Happy Hallo'ween kids.
I have at long last completed the rather enjoyable job (ha! job, indeed) of transcribing days of the trip. Long, yes. But I was having too much fun reliving it all to make short of it! So there. The tale of our encounters with "Fatty" were, in particular, sending me into hilarious bouts of idiotic laughter. Holycrap.
Perhaps now that the writing is finished I will be better able to throw myself back into the work that has been piling up around me! So difficult to get back into normal life mode after such a trip; really. Have continued waking early since the trip, though, so that leaves more time. I have been really enjoying these quiet mornings of writing, coffee, sunshine. Today, like yesterday, has dawned sunny and mild, *bloody gorgeous!* and will be another fine walking day. The park is mid-process of being set ablaze by the seasonal color shift- reds, oranges- brilliant colors, and I am still dumbfounded at how many years I've lived a mere two blocks from it and have largely ignored it (before this past spring, that is)- stupid girl! I've been making up for it, that's certain. Me an the 'pod. We trek. We meander. We are a good team.
Okay. Time for writing, dreaming, has finished, for now. I swear I will post photos somewhere soon. Really.
31 October 2005
20 October : London : last day
Damn! It is a sad thing to reach the last day of one's travels. Ten days seems so... short. However! We did still have a whole day- no aeroplane sitting until the evening.
I awoke early once again; around 8:00. Again, I used the time to prepare for the day early, and went outside for another morning walk. I so enjoyed it. It's nice to have some pockets of alone time when traveling. (Though I must point out here that Anders is an ace travel-mate, and even had I no actual 'alone time' all would still have been well- we sort of incorporated bits of it into our days as we went along, even as two)
Today we'd decided to head out to the Tower of London and London Bridge. We tubed it, as we didn't have an endless day today. We had a look at the "tower" (no tower at all, but a castle-looking building with a yard where once was a moat). Elevensies in the bright sun along the embankment, staring at the Tower Bridge, then across to the south side.
We decided simply to drift, once south. The Borough is where you wind up after crossing tower, and heading west takes you to Southwark. So that is what we did. We found many beautiful little alleyways along the river, and enjoyed the walk, the sky- such brilliant clouds again. We passed the Shakespeare's Globe theater, which had some incredible ironwork gates, and decided to hit the Tate Modern, as it, too, was nearby. The Tate killed! I hadn't been overly enthusiastic about it, but so glad we went. The main exhibit in the ground floor gallery was beautiful and surreal; entitled : Embankment, by Rachel Whiteread- comprised of hundreds of boxes of varying sizes constructed out of that semi-translucent corrugated plastic (such as mail bins are made of)- and piled and contrived to look like glaciers, file cabinets, mountains, christmas trees... all looking somehow like an impossibly enlarged whim made of sugar cubes. Wow.
We also had a look at some previously-unseen pieces by old favorites; DuChamp, Picasso, Cornell and the like- It's a great museum.
AFter the Tate it was time to begin the search for a really great pub for final pub lunch; we would not compromise easily, not today. We walked.
We passed a number of inviting places (to judge by outer appearance), but all were suffering the same two flaws: (1) pricey ultra-modern fare, and (2) filled with suits! Here we were in Southwark, apparently another business district, and so finding "dark and benchy" was proving a little more challenging than normal.. 'S okay- we can handle a challenge!
Finally we wend our way down an adorable street toward what looked from afar like a pub, but turns out to be a church. We continue on anyway, and land at Blackfriars Road. Just across an intersection we spy a very proper-looking spot called The Crown, so we decide to investigate. As we are reading the menu outside (having not realized it was the Christmas menu), a man comes out and hands us paper copies of the Christmas Menu (assuming we will still be here), at which point we just enter and read the current menu. We decide it's a go, and choose a table after ordering pints. Our host is friendly and jokes about how he's accidentally put the ales in the opposite-labeled pint glasses.
The place is large and old, with beautiful wood-carved detail everywhere. They're playing cool mellow beats, the afternoon sun streams in through front windows-- all is well. Our pub-finding instincts have done nothing but improve over the course of this trip. Smiles. Then our food arrives; brilliant! Rather New-Yorky fare in here (but with better crusty bread rolls than most places on this side of the Atlantic). We are pleased and decide this is one in which to stay for two pints.
While enjoying this place, we notice a particular green bottle at the bar... Absinthe! We've had none all trip, and decide we must, despite the early hour and plane schedule, et al. It will be a nod to Prague, once again. We order it up, and host Craig informs he knows nothing of it, so Anders shares the details of the ritual with him. Fire, sugar, water- the absinthe turns that clouded opal blue. (We can tell that Craig is totally going to start introducing this to his regulars. Ha!)
We indulge in the strange liquid, slowly- in sips. Before long, that lovely and singular narcotic high begins to introduce itself. Lovely in the sun, and the chill beats on the sound system have converted to jazz- so appropriate. We mellow like old cheese in this most comfortable and welcoming pub, but soon enough realize - we still have time in this city! Mustn't stop all day! We depart from this sanctuary, still feeling the high of the green fairy, and enjoy it all the more out in full sun.
We head north on Blackfriars, to the bridge of the same name. Pause halfway across to take in the Thames and the sky again. To breathe, to stare, to inhale. That kind of day. (a goal: to make everyday somehow that kind of day...) We place feet once again on north side embankment, and set about to find a tobacconist which may carry DJarums, Anders clove-spice ciggies. While on this trek, we pass a hippie; sitting with all his gear at the base of a stair. He requests a cigarette, as I am lighting one while we pass. I indulge him, then Anders recalls- the half-green cigarette!! He procures it from his bag (the one we'd rolled night before but haven't wanted)- and presents it to our hippie. I tell him (sotto voce) that it's "half-green". We continue on. At some point we come to a corner whereupon we spot a very large old building which has been converted to a very large pub; it is entitled the Knights Templar- we have to go in. We order half-pints, look about the impossibly cavernous main hall, use the loos. But we notice that time is getting late- we must hop the tube back to Bayswater to retrieve our luggage (left in the waiting room of Palace Court all day)! We head back out, and swiftly, in the direction of nearest tube station.
Here's something really cool- Mid cross-walk, who do we spot? It's our hippie! He's no longer looking downtrodden and slumped- he's smiling; he's all lit up. He sees us, gives us a hippie-wink, and says as he passes us on the street "you guys are the best!" Hilarious! We laughed and laughed- what are the chances? "Further Afield Agents: Helping Hippies." Ha Ha! We decide that being hippie-winked must surely be the opposite of being hood-winked, and continue on in search of the tube.
The tube station we find of course, is Temple Station, so it was a full-on Templar inspired afternoon. We make it back to Bayswater later than we'd hoped. Having retrieved luggage we hastily make our way through a route found on previous days to Paddington, where we can pick up the express to Heathrow. Amazingly, though running late, we make it to the vast and insane airport in time to have one last cask ale and a cigarette in a smoky airport pub before boarding.
I awoke early once again; around 8:00. Again, I used the time to prepare for the day early, and went outside for another morning walk. I so enjoyed it. It's nice to have some pockets of alone time when traveling. (Though I must point out here that Anders is an ace travel-mate, and even had I no actual 'alone time' all would still have been well- we sort of incorporated bits of it into our days as we went along, even as two)
Today we'd decided to head out to the Tower of London and London Bridge. We tubed it, as we didn't have an endless day today. We had a look at the "tower" (no tower at all, but a castle-looking building with a yard where once was a moat). Elevensies in the bright sun along the embankment, staring at the Tower Bridge, then across to the south side.
We decided simply to drift, once south. The Borough is where you wind up after crossing tower, and heading west takes you to Southwark. So that is what we did. We found many beautiful little alleyways along the river, and enjoyed the walk, the sky- such brilliant clouds again. We passed the Shakespeare's Globe theater, which had some incredible ironwork gates, and decided to hit the Tate Modern, as it, too, was nearby. The Tate killed! I hadn't been overly enthusiastic about it, but so glad we went. The main exhibit in the ground floor gallery was beautiful and surreal; entitled : Embankment, by Rachel Whiteread- comprised of hundreds of boxes of varying sizes constructed out of that semi-translucent corrugated plastic (such as mail bins are made of)- and piled and contrived to look like glaciers, file cabinets, mountains, christmas trees... all looking somehow like an impossibly enlarged whim made of sugar cubes. Wow.
We also had a look at some previously-unseen pieces by old favorites; DuChamp, Picasso, Cornell and the like- It's a great museum.
AFter the Tate it was time to begin the search for a really great pub for final pub lunch; we would not compromise easily, not today. We walked.
We passed a number of inviting places (to judge by outer appearance), but all were suffering the same two flaws: (1) pricey ultra-modern fare, and (2) filled with suits! Here we were in Southwark, apparently another business district, and so finding "dark and benchy" was proving a little more challenging than normal.. 'S okay- we can handle a challenge!
Finally we wend our way down an adorable street toward what looked from afar like a pub, but turns out to be a church. We continue on anyway, and land at Blackfriars Road. Just across an intersection we spy a very proper-looking spot called The Crown, so we decide to investigate. As we are reading the menu outside (having not realized it was the Christmas menu), a man comes out and hands us paper copies of the Christmas Menu (assuming we will still be here), at which point we just enter and read the current menu. We decide it's a go, and choose a table after ordering pints. Our host is friendly and jokes about how he's accidentally put the ales in the opposite-labeled pint glasses.
The place is large and old, with beautiful wood-carved detail everywhere. They're playing cool mellow beats, the afternoon sun streams in through front windows-- all is well. Our pub-finding instincts have done nothing but improve over the course of this trip. Smiles. Then our food arrives; brilliant! Rather New-Yorky fare in here (but with better crusty bread rolls than most places on this side of the Atlantic). We are pleased and decide this is one in which to stay for two pints.
While enjoying this place, we notice a particular green bottle at the bar... Absinthe! We've had none all trip, and decide we must, despite the early hour and plane schedule, et al. It will be a nod to Prague, once again. We order it up, and host Craig informs he knows nothing of it, so Anders shares the details of the ritual with him. Fire, sugar, water- the absinthe turns that clouded opal blue. (We can tell that Craig is totally going to start introducing this to his regulars. Ha!)
We indulge in the strange liquid, slowly- in sips. Before long, that lovely and singular narcotic high begins to introduce itself. Lovely in the sun, and the chill beats on the sound system have converted to jazz- so appropriate. We mellow like old cheese in this most comfortable and welcoming pub, but soon enough realize - we still have time in this city! Mustn't stop all day! We depart from this sanctuary, still feeling the high of the green fairy, and enjoy it all the more out in full sun.
We head north on Blackfriars, to the bridge of the same name. Pause halfway across to take in the Thames and the sky again. To breathe, to stare, to inhale. That kind of day. (a goal: to make everyday somehow that kind of day...) We place feet once again on north side embankment, and set about to find a tobacconist which may carry DJarums, Anders clove-spice ciggies. While on this trek, we pass a hippie; sitting with all his gear at the base of a stair. He requests a cigarette, as I am lighting one while we pass. I indulge him, then Anders recalls- the half-green cigarette!! He procures it from his bag (the one we'd rolled night before but haven't wanted)- and presents it to our hippie. I tell him (sotto voce) that it's "half-green". We continue on. At some point we come to a corner whereupon we spot a very large old building which has been converted to a very large pub; it is entitled the Knights Templar- we have to go in. We order half-pints, look about the impossibly cavernous main hall, use the loos. But we notice that time is getting late- we must hop the tube back to Bayswater to retrieve our luggage (left in the waiting room of Palace Court all day)! We head back out, and swiftly, in the direction of nearest tube station.
Here's something really cool- Mid cross-walk, who do we spot? It's our hippie! He's no longer looking downtrodden and slumped- he's smiling; he's all lit up. He sees us, gives us a hippie-wink, and says as he passes us on the street "you guys are the best!" Hilarious! We laughed and laughed- what are the chances? "Further Afield Agents: Helping Hippies." Ha Ha! We decide that being hippie-winked must surely be the opposite of being hood-winked, and continue on in search of the tube.
The tube station we find of course, is Temple Station, so it was a full-on Templar inspired afternoon. We make it back to Bayswater later than we'd hoped. Having retrieved luggage we hastily make our way through a route found on previous days to Paddington, where we can pick up the express to Heathrow. Amazingly, though running late, we make it to the vast and insane airport in time to have one last cask ale and a cigarette in a smoky airport pub before boarding.
30 October 2005
19 October: London day three
We requested a wake-up call at 8:45 (plenty of time to make breakfast which ends at 9:30). I woke early, though- 8:00- and decided to go with it. Quick shower, then, having had a look at the beautiful morning sky out the window, decided on a walk around the neighborhood; iPod in place, and some alone time wandering amid those on their way to work; kids being herded off in adorable school uniforms. So nice.
Return to the room minutes before wake up call and Good Morning to Anders. Breakfast. Coffee. Another day awaits, and it is sunny, blue sky.
Today we head north and east, through Regent's Park and up to Camden, to check out the markets there. Part way through the park we spy the fattest pigeon EVER; he is roosting on a fountain, and we call him "Fatty" and laugh at him. He suddenly takes off in flight, looking so heavy, and we mock him! We make the sounds we imagine he would make were he not a pigeon, at mustering that bulk into the air! Nggghhhhh! We say "he will make a fine Christmas dinner!" We can tell he is not pleased. We joke that he runs the whole pigeon circuit in this part of the city, possibly all of London; that he will send out his minions to get us.
Silliness. But check this-- about twenty minutes later we spy him again! And after elevensies of coffee at an adorable tiny cottage with outdoor tables, we spy more pigeons and joke that they are on a re-con mission for Fatty. Then we are walking north once again and holycrap! Poor Anders gets dive-bombed! Fatty had indeed sent his minions and a direct hit on Anders hoodie! HA! So funny. Laughing like idiots once again.
We arrive to Camden. We walk the seemingly interminable markets. They are much like markets here, and everywhere; many stalls having duplicate items as many others. We don't spend much, but enjoy the walk nonetheless. Along one of the main streets we enter a store called Firefly, wherein the girl working has Gorillaz' Feel Good Inc. blaring, which we enjoy while browsing (The song DARE was one of many earworms we hummed during the trip). Lunch was enjoyed at a sunny bench seat in a very large pub called The World's End. Comfort food, and filling. No way to finish it all. Writing in the books, laughing at things previously jotted.
Back into the streets, and heading back south. We decide on a route pretty much down the center between Soho and West End, heading through unknown territories between Camden and those two areas. It's a long walk; this day's mileage would outstrip most if not all previous days of trekking. Continued trek to the bankside of the winding Thames- a return to the more westerly of the two Jubilee bridges, and across, stopping halfway for dynamic views of the Eye and the stunning great clouds overhead. Here on the river the sky seemed nearly as big as in the west back home.
We cross and have a closer inspection of the Eye; decide we have no earthly desire to be stuck in a slow-moving glass pod for 30 minutes and continue on. Pleasant surprise of three large Salvador Dali sculptures outside an exhibit; we think about going in but, as it is a traveling exhibit we assume it will arrive in New York at some point so we can wait til then. We head back across the river over the bridge leading to the Houses of Parliament, Big Ben. Snap some dramatic shots mid-bridge (the clouds and the sky of this day will prove to be the most dramatic element in any of our snaps).
Walking, walking, walking. So much! Such an immense and spread-out city! We aim ourselves in the direction of Hyde Park to traverse a long diagonal back to Bayswater. As we are halfway through the park, the sky turns dark; thunder and lightning begin to threaten. Though our legs are by this time leaden, we quicken our pace, as we have not brought umbrellas with us today! The park is long, and after Hyde, we must still either traverse Kensington or at least walk its length along the street. We finally arrive at our main drag and I convince Anders to stop for a moment to check email in "En-Crypt", unfriendly but conveniently on the way back to the square. This would prove a decision Anders would mock me for- after a check-in we head toward the square. A mere three blocks from home the downpour pounds us! Our legs can barely carry us at the slowest jog ever! We get soaked. Anders points out that, had we not stopped, we'd have missed that sprint of drenching! Luckily the heater in our moldy room is controllable so all gets piled on and around so as to dry before final packing later that night.
We dine again at same place as previous night- deliciousness- then a return also to Babylon; we'd made plans to meet up with Kim there. She'd had a runway show this evening somewhere and would be off-duty at the bar. We did connect with her in the bar area after having a most divine and melty chocolate cheesecake slice with fine port in the terraced dining area. (Anders treated me to dinner and desert for early birthday.) So we wind up hanging out with models from the continent, a painter who does commissions for the Prince (William I assume), and his wife, who also works here. So surreal. Kim slips us a small stash of weed before we leave and a wink. A really strange night.
On the walk home we stumble across the Banksy exhibit of mock-representations of famous paintings and a room filled with rats! We'd seen it on the news while in Scotland, and here it was! Lights all on despite gallery being obviously closed- brilliant. The rats were adorable. Onward and up those many steep steps again, and time for the ritual known as the "drunky pack". we pack, and, having double checked all, decide to indulge in a bit of the green gift from Kim. Insane laughter and giggles again, and we wonder what to do with the remainder of theis green stuff? we roll one more half-and-half with tobacco, for possible use next day, then have a brilliant plan-
We "Further Afield Agents" (who stay and wander in places off the edges of tourist maps) decided to make use of the Hare Krishna book. I set about carving away squares in the center pages in which to place the giift; we would then place it atop the wardrobe, hard to find- out of sight- for some curious hippie to find one day, having been sequestered to "THE ROOM". So much laughter. So retarded. Man alive.
Return to the room minutes before wake up call and Good Morning to Anders. Breakfast. Coffee. Another day awaits, and it is sunny, blue sky.
Today we head north and east, through Regent's Park and up to Camden, to check out the markets there. Part way through the park we spy the fattest pigeon EVER; he is roosting on a fountain, and we call him "Fatty" and laugh at him. He suddenly takes off in flight, looking so heavy, and we mock him! We make the sounds we imagine he would make were he not a pigeon, at mustering that bulk into the air! Nggghhhhh! We say "he will make a fine Christmas dinner!" We can tell he is not pleased. We joke that he runs the whole pigeon circuit in this part of the city, possibly all of London; that he will send out his minions to get us.
Silliness. But check this-- about twenty minutes later we spy him again! And after elevensies of coffee at an adorable tiny cottage with outdoor tables, we spy more pigeons and joke that they are on a re-con mission for Fatty. Then we are walking north once again and holycrap! Poor Anders gets dive-bombed! Fatty had indeed sent his minions and a direct hit on Anders hoodie! HA! So funny. Laughing like idiots once again.
We arrive to Camden. We walk the seemingly interminable markets. They are much like markets here, and everywhere; many stalls having duplicate items as many others. We don't spend much, but enjoy the walk nonetheless. Along one of the main streets we enter a store called Firefly, wherein the girl working has Gorillaz' Feel Good Inc. blaring, which we enjoy while browsing (The song DARE was one of many earworms we hummed during the trip). Lunch was enjoyed at a sunny bench seat in a very large pub called The World's End. Comfort food, and filling. No way to finish it all. Writing in the books, laughing at things previously jotted.
Back into the streets, and heading back south. We decide on a route pretty much down the center between Soho and West End, heading through unknown territories between Camden and those two areas. It's a long walk; this day's mileage would outstrip most if not all previous days of trekking. Continued trek to the bankside of the winding Thames- a return to the more westerly of the two Jubilee bridges, and across, stopping halfway for dynamic views of the Eye and the stunning great clouds overhead. Here on the river the sky seemed nearly as big as in the west back home.
We cross and have a closer inspection of the Eye; decide we have no earthly desire to be stuck in a slow-moving glass pod for 30 minutes and continue on. Pleasant surprise of three large Salvador Dali sculptures outside an exhibit; we think about going in but, as it is a traveling exhibit we assume it will arrive in New York at some point so we can wait til then. We head back across the river over the bridge leading to the Houses of Parliament, Big Ben. Snap some dramatic shots mid-bridge (the clouds and the sky of this day will prove to be the most dramatic element in any of our snaps).
Walking, walking, walking. So much! Such an immense and spread-out city! We aim ourselves in the direction of Hyde Park to traverse a long diagonal back to Bayswater. As we are halfway through the park, the sky turns dark; thunder and lightning begin to threaten. Though our legs are by this time leaden, we quicken our pace, as we have not brought umbrellas with us today! The park is long, and after Hyde, we must still either traverse Kensington or at least walk its length along the street. We finally arrive at our main drag and I convince Anders to stop for a moment to check email in "En-Crypt", unfriendly but conveniently on the way back to the square. This would prove a decision Anders would mock me for- after a check-in we head toward the square. A mere three blocks from home the downpour pounds us! Our legs can barely carry us at the slowest jog ever! We get soaked. Anders points out that, had we not stopped, we'd have missed that sprint of drenching! Luckily the heater in our moldy room is controllable so all gets piled on and around so as to dry before final packing later that night.
We dine again at same place as previous night- deliciousness- then a return also to Babylon; we'd made plans to meet up with Kim there. She'd had a runway show this evening somewhere and would be off-duty at the bar. We did connect with her in the bar area after having a most divine and melty chocolate cheesecake slice with fine port in the terraced dining area. (Anders treated me to dinner and desert for early birthday.) So we wind up hanging out with models from the continent, a painter who does commissions for the Prince (William I assume), and his wife, who also works here. So surreal. Kim slips us a small stash of weed before we leave and a wink. A really strange night.
On the walk home we stumble across the Banksy exhibit of mock-representations of famous paintings and a room filled with rats! We'd seen it on the news while in Scotland, and here it was! Lights all on despite gallery being obviously closed- brilliant. The rats were adorable. Onward and up those many steep steps again, and time for the ritual known as the "drunky pack". we pack, and, having double checked all, decide to indulge in a bit of the green gift from Kim. Insane laughter and giggles again, and we wonder what to do with the remainder of theis green stuff? we roll one more half-and-half with tobacco, for possible use next day, then have a brilliant plan-
We "Further Afield Agents" (who stay and wander in places off the edges of tourist maps) decided to make use of the Hare Krishna book. I set about carving away squares in the center pages in which to place the giift; we would then place it atop the wardrobe, hard to find- out of sight- for some curious hippie to find one day, having been sequestered to "THE ROOM". So much laughter. So retarded. Man alive.
18 October : A Return to London
Sweet sorrow of parting, but less so this time. The sleek Intercity awaits us again, having retrieved our left luggage and downing a coffee, with, again, only moments to spare- no waiting or dawdling. We are efficient travelers, and no stress allowed.
King's Cross, the tube, Bayswater Station and walk up Moscow Road to Princes Square. The proprietors had no record (of course) of our change in plans, but sort us out after a few minutes. On our first day here things were muddled as well, and they'd provided us with a small "double" rather than "twin" room (remember the petite room?!). We requested a twin this time, to which they asked "Why?" but finally, after some deliberation , found a spot for us, and were kind enough not to charge the full three nights originally reserved.
Top floor!! Many many flights with full luggage- "We need sherpas!", our cry over the days of lugging... And note: here the first floor is what we call the second floor, so fifth floor really means five flights of stairs, not four- up some impossibly steep last steps to a room- "THE ROOM." Yep. We had been saddled with a room they must have saved for only last resort situations. The shower stall doors were barely hanging on, the ceiling was water-stained and moldy-- (we irreverently dubbed it our "Katrina" room) It did, however, have a splendid view of the square, plus phone and telly.
Hello again, London! We are no longer zombies!
Having got over the breathless hike up those "note-to-self-bring-sherpas-next-time" stairs; it is getting on near dinner time so we wander the streets of our neighborhood, not wishing a return to the Commander. We finally decide upon a place smack on a busy corner of our main drag, and are thoroughly and delightfully surprised at two really delicious meals, and enjoy a corner table for maximum street viewing.
Having digested, we head back out into the bright lights, glistening sidewalks from mist of rain, and seek next stop. We decide (after heading a few blocks east and finding only more hotels) to head instead toward Notting Hill; there's bound to be some interesting places over there, however trendy. And trendy we found- mere blocks from our square, off a quiet and darkly lit residential street we spot twinkling white string lights and decide to investigate. A surprise, indeed: The poorly-named but seriously posh Beach Blanket Babylon. We enter and find a table; looking around at the amazing and intensely detail-oriented interior. Order doubles of single-malt and a bottle of water. The drinks are pricey- £9 per (that's about sixteen bucks each in USD, kids) but we splurge to take in the view. We meet our waitress, Kim- a sweet young Swiss model, we would learn, who tells us that the proprietors were both set designers, and that the whole interior is "fake" but brilliantly done nonetheless. Here we stayed til final call of the night. Most enjoyable time spent, and the largest bill of the trip!
A misty walk back to "THE ROOM" and all those many steps are so much easier when one is pissed enough to not pay attention to them! Ha!
King's Cross, the tube, Bayswater Station and walk up Moscow Road to Princes Square. The proprietors had no record (of course) of our change in plans, but sort us out after a few minutes. On our first day here things were muddled as well, and they'd provided us with a small "double" rather than "twin" room (remember the petite room?!). We requested a twin this time, to which they asked "Why?" but finally, after some deliberation , found a spot for us, and were kind enough not to charge the full three nights originally reserved.
Top floor!! Many many flights with full luggage- "We need sherpas!", our cry over the days of lugging... And note: here the first floor is what we call the second floor, so fifth floor really means five flights of stairs, not four- up some impossibly steep last steps to a room- "THE ROOM." Yep. We had been saddled with a room they must have saved for only last resort situations. The shower stall doors were barely hanging on, the ceiling was water-stained and moldy-- (we irreverently dubbed it our "Katrina" room) It did, however, have a splendid view of the square, plus phone and telly.
Hello again, London! We are no longer zombies!
Having got over the breathless hike up those "note-to-self-bring-sherpas-next-time" stairs; it is getting on near dinner time so we wander the streets of our neighborhood, not wishing a return to the Commander. We finally decide upon a place smack on a busy corner of our main drag, and are thoroughly and delightfully surprised at two really delicious meals, and enjoy a corner table for maximum street viewing.
Having digested, we head back out into the bright lights, glistening sidewalks from mist of rain, and seek next stop. We decide (after heading a few blocks east and finding only more hotels) to head instead toward Notting Hill; there's bound to be some interesting places over there, however trendy. And trendy we found- mere blocks from our square, off a quiet and darkly lit residential street we spot twinkling white string lights and decide to investigate. A surprise, indeed: The poorly-named but seriously posh Beach Blanket Babylon. We enter and find a table; looking around at the amazing and intensely detail-oriented interior. Order doubles of single-malt and a bottle of water. The drinks are pricey- £9 per (that's about sixteen bucks each in USD, kids) but we splurge to take in the view. We meet our waitress, Kim- a sweet young Swiss model, we would learn, who tells us that the proprietors were both set designers, and that the whole interior is "fake" but brilliantly done nonetheless. Here we stayed til final call of the night. Most enjoyable time spent, and the largest bill of the trip!
A misty walk back to "THE ROOM" and all those many steps are so much easier when one is pissed enough to not pay attention to them! Ha!
17 October : Edinburgh bonus day!
Monday. Oh, waking after another solid sleep to full breakfast; CNN on the telly in the corner of the room; travelers from the continent in the tables surrounding-- the breakfast room really is a pleasant and reassuring aspect of traveling- despite nothing but bad news from the screen (Yes: hurricane Wilma, Avian flu having reached Greece, the dreadful earthquake in Pakistan... the mind reels and the heart sinks-)
BUT! Today is "Return to Edinburgh" day-- I swear I'd have cried if Anders hadn't agreed! (But I knew he would- he missed that city as much as did I) So back on that train! Upon arrival to our fair city, we took advantage of what is known as "Left Luggage"; a spot where one can leave any piece of luggage for as long as one needs- £5 per 24 hours. Brilliant! Anders had thought of it night before, so we packed all we'd need for an overnight into our smaller, more manageable bags.
Up those Waverly Steps into full noon- welcome back. A deeply inhaled breath, eyes closed- sweetness, joy. Along Princes Street we have a bit of a chat with a friendly hippie-clad "nun" (read: Hare Krishna) who told us of the many outposts of the organization to which she belonged throughout the world, and was looking for donations. In return, a cd of music which she described as "Monk Punk." We bite- pool our pounds of pocket change. She also gives us a hippie Hare Krishna book (this proves useful upon return to London), and wishes us well on our travels.
Continued walk down Princes to Lothian (or, as Anders preferred to call it, Lothlorian) and back to our Guest House 'hood, where the leaves are changing colors and carpeting the lovely streets. There is a school, by the way, at the end of our street- a middle school I think- and I cannot tell you the name-- for whatever it was, the clever kids had taken away all the portions of lettering on the sign, save a few characters, which ended it up as "ALI. G" Hilarious.)
Hello to Adam, again, and drop off the delightfully diminished luggage- then heading back out. Today is for walking the Water of Leith. It is no river; more a stream. It runs through Edinburgh almost hidden, and out to the seaside town of Leith, where the harbour meets the firth. A lovely and agreeable nature walk along what was a mill-spotted and dammed waterway in the city's more industrial times. At parts it takes you back up to the surface of city streets (we couldn't resist having lunch at the Bailie once again, even as it was so shortly after we'd set out), and at times takes you through plots of gardens, wooded paths- just brilliant. Along the way are no public loos, so we made a habit of stopping off now and again along the three mile walk to have "half-pints, and pee" Funny.
Arriving at Leith we are hoping to have an actual up-close view of the firth, the harbour; but are foiled. The stretch along the water there is thoroughly clothed in industrial loading docks, buildings, etc, and the water is quite literally out of any possible view. We don't mind, though. We wander, and come upon a place called Cameo Bar, which our kiwi-transplant hostess had told us of back at the Bailie. A wee respite, time to write a bit, then back to walking. Anders had consulted one of the maps, and found us a quite different route upon which to return to the city. A long, wide boulevard and nearly a straight shot back, with interesting things along the way (I believe it was called Boughton Street?)
We arrive back to the center of Edinburgh as the sky is turning its dusky blue, the lights in the clock towers are glowing gorgeously, and anders finds us a cute Czech pub beneath Waterloo overpass, so we stop in- a 'full circle' moment, as this city has reminded us in many ways of Prague. We chat with the bartendress, who is planning a visit to Prague in the winter, and Anders gives her the name of our Holiday Home Pensione, where we stayed while we were there.
We traverse New Town on our way back and realize it is getting late, so have simple fare of some toasties in one of the places along Queens street (or one of those streets north of Princes). Then to Bennet's. We sit at the bar this time, and the place is crowded. Anders winds up talking to various folks, as I nip outside multiple times to phone Kev, (missing him thrice before connecting) as it's his birthday. So happy we came back, if only for a day.
BUT! Today is "Return to Edinburgh" day-- I swear I'd have cried if Anders hadn't agreed! (But I knew he would- he missed that city as much as did I) So back on that train! Upon arrival to our fair city, we took advantage of what is known as "Left Luggage"; a spot where one can leave any piece of luggage for as long as one needs- £5 per 24 hours. Brilliant! Anders had thought of it night before, so we packed all we'd need for an overnight into our smaller, more manageable bags.
Up those Waverly Steps into full noon- welcome back. A deeply inhaled breath, eyes closed- sweetness, joy. Along Princes Street we have a bit of a chat with a friendly hippie-clad "nun" (read: Hare Krishna) who told us of the many outposts of the organization to which she belonged throughout the world, and was looking for donations. In return, a cd of music which she described as "Monk Punk." We bite- pool our pounds of pocket change. She also gives us a hippie Hare Krishna book (this proves useful upon return to London), and wishes us well on our travels.
Continued walk down Princes to Lothian (or, as Anders preferred to call it, Lothlorian) and back to our Guest House 'hood, where the leaves are changing colors and carpeting the lovely streets. There is a school, by the way, at the end of our street- a middle school I think- and I cannot tell you the name-- for whatever it was, the clever kids had taken away all the portions of lettering on the sign, save a few characters, which ended it up as "ALI. G" Hilarious.)
Hello to Adam, again, and drop off the delightfully diminished luggage- then heading back out. Today is for walking the Water of Leith. It is no river; more a stream. It runs through Edinburgh almost hidden, and out to the seaside town of Leith, where the harbour meets the firth. A lovely and agreeable nature walk along what was a mill-spotted and dammed waterway in the city's more industrial times. At parts it takes you back up to the surface of city streets (we couldn't resist having lunch at the Bailie once again, even as it was so shortly after we'd set out), and at times takes you through plots of gardens, wooded paths- just brilliant. Along the way are no public loos, so we made a habit of stopping off now and again along the three mile walk to have "half-pints, and pee" Funny.
Arriving at Leith we are hoping to have an actual up-close view of the firth, the harbour; but are foiled. The stretch along the water there is thoroughly clothed in industrial loading docks, buildings, etc, and the water is quite literally out of any possible view. We don't mind, though. We wander, and come upon a place called Cameo Bar, which our kiwi-transplant hostess had told us of back at the Bailie. A wee respite, time to write a bit, then back to walking. Anders had consulted one of the maps, and found us a quite different route upon which to return to the city. A long, wide boulevard and nearly a straight shot back, with interesting things along the way (I believe it was called Boughton Street?)
We arrive back to the center of Edinburgh as the sky is turning its dusky blue, the lights in the clock towers are glowing gorgeously, and anders finds us a cute Czech pub beneath Waterloo overpass, so we stop in- a 'full circle' moment, as this city has reminded us in many ways of Prague. We chat with the bartendress, who is planning a visit to Prague in the winter, and Anders gives her the name of our Holiday Home Pensione, where we stayed while we were there.
We traverse New Town on our way back and realize it is getting late, so have simple fare of some toasties in one of the places along Queens street (or one of those streets north of Princes). Then to Bennet's. We sit at the bar this time, and the place is crowded. Anders winds up talking to various folks, as I nip outside multiple times to phone Kev, (missing him thrice before connecting) as it's his birthday. So happy we came back, if only for a day.
29 October 2005
16 October : Glasgow day two
Sunshine of a sunday morning. We partake of the best breakfast yet- continental plus option of full English (or any portion thereof) made on the spot. A smoke on the steps out front then upstairs to prepare for the day. I ask Anders what's on for today, as he has been consulting the books. A still-sleepy Anders responds, "Necrophelia." Hilarious. I say, "Well, when in Rome..." He was, of course, meaning to say the Necropolis, which resides atop a great hill behind St. Mungo's on the far side of town.
A brilliant day for it, too. We head once again down Souchiehall and beyond, through St George's Square, which is lit up in an ethereal and sort of bluntly-blinding way in the morning sun. Here we encounter a strange sight (for New Yorkers, anyway)- that being great numbers of pigeons napping on the green verges in the park. "Pigey-nap!" On we continue, meandering toward our destination of the City of the Dead. St. Mungo's is large and impressive, but the cathedral is mid-mass so we must return at 1:00 to view the interior. We go round the back and enter the Necropolis. It is a beautiful place, with winding and convoluted walkways, and many, many obelisks, memorializing their dead alongside Celtic crosses, both plain and ornate, as well as Roman style columns and lovely draped urns atop high pillars. There are angels, great carven and bronze memorials. There is a view over industrial smokestacks and breweries as well as over the cathedral itself. The sun is hitting in such a way that it is all rendered equally stunning. We meander, sometimes separately, sometimes our paths finding our ways back to one another. It is a leisurely and lovely walk.
Late elevensies of white coffee and ciggies at a quiet place near to the cathedral, and then, we head across the way to the Museum of Religious Life and Art, where Salvador Dali's "Christ of St. John on the Cross" hangs, among other pieces of many varying faiths. The Dali is superlative though; it hangs high, and is a large canvas (not a single visible brush stroke), so that one must look up at it, but the perspective of Christ is one looking down on him from above, so it really throws one's brain into a spin. So cool.
On to the cathedral; cavernous, and with the organist practicing dirges up in the loft. My shoes clicked too loudly in the quiet there, despite the chords playing out high above, and the music brought back too many mornings spent in church! We checked the place out, reverently as possible, then back into the sun.
A small split (and bland) lunch of "Authentic American" food at -- Holycrap! an A&W™ (which I've only ever encountered in Montana). Sadly, we learned once inside, KFC™ has apparently bought up what little remains of the rootbeer-minded chain, as the space was shared by one. O well.
After more wanderings, and post-lunch pints at the Berkeley (dark and benchy, as all good pubs are), and a brief respite at our posh-for-us room, we dined once again at the Goat (the Duck!), and this time stayed a little longer; a DJ was spinning sort of mellow trance (or whatever of the million categories it would fall into if I had a clue of such details anymore). Tonight we decided we'd have a much more relaxed time of it than *Saturday Night* and determined a return to the Ben Nevis.
Upon entering the Nevis, we see (and more importantly, hear) a group of musicians playing traditional music on flutes, fiddles and the like. We find some seats at a table in the center and sit back to soak in the tunes (the "jam"-another total hippie moment, but Scottish!) As the night wears on, ever more musicians wander in with their instruments until, by the end of the evening, the pub crowd is no less than two-thirds comprised of entertainers. They were brilliant, and we loved every minute; took numerous tiny movies to remember it on our impossibly small digital cameras. So great.
Glasgow: more than fully redeemed. Surpassed expectations.
A brilliant day for it, too. We head once again down Souchiehall and beyond, through St George's Square, which is lit up in an ethereal and sort of bluntly-blinding way in the morning sun. Here we encounter a strange sight (for New Yorkers, anyway)- that being great numbers of pigeons napping on the green verges in the park. "Pigey-nap!" On we continue, meandering toward our destination of the City of the Dead. St. Mungo's is large and impressive, but the cathedral is mid-mass so we must return at 1:00 to view the interior. We go round the back and enter the Necropolis. It is a beautiful place, with winding and convoluted walkways, and many, many obelisks, memorializing their dead alongside Celtic crosses, both plain and ornate, as well as Roman style columns and lovely draped urns atop high pillars. There are angels, great carven and bronze memorials. There is a view over industrial smokestacks and breweries as well as over the cathedral itself. The sun is hitting in such a way that it is all rendered equally stunning. We meander, sometimes separately, sometimes our paths finding our ways back to one another. It is a leisurely and lovely walk.
Late elevensies of white coffee and ciggies at a quiet place near to the cathedral, and then, we head across the way to the Museum of Religious Life and Art, where Salvador Dali's "Christ of St. John on the Cross" hangs, among other pieces of many varying faiths. The Dali is superlative though; it hangs high, and is a large canvas (not a single visible brush stroke), so that one must look up at it, but the perspective of Christ is one looking down on him from above, so it really throws one's brain into a spin. So cool.
On to the cathedral; cavernous, and with the organist practicing dirges up in the loft. My shoes clicked too loudly in the quiet there, despite the chords playing out high above, and the music brought back too many mornings spent in church! We checked the place out, reverently as possible, then back into the sun.
A small split (and bland) lunch of "Authentic American" food at -- Holycrap! an A&W™ (which I've only ever encountered in Montana). Sadly, we learned once inside, KFC™ has apparently bought up what little remains of the rootbeer-minded chain, as the space was shared by one. O well.
After more wanderings, and post-lunch pints at the Berkeley (dark and benchy, as all good pubs are), and a brief respite at our posh-for-us room, we dined once again at the Goat (the Duck!), and this time stayed a little longer; a DJ was spinning sort of mellow trance (or whatever of the million categories it would fall into if I had a clue of such details anymore). Tonight we decided we'd have a much more relaxed time of it than *Saturday Night* and determined a return to the Ben Nevis.
Upon entering the Nevis, we see (and more importantly, hear) a group of musicians playing traditional music on flutes, fiddles and the like. We find some seats at a table in the center and sit back to soak in the tunes (the "jam"-another total hippie moment, but Scottish!) As the night wears on, ever more musicians wander in with their instruments until, by the end of the evening, the pub crowd is no less than two-thirds comprised of entertainers. They were brilliant, and we loved every minute; took numerous tiny movies to remember it on our impossibly small digital cameras. So great.
Glasgow: more than fully redeemed. Surpassed expectations.
15 October : Glasgow day one
Saturday morning we don't miss breakfast, and once again prepare to lug the luggage. We speak to Adam, our host at the Guesthouse, of bus schedules and routes, then make our way to the main drag to wait for one of these behemoth double-deckers to take us up to Princes Street, where we will descend the Waverly Steps to yet another train.
As we walk along Princes Street, having the spectacular north side view of Castle Rock and the steep green park at its feet on this side, I feel a loss and breathe deeply the sweet air of the city on a sunny brisk morning. I am not ready to leave, but leave we must, as we've made plans. (Without realizing it at the time, I think I was already feeling a slight resentment towards poor Glasgow, for taking us away from this fairy-story city too soon.)
A swift train ride (just under an hour) and we step out upon the pedestrian mall on Souchiehall Street (that's pronounced sookee-all, folks). As the mall is very crowded (Saturday afternoon, and sunny), we divert a few blocks then head in the general direction of our hotel. The walk is long, and my neck had got a crook in it even before our hippie-crawl day, and the lugging has worsened it, (not to mention having left Edinburgh behind!) so I'm feeling pained and I whine at poor, patient Anders all the way. Our route takes us through industrialized and architecturally communist-minded areas of the city, so this inevitably becomes the "March of the Uglies".
We finally arrive at the lovely crescent in which our hotel is situated and land in our new home. It is the best room yet; complete with phone and telly; it is neither cramped nor up too many flights of steps, and has a really lovely view out upon the crescent. Glasgow is in phase one of redemption after our dread march. Incidentally, we realize our crescent is just off Souchiehall Street, and had we simply stuck on the mall, we'd have had a shorter and much lovelier walk. But here again I will remind the reader of that phenomenon known as contrast. That horrible grey march proved important for two reasons: (1) it made the remainder of our time in this modern city that much sweeter and (2) it set in my head the notion of a return to Edinburgh...
Later on, after a lunch upstairs at the very crowded White Horse Tavern downtown (for example: you are directed to any available seats, as opposed to the next empty table- we had two different sets of companions at lunch)- started with a brilliant homemade vegetable soup, and thank god, for the mains were rather soggy and bland. No matter! A new city awaits! We head out and find a little rock-n-roll pub called Rufus T. Firefly. It is half-filled with weirdos of a familiar ilk, and we nab a table for some relaxing post-lunch pints amid familiar music. The books come out; post cards on Anders part (I lost all verve for postcards about halfway through Edinburgh days- was more interested in writing keepers in my book.) It is in Firefly that I put on the table (not whining this time!) the notion of canceling one of our London days in favor of a bonus day in lovely Edinburgh. I remind Anders that we didn't get a chance to walk the Water of Leith; I remind him we'll still have three full days in London, as our flight home (:: shudder even thinking on it! ::) is not until 8:00 pm on the 20th... Anders says he will mull a bit and get back to me later.
Back to the pedestrian mall; a leisurely stroll mid-afternoon, checking out the scene, the shops. Anders steers us into a lovely place known as "Lush," makers of subtle-smelling organic cosmetics; as we browse, test, and inhale deeply, we choose a few products with which to pamper ourselves and, upon stepping back out into the busy street, realize we've just had a much-needed sanctuary moment, and we feel indulgent and happy.
When we return to our room, Anders consults his itinerary for a few minutes, and then agrees that, yes, we shall have one more day in our "brown Prague"." Yay!! I call Adam, who of course remembers us (it's only been a few hours, remember-) and of course has a room for our additional night. I then call Palace Court in London to change our plans. It is sketchy, but I inform Anders that if they do charge us for all three nights in London after all, it will be on me- a birthday present to myself- one more day in Edinburgh. Having sorted that, we indulge in one of our few "disco naps" of the trip. An hour only (i was completely unable to sleep, but it was refreshing to simply lie there nonetheless), followed by a "rally" before dinner. Anders has invented a drink called "Jack the Ripper", in honor of stabbing our brains and -more importantly on such a trip- our tired bodies (my neck!)- It is one-third whiskey to two-thirds Red Bull, and quite tasty once one is accustomed to the sweetness and bizarre tang of it. It WAKES YOU UP! RALLY FOR SATURDAY NIGHT ON THE TOWN! Like that.
We head out.
Right in our own lovely off-the-map neighborhood (we are Further-Afield Agents- more on this later) we find a lovely restaurant-style pub (which i alluded to in the ramblings regarding day one, London) known as The Goat (though for some reason it stuck in my head as The Duck). Exceptional light and tasty fare and amazing cheeses, properly served up with apples as well as crackers. We sat on the balcony level and enjoyed the music, the low-light and candle glow of the place. Glasgow: still headstrong in her designs to redeem our initial misgivings. Following dinner we nip into the Ben Nevis; a brilliantly designed pub of an archaic modern style, with great high shelves of a million single-malts, lit up and casting an orange glow to contrast the stony parts of this singular interior. A modern city indeed, but in such a different way than the word normally calls to mind.
Post-Nevis, we wander in search of *Saturday Night*. We head back down Souchiehall to test the Nice n- SLeazy, a rock pub in the tradition of our old East Village. It is packed and smoky; too brightly lit to recall any East Village haunt I've ever attended (save after-hours at diners), and filled with twenty-something duplicates of all our former New-York-in-late-80s selves. Well, we came, we saw- time to move on. (A bit disturbing, really. You just can't go back- speaking on former times, other days. Wise not to try.)
Off the pedestrian mall, down a street whose name I didn't even read, and we are suddenly being drawn into a pub by a very enthusiastic man whom we both assume works at the place into which he invites us. But no, he is one of the karaoke-ers inside, and apparently was simply looking to increase the breadth of his audience! Here was a lively crowd, and diverse. Anders did a fine job belting a tune (Drops of Jupiter, by Train, which was apparently one of the karaoke DJ's usual tunes, so he became a bit of a petty tyrant for the remainder of the night-). We talked of our travels with our "host" Pat who'd lured us (who also bought us each a full round- pint and a whiskey for each- he was duly impressed that I wasn't doing half-and halfs!), as well as a couple of youngsters, Charlene and Mark, whom we invited back to our room for an after-hours whiskey and more talking. A long and whiskey-soaked night. Welcome to Glasgow.
As we walk along Princes Street, having the spectacular north side view of Castle Rock and the steep green park at its feet on this side, I feel a loss and breathe deeply the sweet air of the city on a sunny brisk morning. I am not ready to leave, but leave we must, as we've made plans. (Without realizing it at the time, I think I was already feeling a slight resentment towards poor Glasgow, for taking us away from this fairy-story city too soon.)
A swift train ride (just under an hour) and we step out upon the pedestrian mall on Souchiehall Street (that's pronounced sookee-all, folks). As the mall is very crowded (Saturday afternoon, and sunny), we divert a few blocks then head in the general direction of our hotel. The walk is long, and my neck had got a crook in it even before our hippie-crawl day, and the lugging has worsened it, (not to mention having left Edinburgh behind!) so I'm feeling pained and I whine at poor, patient Anders all the way. Our route takes us through industrialized and architecturally communist-minded areas of the city, so this inevitably becomes the "March of the Uglies".
We finally arrive at the lovely crescent in which our hotel is situated and land in our new home. It is the best room yet; complete with phone and telly; it is neither cramped nor up too many flights of steps, and has a really lovely view out upon the crescent. Glasgow is in phase one of redemption after our dread march. Incidentally, we realize our crescent is just off Souchiehall Street, and had we simply stuck on the mall, we'd have had a shorter and much lovelier walk. But here again I will remind the reader of that phenomenon known as contrast. That horrible grey march proved important for two reasons: (1) it made the remainder of our time in this modern city that much sweeter and (2) it set in my head the notion of a return to Edinburgh...
Later on, after a lunch upstairs at the very crowded White Horse Tavern downtown (for example: you are directed to any available seats, as opposed to the next empty table- we had two different sets of companions at lunch)- started with a brilliant homemade vegetable soup, and thank god, for the mains were rather soggy and bland. No matter! A new city awaits! We head out and find a little rock-n-roll pub called Rufus T. Firefly. It is half-filled with weirdos of a familiar ilk, and we nab a table for some relaxing post-lunch pints amid familiar music. The books come out; post cards on Anders part (I lost all verve for postcards about halfway through Edinburgh days- was more interested in writing keepers in my book.) It is in Firefly that I put on the table (not whining this time!) the notion of canceling one of our London days in favor of a bonus day in lovely Edinburgh. I remind Anders that we didn't get a chance to walk the Water of Leith; I remind him we'll still have three full days in London, as our flight home (:: shudder even thinking on it! ::) is not until 8:00 pm on the 20th... Anders says he will mull a bit and get back to me later.
Back to the pedestrian mall; a leisurely stroll mid-afternoon, checking out the scene, the shops. Anders steers us into a lovely place known as "Lush," makers of subtle-smelling organic cosmetics; as we browse, test, and inhale deeply, we choose a few products with which to pamper ourselves and, upon stepping back out into the busy street, realize we've just had a much-needed sanctuary moment, and we feel indulgent and happy.
When we return to our room, Anders consults his itinerary for a few minutes, and then agrees that, yes, we shall have one more day in our "brown Prague"." Yay!! I call Adam, who of course remembers us (it's only been a few hours, remember-) and of course has a room for our additional night. I then call Palace Court in London to change our plans. It is sketchy, but I inform Anders that if they do charge us for all three nights in London after all, it will be on me- a birthday present to myself- one more day in Edinburgh. Having sorted that, we indulge in one of our few "disco naps" of the trip. An hour only (i was completely unable to sleep, but it was refreshing to simply lie there nonetheless), followed by a "rally" before dinner. Anders has invented a drink called "Jack the Ripper", in honor of stabbing our brains and -more importantly on such a trip- our tired bodies (my neck!)- It is one-third whiskey to two-thirds Red Bull, and quite tasty once one is accustomed to the sweetness and bizarre tang of it. It WAKES YOU UP! RALLY FOR SATURDAY NIGHT ON THE TOWN! Like that.
We head out.
Right in our own lovely off-the-map neighborhood (we are Further-Afield Agents- more on this later) we find a lovely restaurant-style pub (which i alluded to in the ramblings regarding day one, London) known as The Goat (though for some reason it stuck in my head as The Duck). Exceptional light and tasty fare and amazing cheeses, properly served up with apples as well as crackers. We sat on the balcony level and enjoyed the music, the low-light and candle glow of the place. Glasgow: still headstrong in her designs to redeem our initial misgivings. Following dinner we nip into the Ben Nevis; a brilliantly designed pub of an archaic modern style, with great high shelves of a million single-malts, lit up and casting an orange glow to contrast the stony parts of this singular interior. A modern city indeed, but in such a different way than the word normally calls to mind.
Post-Nevis, we wander in search of *Saturday Night*. We head back down Souchiehall to test the Nice n- SLeazy, a rock pub in the tradition of our old East Village. It is packed and smoky; too brightly lit to recall any East Village haunt I've ever attended (save after-hours at diners), and filled with twenty-something duplicates of all our former New-York-in-late-80s selves. Well, we came, we saw- time to move on. (A bit disturbing, really. You just can't go back- speaking on former times, other days. Wise not to try.)
Off the pedestrian mall, down a street whose name I didn't even read, and we are suddenly being drawn into a pub by a very enthusiastic man whom we both assume works at the place into which he invites us. But no, he is one of the karaoke-ers inside, and apparently was simply looking to increase the breadth of his audience! Here was a lively crowd, and diverse. Anders did a fine job belting a tune (Drops of Jupiter, by Train, which was apparently one of the karaoke DJ's usual tunes, so he became a bit of a petty tyrant for the remainder of the night-). We talked of our travels with our "host" Pat who'd lured us (who also bought us each a full round- pint and a whiskey for each- he was duly impressed that I wasn't doing half-and halfs!), as well as a couple of youngsters, Charlene and Mark, whom we invited back to our room for an after-hours whiskey and more talking. A long and whiskey-soaked night. Welcome to Glasgow.
14 October : Edinburgh day four
Friday: Climbing the Seat day!! We awake feeling a bit "fumie"-- too many whiskeys- and we have overslept! Missed our free brekkie in the room downstairs. We hasten to dress and prepare for the day; Anders recalls a diner of sorts along Southbridge which serves breakfast all day, so that is our first destination. Scrambled eggs, toast, much juice (Anders got the "full English," [Scottish in this case] as it is known, with bangers, bacon and beans as well). Ready!
We take the east end of Cowgate down towards the Horse Wynd and Holyrood, for a variation from the high street. As we begin up the path, we notice a fellow hippie-crawler ahead of us. He's eating granola; we laugh. He takes a divergent path finally, after we spot the remains of some old building and decide that will be our first "crawl". We eye the many pathways leading up, and decide upon one that looks the most friendly. About two-thirds of the way up, however, this seemingly non-threatening hippie crawl suddenly turns into a full-on "Gollum-crawl"! (This was what we had dubbed the impossibly steep pathways up to the Crags which we'd spotted the day before from the Wynd) Having been in the lead, I turn back to Anders and say "Umm, Anders? Our easy pathway has just gone full Gollum." We laugh like stoners or lunatics and begin our ascent, hand over hand; there's no looking anywhere, save to choose the next solid spot upon which to place one's hand or foot. Intense, and made the more difficult as we 'tards are still laughing like idiots the whole way up. Finally we reach the ruins; remainders of what was once St. Anthony's Chapel. We snap some photos, but are only mildly interested, as our climb has gotten both our heads away from sight-seeing mode and into full hippie-crawler mode. This challenge was a corner turned; a new and exciting perspective for we city-dwellers.
I won't describe the remainder of our way up to Arthur's Seat, nor back into the vale (down some very Gollum steps) and up to the top of the Crags; I will say only that spending the day in such an atmosphere and busy focused on choosing one's footing, the occasional pang of vertigo, the view all round from 800+ feet up-- it's such a high (no pun intended)-- one of the most amazing things I've ever done. I shall certainly try to incorporate days like that into future travels- so f*ing brilliant.
Another excerpt:
"I felt a sadness as we returned to pavement--
felt a loss at the ease of it"
Dinner at the Black Bull along the pub/hotel row (at which point I finally sorted the map with the territory in my head, as here, too, was Apex City Hotel bar, from first night when I left navigation to the boys) There was a group of friars in the pub, surrounded by interested parties, many of whom wished to have a photo with them. Hilarious. God, where did we head after that? Aha! Yes, it was Friday night, along that pub row, so we hung around for a bit- next stop was The Last Drop, where, hysterically, we ran into the friars again (we'd noticed their absence as we exited the Black Bull). Then a drink at Finn's (aka "Finn McCool's"), where I talked with our bartendress about New York a bit, followed by some exploring off the row and towards the home base; we landed briefly at a Pub known as Doctor's, which was chock-a-block full of university kids. We are "oldsters" in there (bah!), and the lights are very bright, so we don't tarry long, though it was interesting people-watching. We wind up, of course, having last call at Bennet's, where we see our Grace again, and have one of the local men snap a photo of the three of us.
Yet another night whereupon one falls immediately into deep and deserved sleep as the head hits the pillow.
We take the east end of Cowgate down towards the Horse Wynd and Holyrood, for a variation from the high street. As we begin up the path, we notice a fellow hippie-crawler ahead of us. He's eating granola; we laugh. He takes a divergent path finally, after we spot the remains of some old building and decide that will be our first "crawl". We eye the many pathways leading up, and decide upon one that looks the most friendly. About two-thirds of the way up, however, this seemingly non-threatening hippie crawl suddenly turns into a full-on "Gollum-crawl"! (This was what we had dubbed the impossibly steep pathways up to the Crags which we'd spotted the day before from the Wynd) Having been in the lead, I turn back to Anders and say "Umm, Anders? Our easy pathway has just gone full Gollum." We laugh like stoners or lunatics and begin our ascent, hand over hand; there's no looking anywhere, save to choose the next solid spot upon which to place one's hand or foot. Intense, and made the more difficult as we 'tards are still laughing like idiots the whole way up. Finally we reach the ruins; remainders of what was once St. Anthony's Chapel. We snap some photos, but are only mildly interested, as our climb has gotten both our heads away from sight-seeing mode and into full hippie-crawler mode. This challenge was a corner turned; a new and exciting perspective for we city-dwellers.
I won't describe the remainder of our way up to Arthur's Seat, nor back into the vale (down some very Gollum steps) and up to the top of the Crags; I will say only that spending the day in such an atmosphere and busy focused on choosing one's footing, the occasional pang of vertigo, the view all round from 800+ feet up-- it's such a high (no pun intended)-- one of the most amazing things I've ever done. I shall certainly try to incorporate days like that into future travels- so f*ing brilliant.
Another excerpt:
"I felt a sadness as we returned to pavement--
felt a loss at the ease of it"
Dinner at the Black Bull along the pub/hotel row (at which point I finally sorted the map with the territory in my head, as here, too, was Apex City Hotel bar, from first night when I left navigation to the boys) There was a group of friars in the pub, surrounded by interested parties, many of whom wished to have a photo with them. Hilarious. God, where did we head after that? Aha! Yes, it was Friday night, along that pub row, so we hung around for a bit- next stop was The Last Drop, where, hysterically, we ran into the friars again (we'd noticed their absence as we exited the Black Bull). Then a drink at Finn's (aka "Finn McCool's"), where I talked with our bartendress about New York a bit, followed by some exploring off the row and towards the home base; we landed briefly at a Pub known as Doctor's, which was chock-a-block full of university kids. We are "oldsters" in there (bah!), and the lights are very bright, so we don't tarry long, though it was interesting people-watching. We wind up, of course, having last call at Bennet's, where we see our Grace again, and have one of the local men snap a photo of the three of us.
Yet another night whereupon one falls immediately into deep and deserved sleep as the head hits the pillow.
13 October : Edinburgh day three
Thursday morning dawned cool and crisp, showing signs that perhaps the rain had left us for the time being. We enjoyed hot water showers and continental breakfast (alas with instant coffee, but no matter). Today would be our day of the Royal Mile; "Have fun storming the castle!" day, more precisely. We head out early, and as we walk up Johnston Terrace toward the Hub (stopping for a real coffee on the way- if you take it with milk, be sure to order a "white coffee"), the sun breaks clear through and the city takes on the quality of a cat, napping midday in summer. Needless to say we were pleased. (Though we would have been quite happy to continue our explorations in drizzle, a clear sunny day makes the views from Castle Rock all the more vast and dramatic.)
We climb up the hill to Castle Rock, queue up with the tourists to purchase tickets, and soak up some sun atop the rock. We are disappointed by the presence of two facing sets of temporary stadium seating on either side of the approach to the castle gate ("Uglies" we called them), but this is another small matter. We enter the castle and begin to explore. Here is where Robert the Bruce (among others) resided- here is a place, now full of gawkers like ourselves, once filled with Scot soldiers, prisoners of war, and rulers of a kingdom fighting for its sovereignty. Large stone buildings, heavy as all the others in this town; cobbled pathways looking to have been carved out if the Rock itself; a memorial for all the many Scots, fallen in many wars; parapets; canons- Mons Meg (the largest one, once shot a ballistic that traveled two miles); a chapel; a grave site for the dogs of war set upon a terraced ledge. The most impressive thing from atop Castle Rock, however, is the unrivaled view of the city in 360º- especially, as I said, on a clear and sunny day. The Firth of Forth spreads out in the distance to the north- blue and larger than you thought possible (it is, after all, a mere estuary. Ha!)
As we descend the hill once again to continue wending our way along the Royal Mile-- the sun is at full noon, the city is warming as it dries. The smell of the city hits me of a sudden moment-- sweet, old stone, history, wisp of musty or something similar- it hits like a brick wall and yet is the subtlest of scents (particularly among cities)- intoxicating, especially on such a big blue sky day. The smell would stay in the air for the remainder of our sunny time in this city; missed and mourned immediately upon leaving. It is unlike anyplace I've been, again, in that way. The place has ways of overtaking parts of one's brain, or memory-- wow.
"Such dusky grandeur clothed the height
Where the huge castle holds its state
And all the steep slope down
Whose ridgy back heaves to the sky
Piled deep and massy, close and high
Mine own romantic town."
- Sir Walter Scott, Marmion Canto IV
On to Mary King's Close. Here I'll paraphrase from the literature (one of many ostensibly "haunted" tour experiences, but the history and sheer numbers that the "16th century" guide dishes out as you descend ever deeper below the level of the high street is far more frightening than any ghost story) To wit : "Hidden beneath the Royal Mile lies Edinburgh's deepest secret; a warren of hidden 'closes' where real people lived, worked and died. For centuries they have lain forgotten and abandoned... until now." (For more info, Google™ that shit- not enough room to tally here.)
Pub lunch in the Royal McGregor, surprisingly relaxed and welcoming despite its being situated dead center-city on the high street. Very nice. Notes jotted, post cards written, then dropped in the post box just outside.
On our walk down the Mile we stop into a map shop specializing in reproductions of antique cartographic lovelies; the proprietor is chatty and interested; we talk politics; the horrorshow that is George W. and his cabinet. He speaks frankly of the disdain Europeans (and even Canadians he has encountered) have for Americans, but follows it up with his theory of "the five percenters"-- those being we 5% of Americans who hold passports (can we really be so few??); travelers who have a view beyond our own borders, who are aware of the rest of the big world beyond the U.S. An interesting chap.
More walking. Out to the very end of the Royal Mile to Horse Wynd and the most spectacular view of Holyrood Park and the Salisbury Crags, sun hitting them at such an angle as to transform this end of Edinburgh to a view more fitting of Arizona or New Mexico.
Random excerpt from jottings in my book:
"The firth spoons the city to the east,
while the setting sun sets a fire along the crags"
Brilliant view, so long as one is facing the park. (Bizarrely, the Horse Wynd end of the Mile is also the location of the new Scottish Parliament building-- a crime against architecture and this beautiful city and the park across the motorway from its hideousness. Seriously. A true "Ugly." We laughed at it, mocked it, photographed it for contrast.) We stare at the fiery crags; get excited about climbing Arthur's Seat, which we will do on the morrow. We head along the Queen's Drive, trying to determine a route homeward that will take us down streets we've not yet seen. Along the side of this curved motorway, circumnavigating the park, we spy a hidden trail going up a hill; a hippie is descending from the woods, and it is more closely the direction we want than any flagged pavements in sight. We dub this trail a "hippie crawl" and, intrepid, set out to climb it to unknown destination. After a few minutes of climbing, it lands us a a stair, ending in a rather nondescript car park (that's a parking lot across the pond) behind some buildings that give the vague impression of student housing. Our meanderings lead us to the Meadows, and following them all the way, we find ourselves blocks from home, and having had a lovely autumnal green walk as dusk set upon us.
Dinner at Bennet's, our local. More football on the screen, a sweet and mellow time at our same table- end of the row and closest to the fireplace. Scotch whiskeys and pints. Tonight is when we meet Grace, our lovely and friendly bartendress.
We climb up the hill to Castle Rock, queue up with the tourists to purchase tickets, and soak up some sun atop the rock. We are disappointed by the presence of two facing sets of temporary stadium seating on either side of the approach to the castle gate ("Uglies" we called them), but this is another small matter. We enter the castle and begin to explore. Here is where Robert the Bruce (among others) resided- here is a place, now full of gawkers like ourselves, once filled with Scot soldiers, prisoners of war, and rulers of a kingdom fighting for its sovereignty. Large stone buildings, heavy as all the others in this town; cobbled pathways looking to have been carved out if the Rock itself; a memorial for all the many Scots, fallen in many wars; parapets; canons- Mons Meg (the largest one, once shot a ballistic that traveled two miles); a chapel; a grave site for the dogs of war set upon a terraced ledge. The most impressive thing from atop Castle Rock, however, is the unrivaled view of the city in 360º- especially, as I said, on a clear and sunny day. The Firth of Forth spreads out in the distance to the north- blue and larger than you thought possible (it is, after all, a mere estuary. Ha!)
As we descend the hill once again to continue wending our way along the Royal Mile-- the sun is at full noon, the city is warming as it dries. The smell of the city hits me of a sudden moment-- sweet, old stone, history, wisp of musty or something similar- it hits like a brick wall and yet is the subtlest of scents (particularly among cities)- intoxicating, especially on such a big blue sky day. The smell would stay in the air for the remainder of our sunny time in this city; missed and mourned immediately upon leaving. It is unlike anyplace I've been, again, in that way. The place has ways of overtaking parts of one's brain, or memory-- wow.
"Such dusky grandeur clothed the height
Where the huge castle holds its state
And all the steep slope down
Whose ridgy back heaves to the sky
Piled deep and massy, close and high
Mine own romantic town."
- Sir Walter Scott, Marmion Canto IV
On to Mary King's Close. Here I'll paraphrase from the literature (one of many ostensibly "haunted" tour experiences, but the history and sheer numbers that the "16th century" guide dishes out as you descend ever deeper below the level of the high street is far more frightening than any ghost story) To wit : "Hidden beneath the Royal Mile lies Edinburgh's deepest secret; a warren of hidden 'closes' where real people lived, worked and died. For centuries they have lain forgotten and abandoned... until now." (For more info, Google™ that shit- not enough room to tally here.)
Pub lunch in the Royal McGregor, surprisingly relaxed and welcoming despite its being situated dead center-city on the high street. Very nice. Notes jotted, post cards written, then dropped in the post box just outside.
On our walk down the Mile we stop into a map shop specializing in reproductions of antique cartographic lovelies; the proprietor is chatty and interested; we talk politics; the horrorshow that is George W. and his cabinet. He speaks frankly of the disdain Europeans (and even Canadians he has encountered) have for Americans, but follows it up with his theory of "the five percenters"-- those being we 5% of Americans who hold passports (can we really be so few??); travelers who have a view beyond our own borders, who are aware of the rest of the big world beyond the U.S. An interesting chap.
More walking. Out to the very end of the Royal Mile to Horse Wynd and the most spectacular view of Holyrood Park and the Salisbury Crags, sun hitting them at such an angle as to transform this end of Edinburgh to a view more fitting of Arizona or New Mexico.
Random excerpt from jottings in my book:
"The firth spoons the city to the east,
while the setting sun sets a fire along the crags"
Brilliant view, so long as one is facing the park. (Bizarrely, the Horse Wynd end of the Mile is also the location of the new Scottish Parliament building-- a crime against architecture and this beautiful city and the park across the motorway from its hideousness. Seriously. A true "Ugly." We laughed at it, mocked it, photographed it for contrast.) We stare at the fiery crags; get excited about climbing Arthur's Seat, which we will do on the morrow. We head along the Queen's Drive, trying to determine a route homeward that will take us down streets we've not yet seen. Along the side of this curved motorway, circumnavigating the park, we spy a hidden trail going up a hill; a hippie is descending from the woods, and it is more closely the direction we want than any flagged pavements in sight. We dub this trail a "hippie crawl" and, intrepid, set out to climb it to unknown destination. After a few minutes of climbing, it lands us a a stair, ending in a rather nondescript car park (that's a parking lot across the pond) behind some buildings that give the vague impression of student housing. Our meanderings lead us to the Meadows, and following them all the way, we find ourselves blocks from home, and having had a lovely autumnal green walk as dusk set upon us.
Dinner at Bennet's, our local. More football on the screen, a sweet and mellow time at our same table- end of the row and closest to the fireplace. Scotch whiskeys and pints. Tonight is when we meet Grace, our lovely and friendly bartendress.
27 October 2005
12 October : Edinburgh day two
Wednesday found us waking in our nasty little hippie hostel, perhaps taking a few minutes longer than normal to sort out time and place. Cold. We opted not to use the hippie cleansing room (as likely so many hippies have done), dressed quickly and packed. We had a mission to accomplish, and this was to escape the Hostile Hostel! Ben had given us the name of the guesthouse in which he'd resided during the previous week, so first a phone box to check on vacancy, followed by coffee and bagels at Elephants and Bagels. Then back to the Hostile, and gave 'em a story of changed plans. Escape! (Renting towels indeed.)
Next came what we would colorfully call "March of the Drenchies" Our new residence was a bit south of Old Town, and a bit west. Of course, it was still raining, but we did finally arrive at our Aaron Guest House (three stars!), whose proprietor was gracious and soft-spoken, and whose clean white towels actually came with the room. Blessed civilization! The interesting thing about such instances is the contrast they provide. You see, after the Hostile Hostel, everyplace we stayed was a bit of "Home Sweet Home". Contrast is a brilliant intensifier while traveling, and should be acknowledged as such. (Also, shit like that makes for more interesting tales.)
So- then what? We wandered the city. Heading north we sought Dean Village, but aimlessly and meanderingly. Due to the continuance of precipitation, we had both got quite comfortable in our hats. (Always bring a hat when traveling.) Meandering down unknown crescents lined with great stone buildings; a glimpse of the water of Leith, across Dean Bridge on Queensferry... eventually we did find ourselves lost in a bit of unexpected suburban wasteland, including a CostCo or some such nonsense. Wending our way back south and easterly having consulted the map, we realised we were in the middle of yet another day of many miles. As we walked through one of the little village streets, we began to keep an eye out for a suitable place to have a somewhat late lunch. Nothing tempted. We decided, hungry though we were, to keep looking. We were this close to resorting to Cafe Nero (a chain, whose blocky lettering gives the impression they are all named Cafe Nerd, which was of course, what we called them)-- when we decided to keep going. This became our theme for the remainder of the trip, for just around the next bend we came upon the Bailie, about which we'd heard good things. Pub Lunch in a lovely below the stairs room; cozy, with dark photo-covered walls, a warm red ceiling and oxblood booths all round- perfect. "Two pints of Tennants, please."
Again refreshed, we meandered the whole day- getting a feel for the city, seeing Castle Rock from the North side for the first time along Princes Street (stunning), learning that New Town is boring, getting our heads about the layout of this strange and ethereal city. We also chanced upon a lovely old second-story cemetery stashed away at one end of Princes Street. It was filled with obelisks- signs of Templars. (Scotland was, after all, the land to which those remaining fled after King Philip's wholesale slaughter of them in post-crusades France. Although I think they were still the Knights of the Rosy Cross (Rosicrucians) at the time?- underground to Scotland they went!) We also climbed Calton Hill, site of an observatory and several monuments (one of which remains unfinished), and one of many spots for spectacular views over this enchanting town and its surrounds. All in a chill drizzle, but there is no staying indoors when traveling!
Later- pub dinner of comfort food, and football on the big screen of what would become our local: Bennett's, of the large and very Prague-minded stained glass windows, (which were, of course, what rightfully drew us to the place.)
Next came what we would colorfully call "March of the Drenchies" Our new residence was a bit south of Old Town, and a bit west. Of course, it was still raining, but we did finally arrive at our Aaron Guest House (three stars!), whose proprietor was gracious and soft-spoken, and whose clean white towels actually came with the room. Blessed civilization! The interesting thing about such instances is the contrast they provide. You see, after the Hostile Hostel, everyplace we stayed was a bit of "Home Sweet Home". Contrast is a brilliant intensifier while traveling, and should be acknowledged as such. (Also, shit like that makes for more interesting tales.)
So- then what? We wandered the city. Heading north we sought Dean Village, but aimlessly and meanderingly. Due to the continuance of precipitation, we had both got quite comfortable in our hats. (Always bring a hat when traveling.) Meandering down unknown crescents lined with great stone buildings; a glimpse of the water of Leith, across Dean Bridge on Queensferry... eventually we did find ourselves lost in a bit of unexpected suburban wasteland, including a CostCo or some such nonsense. Wending our way back south and easterly having consulted the map, we realised we were in the middle of yet another day of many miles. As we walked through one of the little village streets, we began to keep an eye out for a suitable place to have a somewhat late lunch. Nothing tempted. We decided, hungry though we were, to keep looking. We were this close to resorting to Cafe Nero (a chain, whose blocky lettering gives the impression they are all named Cafe Nerd, which was of course, what we called them)-- when we decided to keep going. This became our theme for the remainder of the trip, for just around the next bend we came upon the Bailie, about which we'd heard good things. Pub Lunch in a lovely below the stairs room; cozy, with dark photo-covered walls, a warm red ceiling and oxblood booths all round- perfect. "Two pints of Tennants, please."
Again refreshed, we meandered the whole day- getting a feel for the city, seeing Castle Rock from the North side for the first time along Princes Street (stunning), learning that New Town is boring, getting our heads about the layout of this strange and ethereal city. We also chanced upon a lovely old second-story cemetery stashed away at one end of Princes Street. It was filled with obelisks- signs of Templars. (Scotland was, after all, the land to which those remaining fled after King Philip's wholesale slaughter of them in post-crusades France. Although I think they were still the Knights of the Rosy Cross (Rosicrucians) at the time?- underground to Scotland they went!) We also climbed Calton Hill, site of an observatory and several monuments (one of which remains unfinished), and one of many spots for spectacular views over this enchanting town and its surrounds. All in a chill drizzle, but there is no staying indoors when traveling!
Later- pub dinner of comfort food, and football on the big screen of what would become our local: Bennett's, of the large and very Prague-minded stained glass windows, (which were, of course, what rightfully drew us to the place.)
11 October : Edinburgh day one
Tuesday morning. More lugging of the luggage (I packed like such a girl for this trip and will not do so again!), this time on the tube to King's Cross Station to connect (with three minutes to spare! brilliant!) with the Intercity high speed train up to Edinburgh. A pleasant enough way to spend 4 hours or so; writing, gazing out at blurred countryside; coffee. But with impatience, these hours can start to feel long.
Arrival at the Station in Edinburgh finally; around 4:30 I think? (16:30 there) Rain. A Search for Cowgate, a street which was not shown to be under South Bridge on the map Anders consulted. Bad map. So, a longer walk than anticipated, but- BUT! Even with luggage, and in a chill afternoon rain- here is a city which captivates instantly. One climbs the seemingly interminable Waverly Steps to Princes Street, and BEHOLD. A city like none I've ever seen. A city of such severe contrasts and such beauty; it is otherworldly. Here I will stop with this nonsense; look out for a link to photographs in the near future.
So, we reach the Cowgate Tourist Hostel (dreadful name to begin with), to find that our reservations had been muddled, so the proprietor assigned us to an unoccupied six-person suite. Suite; wrong word. The hostel (the Hostile Hostel as it would come to be known by us) was made up of apartments, each with several rooms, a shower room, a toilet room, plus a kitchen (the only spot in which smoking was permitted). The room we entered was dank and dour, had three metal bunk beds (oh yes- bunk beds), two wonky wardrobes, and-- nothing else. Not a stick of furniture or decor otherwise. But! At least there was a view to a construction zone out the window! Ha! We cast off the initial woe, dressed for dinner, and headed out in search of a phone box to connect with fellow Park Sloper, Ben, who also happened to be in the city; his last night in Edinburgh. He'd left a note with reception.
After finally connecting with him, and a couple of pints to shrug off the rain, we set off to find a pub still serving dinner, and found ourselves upstairs at the Deacon Brodie's. Oddly enough, it looked like early bird special hour at Denny's (the clientele- not the dining room)- perhaps a tour group? But our food was brilliant, especially as we'd not eaten since breakfast. After dinner: much tasting of various cask ales and single malts at a pub down a close called the Jolly Judge, followed by an absurd turn at the open-after-hours (that's after 11 or midnight over there, kids) Apex Hotel Bar. Toward the end of our evening there, we were accosted (not literally) by a very drunk and seemingly half-gay elderly gentleman, whose wife (beard?) had passed out on one of the hotel bar couches. He bought us [unwanted as we were trying to leave] drinks and treated us to a terribly surreal wind-up for our sort of Mindwalk (with-pints-and-single-malts-poured-on) evening.
Arrival at the Station in Edinburgh finally; around 4:30 I think? (16:30 there) Rain. A Search for Cowgate, a street which was not shown to be under South Bridge on the map Anders consulted. Bad map. So, a longer walk than anticipated, but- BUT! Even with luggage, and in a chill afternoon rain- here is a city which captivates instantly. One climbs the seemingly interminable Waverly Steps to Princes Street, and BEHOLD. A city like none I've ever seen. A city of such severe contrasts and such beauty; it is otherworldly. Here I will stop with this nonsense; look out for a link to photographs in the near future.
So, we reach the Cowgate Tourist Hostel (dreadful name to begin with), to find that our reservations had been muddled, so the proprietor assigned us to an unoccupied six-person suite. Suite; wrong word. The hostel (the Hostile Hostel as it would come to be known by us) was made up of apartments, each with several rooms, a shower room, a toilet room, plus a kitchen (the only spot in which smoking was permitted). The room we entered was dank and dour, had three metal bunk beds (oh yes- bunk beds), two wonky wardrobes, and-- nothing else. Not a stick of furniture or decor otherwise. But! At least there was a view to a construction zone out the window! Ha! We cast off the initial woe, dressed for dinner, and headed out in search of a phone box to connect with fellow Park Sloper, Ben, who also happened to be in the city; his last night in Edinburgh. He'd left a note with reception.
After finally connecting with him, and a couple of pints to shrug off the rain, we set off to find a pub still serving dinner, and found ourselves upstairs at the Deacon Brodie's. Oddly enough, it looked like early bird special hour at Denny's (the clientele- not the dining room)- perhaps a tour group? But our food was brilliant, especially as we'd not eaten since breakfast. After dinner: much tasting of various cask ales and single malts at a pub down a close called the Jolly Judge, followed by an absurd turn at the open-after-hours (that's after 11 or midnight over there, kids) Apex Hotel Bar. Toward the end of our evening there, we were accosted (not literally) by a very drunk and seemingly half-gay elderly gentleman, whose wife (beard?) had passed out on one of the hotel bar couches. He bought us [unwanted as we were trying to leave] drinks and treated us to a terribly surreal wind-up for our sort of Mindwalk (with-pints-and-single-malts-poured-on) evening.
23 October 2005
10 October : London day one
An overnight flight to London landed us at Heathrow 6:30 am GMT. We are troopers. We navigate the morning rush on the tube without ease but with determination, and arrive at a very petite room in one of the holiday residences of travelers along Princes Square in Bayswater. We are not the sort to allow a minor thing such as jet lag take hold. We immediately set out into the sunlit streets- destination: Portobello Road. It is nearby and seems a likely first stop. It is monday, and before noon, so the street is only functioning at about one-third maximum capacity, but provides us a lovely cafe with outdoor seating for our first elevensies of the trip. Coffee and cigarettes, sitting in the sun- a fine way to pass half an hour no matter where one finds oneself.
Trekking south again, we walk through Kensington Gardens; people lazing in the sun, walking dogs. We comment on the straight lines of it all. Unlike our Central and Prospect Parks here in New York, the Kensington greens are all linear; straight rows of trees, benches, walkways which diverge and converge at mathematical angles. Pretty nonetheless. Having exited the gardens on the southside, we meander awhile through what appears to be a sort of university and business area, but wend our way back towards liveliness and brasseries. Finding at last a spot for lunch that is not filled with the business crowd, we order up some toasties and again find ourselves at a small outdoor table, soaking up the noontime sun. Refueled and rejuvenated again, we walk.
Now realizing our proximity to the Palace, we decide to have a shot. Off to walk round to the Palace gates. En route we are passed by a lovely black carriage pulled by a two-in-hand of smart-looking greys and driven by men of some importance, to judge by their livery. We learned a few minutes later, while peeking into the Queen's Mews (where all her many horses are stabled) that we'd just witnessed the return trip of one of Her Majesty's twice-daily mail calls. Ha!
Buckingham Palace is surprisingly disappointing to look upon. When in London, if you don't have any other reason to find yourself in the vicinity, do not go out of your way to see the palace. Seriously. The fountain out front is quite lovely, and the gates are the most interesting things in the square, but there are far more lovely and impressive structures upon which to gaze. The mall which runs alongside St James's Park from the Palace Gardens, however, gives one a straight shot to Trafalgar Square, and the National Galleries. Off we go.
Traversing the square, we come across a most disturbing large sculpture of what appears to be a pregnant woman with thalidomide limbs. She sits atop a large sort of column in front of the National Galleries. We experience the pigeon frenzies up close and personal as we approach the Gallery, then enter. We stroll through 1700-1900; Degas' "Le Coiffure" and Goeneutte's "Boulevard de Clichy Under Snow" are two that strike me as stunning. Another which stuck with me was Delaroche's "The Execution of Lady Jane Grey". Positively staggering in its scope and detail; it struck me that perhaps an epic painting such as this was the equivalent of a great motion picture in todays' world. One could stare at it for countless hours and still be quite outside its inherent mystery. Other galleries visited included the Dutch paintings in 1600-1700. After a while we find ourselves sitting upon the benches in the galleries, even in front of paintings of no particular interest to us. Troopers we are, yes, but on so little sleep one must keep moving.
As we are so close to Charing Cross Station, we duck in there to see if we can procure any information about the high-speed intercity line trains, one of which we will require next morning to set off for Edinburgh. As we are very near to one of the jubilee bridges, as well as the Eye, we head toward the river and have a look. We decide we may check out the Eye up close and possibly even partake of its constant revolutions upon return to London the following week. But for the time being, the walk has tired us, so we hop the tube and head back to Bayswater.
Dinner was found at a place known as the Commander. A comfortable enough interior, and music which was neither annoying nor intrusive, we sit down and order pints. Decide on splitting a great platter of kebabs, chips and other such things. The Commander Platter arrives to table on a great wooden bowl/platter, the circumference of which nearly matched the breadth of our table. We laugh, and set about to make a dent in the vast quantities of rather bland fare. Being among the walking dead by this point, we have no real complaint, but this was the last time on the trip that we bothered with a modern "restaurant" style pub (save one in Glasgow which was exceptional). One must stick with real and proper pub lunches and pub dinners. Okay, sometimes you just want something quick and small for lunch, but mostly-- no. Pub lunch, as we would learn in Edinburgh, is one of the loveliest day-to-day pleasures of Great Britain. A midday sanctuary, especially on those chill, drizzling days so popular among the weather cycles of that green and rocky place. But all that comes later.
On to pubs! We must make it til pub-closing if we are to beat the damn phenomenon of dreaded lag! We go from one to the next, in search of the right atmosphere. Though unaware of it at the time, we are only just beginning to hone our pub-judging skills. One must first learn what one doesn't want in a pub. New York City bar-finding skills are of little use here. One place that we found (which was roughly the pub equivalent to a T.G.I.Friday's) was called Shakespeare's. The name should have been enough; way too obvious. Also, it was too centrally located to Queen's Way, the main drag near all the little hotels, to be much good. (We did notice, however, that we heard no American accents in this little neighborhood of travelers; we'd apparently found the area where folks visiting from the continent stayed. So that was nice.) In short, Shakespeare's was for punters. We left in short order. Final pub of the evening was a good one, however, and seemingly a spot for locals as well as travelers. Called the King's Head, with a cozy interior and of the proper old style set-up, we hunkered at a table and finished out the night there with pints and whiskeys. Sleep came easily to two such non-stop zombies, and next morning we awoke feeling fully alive once again.
Trekking south again, we walk through Kensington Gardens; people lazing in the sun, walking dogs. We comment on the straight lines of it all. Unlike our Central and Prospect Parks here in New York, the Kensington greens are all linear; straight rows of trees, benches, walkways which diverge and converge at mathematical angles. Pretty nonetheless. Having exited the gardens on the southside, we meander awhile through what appears to be a sort of university and business area, but wend our way back towards liveliness and brasseries. Finding at last a spot for lunch that is not filled with the business crowd, we order up some toasties and again find ourselves at a small outdoor table, soaking up the noontime sun. Refueled and rejuvenated again, we walk.
Now realizing our proximity to the Palace, we decide to have a shot. Off to walk round to the Palace gates. En route we are passed by a lovely black carriage pulled by a two-in-hand of smart-looking greys and driven by men of some importance, to judge by their livery. We learned a few minutes later, while peeking into the Queen's Mews (where all her many horses are stabled) that we'd just witnessed the return trip of one of Her Majesty's twice-daily mail calls. Ha!
Buckingham Palace is surprisingly disappointing to look upon. When in London, if you don't have any other reason to find yourself in the vicinity, do not go out of your way to see the palace. Seriously. The fountain out front is quite lovely, and the gates are the most interesting things in the square, but there are far more lovely and impressive structures upon which to gaze. The mall which runs alongside St James's Park from the Palace Gardens, however, gives one a straight shot to Trafalgar Square, and the National Galleries. Off we go.
Traversing the square, we come across a most disturbing large sculpture of what appears to be a pregnant woman with thalidomide limbs. She sits atop a large sort of column in front of the National Galleries. We experience the pigeon frenzies up close and personal as we approach the Gallery, then enter. We stroll through 1700-1900; Degas' "Le Coiffure" and Goeneutte's "Boulevard de Clichy Under Snow" are two that strike me as stunning. Another which stuck with me was Delaroche's "The Execution of Lady Jane Grey". Positively staggering in its scope and detail; it struck me that perhaps an epic painting such as this was the equivalent of a great motion picture in todays' world. One could stare at it for countless hours and still be quite outside its inherent mystery. Other galleries visited included the Dutch paintings in 1600-1700. After a while we find ourselves sitting upon the benches in the galleries, even in front of paintings of no particular interest to us. Troopers we are, yes, but on so little sleep one must keep moving.
As we are so close to Charing Cross Station, we duck in there to see if we can procure any information about the high-speed intercity line trains, one of which we will require next morning to set off for Edinburgh. As we are very near to one of the jubilee bridges, as well as the Eye, we head toward the river and have a look. We decide we may check out the Eye up close and possibly even partake of its constant revolutions upon return to London the following week. But for the time being, the walk has tired us, so we hop the tube and head back to Bayswater.
Dinner was found at a place known as the Commander. A comfortable enough interior, and music which was neither annoying nor intrusive, we sit down and order pints. Decide on splitting a great platter of kebabs, chips and other such things. The Commander Platter arrives to table on a great wooden bowl/platter, the circumference of which nearly matched the breadth of our table. We laugh, and set about to make a dent in the vast quantities of rather bland fare. Being among the walking dead by this point, we have no real complaint, but this was the last time on the trip that we bothered with a modern "restaurant" style pub (save one in Glasgow which was exceptional). One must stick with real and proper pub lunches and pub dinners. Okay, sometimes you just want something quick and small for lunch, but mostly-- no. Pub lunch, as we would learn in Edinburgh, is one of the loveliest day-to-day pleasures of Great Britain. A midday sanctuary, especially on those chill, drizzling days so popular among the weather cycles of that green and rocky place. But all that comes later.
On to pubs! We must make it til pub-closing if we are to beat the damn phenomenon of dreaded lag! We go from one to the next, in search of the right atmosphere. Though unaware of it at the time, we are only just beginning to hone our pub-judging skills. One must first learn what one doesn't want in a pub. New York City bar-finding skills are of little use here. One place that we found (which was roughly the pub equivalent to a T.G.I.Friday's) was called Shakespeare's. The name should have been enough; way too obvious. Also, it was too centrally located to Queen's Way, the main drag near all the little hotels, to be much good. (We did notice, however, that we heard no American accents in this little neighborhood of travelers; we'd apparently found the area where folks visiting from the continent stayed. So that was nice.) In short, Shakespeare's was for punters. We left in short order. Final pub of the evening was a good one, however, and seemingly a spot for locals as well as travelers. Called the King's Head, with a cozy interior and of the proper old style set-up, we hunkered at a table and finished out the night there with pints and whiskeys. Sleep came easily to two such non-stop zombies, and next morning we awoke feeling fully alive once again.
06 October 2005
otherwise...
Okay, two rants in two days and I've written absolutely nothing else in a couple of weeks. Getting geared up for the trip abroad, but several worrisome things: a mild ear infection (which could become quite painful in the compression of an aeroplane cabin), and today- a pain in a tooth- maybe a cavity making itself known. Announcing its presence as if at a fabulous party (I can picture it walking elegantly down a large staircase having heard its title and name announced.) I certainly don't have time to have cavities filled before leaving; I can only hope it subsides, as these things often do.
Still, it is frustrating to suddenly feel random ailments coming on just before a long-planned-upon trip. Perhaps they have been brought on by the stress of trying to finish a thousand things before disembarking.
I am excited nonetheless for the trip, although I'm thinking that perhaps we should take a cab to Newark after all; even if no explosions visit the subways, I'd rather not be made to miss our flight due to mad searches of luggage! They will spend plenty of time on that once we get to the airport.
(Man, this writing sounds so formal. habit of writing versus speaking.)
Still, it is frustrating to suddenly feel random ailments coming on just before a long-planned-upon trip. Perhaps they have been brought on by the stress of trying to finish a thousand things before disembarking.
I am excited nonetheless for the trip, although I'm thinking that perhaps we should take a cab to Newark after all; even if no explosions visit the subways, I'd rather not be made to miss our flight due to mad searches of luggage! They will spend plenty of time on that once we get to the airport.
(Man, this writing sounds so formal. habit of writing versus speaking.)
terror
Brilliant.
On top of the "news" of a potential attack to be perpetrated upon the NYC subway system, along with stepped-up efforts to randomly search bags and parcels therein, there was a dreadful and dangerous *brand new* speech by our f*ing president.
Firstly,
the whole random search maneuver in the subways is idiotic. Anyone who has got explasives with them will obviously be the last person to succumb; and secondly- it is thoroughly unconsitutional. Idiots.
Secondly,
whenever I hear George W. Bush say things like "... and we will never accept anything less than complete victory," it just scares the crap out of me. Why? Well, two reasons: A) Because when fighting against something as non-specific and nebulous as an idea (eg: "terror"), there is no achieving a clear and total victory!! So that means Infinite War, Guaranteed™. B) When I think about how infuriated I become whenever I hear that man deliver one of his useless, overblown and rhetoric-filled missives, I can only imagine how much it must piss off the many other folks in the world who are not Americans. That's scary.
:: shudder ::
He makes the point that bin Laden is unwilling to go with his followers, to follow them to the promised paradise (which ostensibly is the destination immediately following successful suicide bombings); But that kinda brings to mind how Bush himself was unwilling to follow his fellow soldiers to war... It brought it to my mind, anyway...
"No act of ours invited the rage of the killers," he said.
Oh, I don't know about that... I think the policies of the US in the Middle East over the past several decades (and ongoing) have had quite a lot to do with their feelings toward us; more specifically- toward our government. He may be semantically correct; no single act, but years of acts, both overt and covert, by the US which led to such feelings. That, combined with fundamentalist religious values, (which are also running rampant at home) of course.
ugh.
On top of the "news" of a potential attack to be perpetrated upon the NYC subway system, along with stepped-up efforts to randomly search bags and parcels therein, there was a dreadful and dangerous *brand new* speech by our f*ing president.
Firstly,
the whole random search maneuver in the subways is idiotic. Anyone who has got explasives with them will obviously be the last person to succumb; and secondly- it is thoroughly unconsitutional. Idiots.
Secondly,
whenever I hear George W. Bush say things like "... and we will never accept anything less than complete victory," it just scares the crap out of me. Why? Well, two reasons: A) Because when fighting against something as non-specific and nebulous as an idea (eg: "terror"), there is no achieving a clear and total victory!! So that means Infinite War, Guaranteed™. B) When I think about how infuriated I become whenever I hear that man deliver one of his useless, overblown and rhetoric-filled missives, I can only imagine how much it must piss off the many other folks in the world who are not Americans. That's scary.
:: shudder ::
He makes the point that bin Laden is unwilling to go with his followers, to follow them to the promised paradise (which ostensibly is the destination immediately following successful suicide bombings); But that kinda brings to mind how Bush himself was unwilling to follow his fellow soldiers to war... It brought it to my mind, anyway...
"No act of ours invited the rage of the killers," he said.
Oh, I don't know about that... I think the policies of the US in the Middle East over the past several decades (and ongoing) have had quite a lot to do with their feelings toward us; more specifically- toward our government. He may be semantically correct; no single act, but years of acts, both overt and covert, by the US which led to such feelings. That, combined with fundamentalist religious values, (which are also running rampant at home) of course.
ugh.
oil
According to Salon.com, despite the fact that the hurricanes left the gulf coast tragically and toxically polluted by crude oil and numerous other contaminants,
"Senate Republicans, led by Environment and Public Works Committee chairman James Inhofe -- who has declared that global warming is a hoax -- have introduced a bill that would allow EPA to waive clean water and air laws during the cleanup. The EPA itself is drafting a plan that would allow the agency to waive state regulations on smog emissions or pollutants pouring out of coal plants."*
This is the kind of reporting that is never on the News™, or when it is, it is never dwelled upon the way that, say, lost white teenaged girls are. Or celebrity shennanigans. It has appeared that some of the news reporters have snapped out of robot mode since the twin hurricanes and resulting floods, but things seem to be settling back to "normal" already. "Normal," in the Bush era, meaning that little or nothing gets aired that might give Americans a clear picture of how nasty, greedy and ill-motivated these bastards in the White House really are.
REMINDER: It's not their White House! We the people own it, and all those damn politicians are, in fact, under our employ.
America, you made some godawful hiring decisions. Not once, but twice in a row now.
(:: cheers to term limits, at least ::)
But, really, it's long past due for some "downsizing" in our nation's capitol.
* excerpt from an article by Katharine Mieszkowski and Mark Benjamin
"Senate Republicans, led by Environment and Public Works Committee chairman James Inhofe -- who has declared that global warming is a hoax -- have introduced a bill that would allow EPA to waive clean water and air laws during the cleanup. The EPA itself is drafting a plan that would allow the agency to waive state regulations on smog emissions or pollutants pouring out of coal plants."*
This is the kind of reporting that is never on the News™, or when it is, it is never dwelled upon the way that, say, lost white teenaged girls are. Or celebrity shennanigans. It has appeared that some of the news reporters have snapped out of robot mode since the twin hurricanes and resulting floods, but things seem to be settling back to "normal" already. "Normal," in the Bush era, meaning that little or nothing gets aired that might give Americans a clear picture of how nasty, greedy and ill-motivated these bastards in the White House really are.
REMINDER: It's not their White House! We the people own it, and all those damn politicians are, in fact, under our employ.
America, you made some godawful hiring decisions. Not once, but twice in a row now.
(:: cheers to term limits, at least ::)
But, really, it's long past due for some "downsizing" in our nation's capitol.
* excerpt from an article by Katharine Mieszkowski and Mark Benjamin
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