just talking to bide the time before he left to meet his Eiffel Tower chicks. He'd been to Kentucky once, he said, when he was 11, and all he remembered were some horses and visiting Mammoth Cave, so we enlightened him on Kentucky culture -- Louisville and Lexington are the biggest cities, and Lexington & its surrounding areas have the beautiful horse farms and the more genteel feel while Louisville has the more artsy culture. Bourbon, horses, and basketball are the state's pride and joy, particularly basketball (seven national championships, winningest program in history, most SEC titles, etc).
"But you guys haven't been good for years, right?" he said, throwing a dagger into my Big Blue Heart. "You used to be good."
"Shut up," I said. "You wait and see, John Calipari is going to restore our tradition, and if he can't do it, I don't know who else can."
"Wow, you just got a little angry at me there." Then, later, as we were explaining about the discrepancy in the standard of living from the rural eastern part of the state to the luxurious horse farms, he said, "I never thought I would come to France and learn about Kentucky."
Chris also understood the concept of an "epic fail" and "pwning" but not the concept of lulz, so we enlightened him by giving examples and using it in conversation. "Do they really say it this often?" he asked Cindy.
"All the time," she said.
When we left -- with Jenny saying that we were heading for the "Lulzfel Tower" and me saying we needed to go to the "Lulztro station" to catch the train, he said wryly, "Okay, I can kind of see it now. It was just annoying at first, but you can even make it into words, so it's kind of charming."
We made him take a picture with the lulz sign for posterity's sake, and our cute, clueless waiter came up to us, smiling. "Ah, what is 'loooooolz'?" he asked, pointing to the sign.
"It's not a word in English," Jenny said. "In fact, it's not even a real word."
He just kept smiling, more confused than ever. I think the best part of his day was the moment we left.
EIFFEL AT NIGHT:
Like I said, the Eiffel Tower during the day was okay. At nighttime, however, it's lit up from tip to base with a million yellow-hued lights, like a huge golden skyscraper, and once every hour, it momentarily sparkles with flashing white lights so it appears to be glittering. I was instantly glad that we'd come back for a second look, because this was much more impressive than what we'd seen hours earlier. We walked all the way down the Champs de Mar to get a good shot from the distance. Dust in the air put orbs in our pictures, so they're not as clear.
While we were taking pictures (and jumping around), Jenny made the comment that it was too bad we couldn't film another Thriller dance, since it was too dark for us to show up in record mode. Approximately two seconds after she said this, a car pulled up in front of us, engine still running -- a man was driving and a few girls got out to get pictures. I grabbed my camera, gave it to Cindy, and we ran out in front of the headlights.
When we were done, a young man off to the side (who'd been taking pictures of us on his camera phone) enthused, "That was great, ladies! Impressive!" while his wife remained stonefaced. A street vendor -- one of those guys who walks up and down the street and harasses you to buy cheesy light-up figurines of the Eiffel Tower and other such nonsense -- came up to us, holding two Eiffel keychains.
"No, thank you," I said, thinking he wanted us to buy them.
"No, no, for you," he said. "For the dance!"
OTHER THINGS I HAVE LEARNED ABOUT PARIS:
-This city can't handle my megawatt hair dryer (or more specifically, our hotel couldn't). I'd had no trouble using it with the converter and adaptor, other than the speed being a little slower than usual. But when I plugged it in for hte first time to dry my hair, it immediately blew the fuse for the entire room and we were stuck without power. Jenny had to go to the desk and attempt to explain the situation to the man at the desk, who didn't understand "blew a fuse" but finally got it when she said "No electricity!"
-French keyboards aren't QWERTY. Jenny went to print our boarding passes for the AerLingus flight back to Dublin, and had trouble typing in the web site on our hotel clerk's computer. "Wait! The A is where the Q is supposed to be! Where is the period? Why is the Z on top?"
-The city earns its reputation as the city of love, because we saw couples making out everywhere, even in the oh-so-romantic dungeons of the Catacombs.
-Despite what I said about knowing French being a tremendous help yesterday, I can see how a foreigner could at least make their way around and live with the language barrier. If you don't know any French, miming helps, as would writing things out, particularly if you know any Spanish or Italian -- they're all derived from Latin, so while the pronunciations sound very different, if you can see the root words, you can get the gist of the message.
-Lowbrow humor is still very much intact, even in sophisticated cities.
-The roundabouts were fascinating to watch -- giant circles with NO marked lines and thus no lanes to stick to. Cars raced into them from incoming streets without stopping, weaving in and out of traffic to make their turns. I thought of the tiny, small-scale roundabout over on Wellington and how I've almost been T-boned many times by people trying to switch lanes when I'm going straight because they don't know what side they're supposed to be on to turn.
Next: Europe, the conclusion! Making our way back home, which was much more adventurous and complicated than it sounds. Or than it should have been, for that matter. |
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| Europe, Day 5: Paris |
[Aug. 31st, 2009|05:53 pm] |
DAY 5: J'ADORE PARIS.
So, in addition to "publish a novel" and "visit all 50 states" and "run a mini-marathon", my list of things to do before I die included "ride a real train." Which doesn't sound that impressive, but since I've never been on one, I wanted to see what it was like. Thus, instead of flying to Paris from London, we took the Eurostar.
The experience was kind of anti-climactic. Part of my indifference could be because we had to get up at 4:30 a.m. to get ready to catch it (long before the Tube runs on a Saturday; we took a cab that cost twice what our concierge said it would and ended up stiffing the poor driver because we were flat out of pounds). Security was more lax than an airport, although I somehow set off the metal detector (the metal button on my shorts? My earrings?) and got frisked by a stern French lady. The inside of the train was similar to an airplane, although slightly more spacious.
We took off, and at first I thought the ride seemed nice and smooth (and quiet), but when I stood up to get something to drink from the cafe car, I noticed the uneasy way the cars rocked back and forth on the track as it zoomed forward, like a boat. I had to walk through five full cars to get my Coke and stumbled every single step of the way. Another strange thing? Our ears pressurized and popped over, and over, and over. On a plane, you might feel it once or twice, this was almost constant for a good hour of the trip.
We knew the train went under the English Channel, and that was also a bit of a bust. It's not that we though you would look out the window and see fish swimming around, but I thought there would be a little more warning or fanfare. Instead, the train went into a dark tunnel (we'd gone in and out of various tunnels several times already), and it was only when it remained dark a little longer than usual that we realized we must be passing under the water. Oh, well.
I fell asleep (the seats have headrests with side walls on them so you can lean against them -- brilliant! Why aren't these on airplanes???). When I woke up, I was ready for Parisian lulz, the first of which occurred when we arrived at our hotel. They'd mistakenly doubled us for a two-adult room, and when Jenny said two could share a bed, the man at the desk (who spoke very little English), raised an eyebrow. I understood why when we saw the room. Three tiny beds, no wonder he thought we were crazy for wanting to share one. The room also contains only one tiny TV, has no air conditioning, and has a bidet (did I use it? Um, of course. When in Rome... I'll get to that later.). And yet the room was still ten times better than Jenny and I thought it would be. At least it has free (though unstable) Wi-Fi!
Touring Paris:
In order to get around to at least see the famous (and touristy) attractions of Paris, we took a narrated double decker bus tour. We first took the Metro to the Arc de Triomphe, where our bus would pick us up. If I remember correctly, the monument serves to commemorate fallen soldiers from the Napoleonic wars, and Napoleon himself wanted to create the biggest, grandest, most ostentatious arc monument in the world. Mission accomplished, although he died before it was built and never saw the finished product.
So, in Napoleonic fashion, everything in France is big and grand and ostentatious. It would be completely ridiculous if it all wasn't so beautiful. As our tour bus rumbled along, the guide literally had us whipping our heads left and right to look at the Next Big Thing along the route. Notre Dame, Musee D'Orsay, Musee du Louvre, Eiffel Tower, the high-end shopping districts, even the tunnel next to the Seine River where Princess Diana died.
The double decker was a hop-on/hop-off bus, which meant the bus stopped periodically at the bigger tourist attractions, and people were free to get off, go tour, and then hop back on a different bus later to finish the full tour. Our bus had nine official stops: Tour Eiffel, Champs de Mars, Musee du Louvre, Notre Dame, Musee D'Orsay, Opera, Champs Elysees-Etoile, Grand Palais, and the Trocadero. We only unboarded for a few. The first was the Trocadero, site of the Palais de Chaillot, where the hill provides a perfect, unobstructed view of the Eiffel Tower.
The plaza was swarming with people, which didn't seem that odd at first, until we noticed that an unusually large percentage of the crowd was wearing Michael Jackson-related gear. Jenny immediately picked out three guys fully decked in military-style coats, shirts, and a homemade banner and took a picture with them, excited to see others paying tribute on MJ's birthday. "We're going to do 'Thriller' in front of the tower!" she told the group.
The guys barely spoke English. "No, 'Beat It'!" one of them said.
"No, 'Thriller'!"
"No, 'Beat It'!"
We shrugged and walked off, moving down the steps to the lower level. While we were admiring the view, we suddenly heard it -- "Beat It," blaring from speakers closer to the street. As it turns out, we had accidentally walked upon a full-scale Michael Jackson tribute in Paris. Jenny ran up to the crowd, where hundreds of people were attempting to do the dance from the music video, and joined in.
When that was done, we decided to take advantage of the crowd being distracted. Since most people were up at the top, we could go get our pictures and do our own Thriller in front of the Eiffel without worrying about too many people crowding into the shot. It worked, sort of. Our Thriller was a failure because we couldn't hear our own music, but at least we got the jump shot. We usually get a lot of stares and titters, but no one even paid attention -- it didn't didn't seem that out of the ordinary, I guess, considering what was going on about 50 yards away.
We knew it had to be coming, so we wandered back to the tribute area, and when the DJ played Thriller, Jenny and I shoved through the crowd to be part of the dancers. There were men with TV cameras scattered about, and one of them was right next to the two of us, so there's a good chance that we ended up on French television news doing Thriller with a bunch of other insane Michael Jackson fans. How fitting.
On a side note, the other dancers were WAY off on the moves. I can't help it, I like to be precise and hit each count when it's supposed to hit. These guys had bad timing, sloppy moves, and weren't even with the proper phrasing of the music. Jenny said, "What are they doing? I don't know this freaky French Thriller." The people who come for Mecca's reenactment do a better job. Oh, well. C'est la vie!
Other stops not related to Michael Jackson:
So, the Eiffel Tower is big and metal and brown. That was my first impression of it when our bus pulled up and not much more. I'd always thought the tower was black, so seeing it in such a neutral, bland color didn't do much for me (it gets painted every six years or so to prevent rust, apparently they change the color periodically). It was impressive, yes, but I've seen a lot of tall, impressive buildings and structures so I didn't feel particularly moved by it. We decided not to get off the bus then, and to come back at night on our second day, to see the lights. Which was, as I will get to later, a very wise decision.
We went to Notre Dame, not for the religious experience, but for the French Gothic architecture. Inside, there were lines and lines of pews for people to sit and pray, but most were there just to wander around the gawk at the opulence (like us). I was confused by the displays of tea candles everywhere -- apparently you could pay two Euro to light a candle and... do what? Pray with the flame? the signs were in French, so I wasn't sure. Nevertheless, the inside was impressive, particularly the organ, but for me, Westminster Abbey was more breathtaking.
Musee d'Orsay was next, a museum mainly consisting of French art, including works by Monet, Degas, Renoir, and Cezanne. We mainly came to check out the Monet pieces and the works by van Gogh, although the sculptures fascinated me more. I loved the lithe figures performing various ballet moves (such as the arabesque) on the second floor, and David defeating Goliath on the first floor was particularly eye-catching (and no, not just because he's naked). We got to the museum late, around four o'clock, and the galleries closed at 5:30, so we had to make quick use of our 90 minutes to get through as many rooms as we could.
THINGS I HAVE LEARNED ABOUT PARIS:
-I did not expect everyone in this country to speak English, even though other visitors assured me that most of the population did and not to worry. False. Don't rely on that assumption; learn some French. Sure, a lot of people know English, but many of the people you have to deal with frequently -- hotel clerks, waiters, cashiers, etc. -- do not, or speak so little of it that they don't understand when you ask a question that's mildly complicated. In fact, most of the people we had to speak to weren't even French -- they were often immigrants (I assumed) from other places, so I'm sure hearing our barking American accents was as hard for them as their strangely accented French was to us.
-I've always heard that French people are unspeakably rude, especially to Americans, but I didn't sense that. I thought the people in Dublin were much harsher towards us, actually. While in our bus, we passed a market with fresh fruit and vegetables galore, and when we stopped, one of the men working suddenly tossed apples up onto our bus for us. I managed to catch one, and leaned over to shout "Merci beaucoup!" in my terrible attempt at French, and he grinned wide and said "You're welcome!"
-After visiting this unbelievable city, I can see why the French are so arrogant.
-Everyone smokes here. It's disgusting. And much of the city outside the beautiful touristy areas smells like piss, which is unfortunate.
-People will try to scam you on the streets left and right. As soon as we got off the Eurostar, a lady approached us and asked if we spoke English. We said we did, and she immediately held up a sign asking for help. You know those emails you get, the ones that say shit like "HELLO, I AM AMBASSADOR TO KENYA AND I NEED HELP GETTING TO USA. I WILL PAY U 300,000 AMERICAN DOLLARS IF U WILL HELP ME. PLEASE GIVE ME YOUR ACCOUNT NUMBER SO THAT I MAY PROPERLY TRANSFER THE FUNDS"? It was basically like that, only in real-life paper form. And later, a younger woman on the street walked by us and picked up a gold ring that had supposedly been lying on the ground. She tried it on, and then said, "It doesn't fit! Do you want?" to Cindy, who took it and walked off... and then the girl ran back and said, "Oh, I need some money for that." ha.
-My linguistics class is coming in handy. "Rome" in French does not rhyme with "dome", but sounds like "hum" with an exaggerated French-R growl at the beginning. We had serious lulz over this.
-This city is completely overwhelming, even though the vibe is more laid-back than fast-paced London. I feel like I have seen and experienced and been exposed to more in this one short day than I have in a lifetime.
Next: Europe, Day 6: Catacombs of Paris, Musee du Louvre, Moulin Rouge, nighttime Eiffel Tower, etc. |
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| Europe, Day 4: London |
[Aug. 29th, 2009|05:24 pm] |
DAY 4: ABBEY ROAD -- NOT AS SAFE AS IT LOOKS ON THE BEATLES ALBUM.
We slept in (to an extent), partly from being so tired from the constant running around and the show the night before, but also because we think we may have bought Tube passes that only worked after 9:30 a.m. (the man at the kiosk in the airport asked if we would be traveling before that time because limited passes were cheaper; we said we wouldn't so I assume he gave us the cheaper option. Who knows? We have two receipts from that one transaction, one for 15 pounds and one for 18 pounds, so I have no idea which we actually paid). For breakfast, we walked across the street to Starbucks, and Jenny paid six pounds to use crappy, slow Wi-Fi to send a few e-mails and updates.
First, we went to Harrod's. No words. This department store is so huge it might as well be its own city, and the goods inside are to die for. We wandered around inside just for a look, which is good, because a look is all I could afford. We started off in the shoe section. At first, I didn't think the prices seemed that outrageous, but once we got into the heart of the section, that all changed. I realized I was way out of my league when Cindy picked up a pair of mildly attractive beige spike heels with gems glittering around the bottom and held up the price tag for me to see. About $1,600, which is enough to pay for minor surgeries, say, wisdom teeth extraction or lasik vision correction. As much as I love shoes, I don't think I would ever be able to justify purchasing something that cost that much. Hell, I can't even manage to hold on to a 10-pound hoodie without almost losing it, why would I trust myself with a pair of shoes that cost more than all the furniture in my house combined?
The clothing section was sectioned off by designer; we walked through pieces by Dolce & Gabbana, Roberto Cavalli, Prada, John Galliano, etc. There were primly dressed store associates flanking every corner, but not a single one spoke to us. You know that famous scene in Pretty Woman where she shops for the designer frocks and the associates sneer at her? That's pretty much what it was like. They took one look at my clearance-rack khaki shorts, black Kohl's hoodie, and tennis shoes, and quietly turned the other way. I only wish I had the money to buy something just to spite them all.
Harrod's has a pet section. Have you ever known someone who has a real painting of their cat hanging in their house? Or a dog in a an expensive mohair sweater? Ever wonder where on earth something would find such things for their pets? Probably somewhere like Harrod's. The pet clothing section alone was probably about the size of JCPenney's first floor in Fayette Mall. We looked through the clothes, the bakery (I was really tempted to try one of the dog cookies because they looked damn good), the bedding (my favorite was the four-post bed with the white lace overlay), and the toys. I broke down and bought a toy -- a giant catnip catfish on the string. It was almost nine pounds, but I figured it looked sturdy enough to withstand Gambit's horseplay.
Since I love big, beautiful, pianos, we headed to the instrument department to see what they had to offer (nothing in my price range, obviously). A cherry red Yamaha Grand with Elton John's gold signature of approval across the book ledge was priced at 34,000 pounds (about $55,000), but the winner of the day was this shiny piece of work with real silver accents. It can be yours for the low price of only 109,000 pounds ($177,000). That piano is worth more than my life.
Abbey Road:
We visited 3 Abbey Road, home of the famous recording studio often used by the Beatles (and name-checked on their 17th album). Everyone knows this street from the album cover, when it looks calm and deserted except for the four Beatles wide-striding across. In reality, the street's a death trap. The intersection has no light and heavy traffic runs on both sides of the two-way street almost non-stop, yet every tourist (us included) wants to get a picture walking across.
When we walked up, we heard someone counting "Uno, dos, tres!" and saw one guy jumping in the middle of the road. Jumping! A kindred spirit! He and his friend (who both spoke English as well as Spanish) spoke to us a few minutes and watched as we attempted to get middle-of-the-road pictures of our own. We thought we would just be able to run out when traffic cleared, quickly get the shot with auto-focus, and run back. However, upon seeing several people standing by the edge of the road, a lot of well-meaning cars stopped at the intersection, expecting us to cross -- we'd see that traffic was about to hit a quick lull and would plan to run out after the last car -- and then that car would stop, we'd have to wave it on, and other traffic would catch up and we'd be back at square one. To get this and this took about 30 minutes and almost took Cindy's life, no lie. And I know Lacy, Melanie, Kelly, Sarah, and Megan will appreciate this: while I was standing on the sidewalk, one of the cars flipped up a rock and hit me in the face. Deja vu!
We also signed the wall right in front of the studio, but I read that it has to be repainted every three months because of the graffiti. Oh, well.
Tower of London and MJ tributes:
The Tower of London, also known as Her Majesty's Royal Palace and Fortress, is a huge historic fortress in Central London that houses, among many other things, the Crown Jewels of the United Kingdom. (It's also supposedly haunted by the ghost of Anne Boleyn, among others.) I was starving and it began to rain when we arrived, so we went into one of the side shops to find somewhere to eat and hide out until it passed. And lo and behold, we found our first English KFC. I wish now that we'd actually eaten there, as the little greasy diner we chose wasn't very good (and didn't take credit cards, so I ended up giving the waitress about two kilograms worth of change to pay). Jenny requested iced tea, and they brought her a bottle of Lipton and a little, but full, cup of ice. Small victories, I suppose.
Because the fortress tour is long and a little pricey, we passed it up and moved on to the bridge. The Tower Bridge sits on the River Thames, looming over the city and making the actual London Bridge look puny by comparison (and I'm convinced that the midsection of its crossing is the windiest area of the city, Jesus). The boardwalks flanking the river give you a perfect view of it, so we chose the closest corner to do Thriller with the bridge in the background. Normally, when we do the dance, a few people will glance over, maybe laugh, maybe take a picture or two, and that's it. They move on. At the Tower Bridge however, almost everyone in the immediate vicinity stopped, walked over, got out their cameras, and watched the whole thing. We even got applause when we finished. I should have set out a bucket to collect some pounds from the crowd.
"We were supposed to see Michael Jackson today!" I said to the general crowd, just in case they needed an explanation.
"And that was a fitting tribute," one of the onlookers replied after clicking away on his Canon. I wonder how many times we've shown up on other people's cameras during this trip?
The O2 Arena was next, while we're speaking of tributes. The O2 was supposed to be the site of Michael Jackson's final concert tour, so we rode the Tube out there to check it out and see the memorial. The building looked enormous, but Wikipedia says that it's only designed to hold 23,000 at its absolute max, and hell, Rupp Arena houses well over 24,000.
Outside the doors, they'd posted a huge white wall with a rough-edged picture of Jackson and his born/died dates. The wall was covered in scribbles -- there were so many, in fact, that you could see where an additional white wall had been added to hold more once the initial sign had filled up. Signatures and messages in a half-dozen different languages were scrawled all over each other. We spent a good chunk of time wandering back and forth, reading the tributes that others had left behind.
It was almost impossible to find a place to sign without covering someone else's note, and I didn't want to do that. I finally found a tiny section along one of the middle seams and left a few words that would have made Taylor proud. Very fitting.
Next, Day 5: Paris. Getting up at 4:30 a.m. for the Eurostar, Double Decker tour, random MJ tribute at the Trocadero, Eiffel Tower, Musee D'orsay, et al. |
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silveripseity's journal
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