Yesterday morning I stepped out of my hostel holding my umbrella before me like a shield. I almost dropped the umbrella in confusion: something was different. There was something warm and vaguely familiar on my face, something I hadn't felt for a long time. Sun. There aren't words for how good it felt to find the world lit up with natural light. And the light is different in Paris. It's paler, more delicate than it is at home. It was dancing off the Seine and making the buildings glow. I suddenly understood why all those poets get so gooey over Paris in the spring. It was a city utterly transformed.
Naturally, I spent the day out doors, frolicing in the jardin des plantes (paris's first public park) and the parc de bercy, next to the cinematheque francaise. I took a stroll through bercy village, a seers of old warehouses that have been converted into shops and trendy restaurants, and went to a braisserie for lunch and ate overlooking a pretty market sqaure. Also stopped by the biblitheque national and sat reading on the sun deck.
I was so excited about the weather I felt the need to share my joy and befriended a group of Americans over dinner and a few bottles of wine. We took some absinthe and headed to a bar where there were bras hanging from the ceiling and the all-male staff wore nothing but underware.
Somehow we dragged ourselves out of bed this morning to visit europe's biggest flea market, which was actually kind of disappointing. It was all fake handbags and rip offs of American clothing brands. But the afternoon more than made up for it. I've been missing my skates like crazy since I left, so I got in contact with the Paris rollergirls and they invited me to their training session this arvo. Unfortunately the skating itself didn't last too long as they train outdoors and the rain made a comback today. But we retreated to a nearby cafe and spent an jor or so chatting about derby! There was also a film maker who came to watch. She's making a doco. About women in sport, so it was very cool to have a chat with her too!
Think that's pretty much me for the last couple of days!
Missing you all muchly,
Margs (aka Or Elsie, my new official derby name as if last week!)
xo xo xo
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Friday, February 26, 2010
Gothic Paris
Yesterday I woke up, took one look at the gloomy sky and decided that, yes, it was the perfect day for exploring Gothic Paris. The day began well, as many Gothic narratives misleadingly do. After much time spent in front of the mirror attempting to make myself appear vaguely Parisian, I stepped out into the street feeling, if not entirely stunning, then at least mildly confident in my new dress. I had a wonderful time promenading my way down the boulevards (Parisions don't walk, they promenade) pretending I was a part of the glittering world of Parisian chic. Then I reached my first site of Gothic interest: the catacombes.
At this point I ought to point out that, while I can handle and rather revel in any amount of terror on the page and screen, in real life the sight of blood turns my bones to jelly and the mere idea of a corpse has me quaking with terror. In short, I'm a big fat fraidy cat. So deciding to explore the catacombes in my lonesome probably wasn't such a flash idea in retrospect. There are the remains of thousands down there, twenty metres below street level. What's worse though, is how their displayed: walls of neatly stacked thigh bones with skulls interdispersed to make patterns, and plaques bearing quotes about the nature of death. Oh and there's a nice display board of pics from when the corpses were originally stored whole. They were lovely. And the tunnels are never ending, stiffling and humid with the smell of damp and rot, the ceiling so low I had to stoop, and dripping. Ten minutes down there and I wanted out. I could almost feel the walls closing in and I could see the headlines: 'Australian tourist burried alive in catacombes collapse!' by the time I reached the base of the spiral staircase that would eventually deliver me back up to the street I was almost running. But emerging, gasping and out of breath into the natural light, I was far from a happy ending. My descent into the catacombes had served as the literal descent into madness in my little Gothic narrative. I was disoriented, the catacombes did not end where they began and I couldn't get my bearings. The geography on myap seemed to alter everytime I opened it and I couldn't seem to match it's directions with the streets I was walking. Worse still, where the day before all Paris appeared blissfully bilingual, yesterday no one spoke English and I could not seem to make myself understood. When I tried to order lunch the girl behind the counter got her friend to come laugh with her at my garbled french until I wanted to yell at her that I was Australian, not stupid and tell her to go choke on a baguette. Harsh, but like I explained int last blog, these guys are all preternaturaly beautiful, and having pretty people laugh at your incompetence is pretty much the kiss of death for your self esteem.
Oh, and it was raining again, did I mention that? The kind of downpour that laughs in the face of your umbrella and soaks you socks to spite you.
I was originally planning on following my trip to the catacombes with a visit to the nearby cemetery where lots of famous people are buried, but wandering alone, brooding, in a cemetery, in the rain is really only considered romantic behaviour if one is a character in an Anne rice novel or has 'byronic hero' firmly stamped across their forehead. For me, I feel it merely would hav looked a little pathetic, and besides, I couldn't fond the damn thing.
Instead, I decided to improve my mood with a little retail therapy an prompty set about buying the perfect damsel in distress outfit in hopes of attracting a knight in shining armour to turn my Gothic into a romance. Outfit purchased, my knight quickly followed: Leo di caprio stared heroicly out at me from dozens of shutter island posters. The prospect of hearing my first heartthrob speak English for 2 1/2 hours was inately appealing. I found a cinema an bought a ticket.
A note on French cinemas: they're insane. At 4pm on a Thursday there were hundreds of people crammed into the foyer with a dingle usher trying to order everyone into the right lines, in French.
Merde. I eventually persuaded one of the ubber gorgeous young men to translate for me, which he did, then gave me a lopsided smile dripping with arrogance and superiority (like I said last blog, I'm in the land if Cullen clones). I wanted to slap him, or at least mess up his too-perfect hair.
But by the end of the film it was mr who was smirking. Even with my limited French, I could tell the subtitles were a poor translation and I'm sure I was the only one who had any idea what the film was about, well that's what I told myself anyway.
Stepping back into the street I felt revived, oriented. There us nothing like a good movie to cheer me up.
Today was much better, there was even sun this afternoon. I saw the Eiffel tower ( though with the sun the line was several hours ling, so will have to go up another day), went to a cool contemporary art museum, wandered along the seine, had my first taste of French wine and cheese and sampled more delicious desserts!
Paris, j' ai teme! (no idea if that's how you spell it!)
Margs
xo xo
At this point I ought to point out that, while I can handle and rather revel in any amount of terror on the page and screen, in real life the sight of blood turns my bones to jelly and the mere idea of a corpse has me quaking with terror. In short, I'm a big fat fraidy cat. So deciding to explore the catacombes in my lonesome probably wasn't such a flash idea in retrospect. There are the remains of thousands down there, twenty metres below street level. What's worse though, is how their displayed: walls of neatly stacked thigh bones with skulls interdispersed to make patterns, and plaques bearing quotes about the nature of death. Oh and there's a nice display board of pics from when the corpses were originally stored whole. They were lovely. And the tunnels are never ending, stiffling and humid with the smell of damp and rot, the ceiling so low I had to stoop, and dripping. Ten minutes down there and I wanted out. I could almost feel the walls closing in and I could see the headlines: 'Australian tourist burried alive in catacombes collapse!' by the time I reached the base of the spiral staircase that would eventually deliver me back up to the street I was almost running. But emerging, gasping and out of breath into the natural light, I was far from a happy ending. My descent into the catacombes had served as the literal descent into madness in my little Gothic narrative. I was disoriented, the catacombes did not end where they began and I couldn't get my bearings. The geography on myap seemed to alter everytime I opened it and I couldn't seem to match it's directions with the streets I was walking. Worse still, where the day before all Paris appeared blissfully bilingual, yesterday no one spoke English and I could not seem to make myself understood. When I tried to order lunch the girl behind the counter got her friend to come laugh with her at my garbled french until I wanted to yell at her that I was Australian, not stupid and tell her to go choke on a baguette. Harsh, but like I explained int last blog, these guys are all preternaturaly beautiful, and having pretty people laugh at your incompetence is pretty much the kiss of death for your self esteem.
Oh, and it was raining again, did I mention that? The kind of downpour that laughs in the face of your umbrella and soaks you socks to spite you.
I was originally planning on following my trip to the catacombes with a visit to the nearby cemetery where lots of famous people are buried, but wandering alone, brooding, in a cemetery, in the rain is really only considered romantic behaviour if one is a character in an Anne rice novel or has 'byronic hero' firmly stamped across their forehead. For me, I feel it merely would hav looked a little pathetic, and besides, I couldn't fond the damn thing.
Instead, I decided to improve my mood with a little retail therapy an prompty set about buying the perfect damsel in distress outfit in hopes of attracting a knight in shining armour to turn my Gothic into a romance. Outfit purchased, my knight quickly followed: Leo di caprio stared heroicly out at me from dozens of shutter island posters. The prospect of hearing my first heartthrob speak English for 2 1/2 hours was inately appealing. I found a cinema an bought a ticket.
A note on French cinemas: they're insane. At 4pm on a Thursday there were hundreds of people crammed into the foyer with a dingle usher trying to order everyone into the right lines, in French.
Merde. I eventually persuaded one of the ubber gorgeous young men to translate for me, which he did, then gave me a lopsided smile dripping with arrogance and superiority (like I said last blog, I'm in the land if Cullen clones). I wanted to slap him, or at least mess up his too-perfect hair.
But by the end of the film it was mr who was smirking. Even with my limited French, I could tell the subtitles were a poor translation and I'm sure I was the only one who had any idea what the film was about, well that's what I told myself anyway.
Stepping back into the street I felt revived, oriented. There us nothing like a good movie to cheer me up.
Today was much better, there was even sun this afternoon. I saw the Eiffel tower ( though with the sun the line was several hours ling, so will have to go up another day), went to a cool contemporary art museum, wandered along the seine, had my first taste of French wine and cheese and sampled more delicious desserts!
Paris, j' ai teme! (no idea if that's how you spell it!)
Margs
xo xo
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Bicycle Diaries
(I know, I know, how much did she want to write? Shall condense it next time.)
This week's confession: I've been ripping pages from books. One book, actually, and it is mine and, well, only a guide book but a book nonetheless.
My first Valencian night wasn't parade worthy but things picked up the next day. One of my liberated pages pronounced Valencia a true walking city so I decided to test this and see how far and wide my backpack and I could go. Before the true adventure began I ducked to the bus station to change my return to Barcelona to Thursday rather than Saturday and hurried of an email to Alessia begging a bed for two extra nights.
I decided to visit the Valencian food market and see how it compared to Barcelona's offerings. The markets are housed in an architectural marvel with dome-shaped ceilings and stained-glass windows that draw the sun in. Not as large as Barcelona's but the fare was comparable. I found Spanish pasties for 90 cents, which were so good I went back everyday for lunch. I walked through the centre of the historical district to the bull fighting arena and though it was free admission, I viewed the stadium from the outside as bull fighting disgusts me, no matter what tradition says.
Choosing streets at random I zagged and zigged my way until I found myself at Jardines Del Turia, a boulevard of gardens that stretch its way to the sea. Here I met Iddriss (693683561) expert mobile phone repairer, newly arrived from Africa, who, like me, knew no Spanish. Unfortunately Iddriss didn't know much English either so our conversation was brief. Also as nice as Iddriss probably was, I was too busy worrying about the location of my wallet.
I kept walking and came across a pool of water fountains framed at one end by a series of columns; I picked one and spent the next hour reading in the sun. Dinner back in the empty hostel kitchen, wishing futilely that someone would materialise and be my friend - was my lowest point.
Tuesday was reserved for Monasterio de san Miguel de Los Reyes, a monastery that was being used as the national library. To my dismay, it was only open for school children visitors and nether I nor the girl at the hostel desk thought I could pass. Instead I caught the bus out of Valencia, through Albufera National Park, to El Palmar, a tiny village that until the 14th century was an island. Apparently this central meeting place for all the world's wind currents, served as the inspiration for some of our great writers. If I seem skeptical it's because, frankly, I am. It's pretty, to be sure, and I dutifully spent forty-five minutes strolling around admiring the architecture, which was nice enough but nothing screamed, or even yelled, inspiration for great works of genius. Back at the fountain (bus stop) I encountered the petite old lady who had travelled out with me and after learning I didn't speak Spanish, she took my arm and walked me over to stand between the two orange cones, which was very nice of her but really, was the bus driver going to refuse me entry because I'd chosen the shade of the fountain to rest by?
I visited the free Museu de Bellas Artes (museum of fine arts) that afternoon and after two floors of religious works discovered the true Spanish gems on the top level. By this time I was hungry so decided to walk in the general direction of Plaza de la Reina (of which my hostel is located). I spied a small cafe with tables offering the perfect street viewing of a busy junction and to my delight discovered their Menu del Dia had paella as the second dish; I'd been meaning to try it as Valencia is the birthplace of this famed Spanish meal. I think I shall have to try it again in Barcelona as am afraid, while I enjoyed it, I wasn't about to open every conversation with 'gosh, isn't paella the best thing you've ever had?'.
Wednesday was my favourite day; I love bikes. Not the most common sentence combination, I know, but exploring a foreign city by bike is possibly the most fun I've had. Especially when bike riders are practically lawless. The guy whom I hired my wheels from put it best: how do you say when a car is travelling one direction and you are travelling the other? Me: in opposite directions? Guy: Yes, exactly, that is allowed; everything is allowed.
The sensible part of me knows that helmets were invented for a reason, and a darn good one, but there's something liberating about being hatless with the wind dancing your hair like streamers. My bike and I went to Museo Valenciano de la Ilustracion y la Modernidad (museum of enlightenment and modernity) not for scholarly purposes but because I was curious about what you displayed to represent enlightenment and modernity - bike riders with helmets, perhaps? Unfortunately the sole exhibition, a session on modern thought, was in Spanish and my curiosity only extended so far. Never daunted I rode on to IVAM, the institute of Modern Art, which lauded itself as presenting the most avant-guard artistic proposals. I viewed the three exhibitions and came out feeling puzzled and every time I think back that puzzlement returns.
I took my bike through the Turio gardens; the sea was my ultimate destination. Discovered eating lunch on a bike is like putting shin guards on while driving a manual car: achievable but not recommended. Owing to construction my path came to a stop so I wasn't able to follow the gardens all the way to the waterfront. Instead I zoomed along the streets (true use of zoomed; the wind was so powerful I didn't need to peddle or do anything except hold on as I was propelled forward) driven by the scent of sea in the air. I passed the Royal Marina, home of the 32nd America's Cup, and then made my way along Malvarrosa, the seafront promenade for some reading in the sun.
On my way back I decided to visit the monastery I'd hoped to see the day before. It is the perfect home for a library; a Renaissance formation with a domed church rising from the centre. I parked my bike and was leaning over the railing with my camera when a guard materialised next to me and questioned me in Spanish. Hastily explained I didn't speak Spanish (in Spanish) and then followed with my English explanation that I was just looking. He disappeared and returned a few moments later with a brochure. He would prefer I look in the book.
Turning my bike around I found a side lane and rode down in hope of peeking in the grounds. No luck but to my surprise I came across open fields and people working, hoeing crops. In my intent to find the library I hadn't noticed the landscape changing - and realised that I was seeing how the poor Spanish lived. Back on the street, near the monastery, ribbons tied to the balcony of dilapidated abandoned buildings caught me eye and it struck me as odd that someone would bother decorating such worn-down empty dwellings and then I realised that it was washing and that people actually live here, and my tourist feelings of enchantment dimmed a little. I'm staying less than ten minutes away in the nicest area you could imagine and it's sad to think that such niceness can't extend for ever.
I ended my Valencian adventure with a dinner of churros, Spanish donuts that are long stick-like mouth-joys, which you dip in a cup of thick hot chocolate, at Horchateria Chocolatina cafe just near my hostel. I also finished at roughly the same time Scarlett Thomas' The End of Mr Y - I haven't mentioned books since I arrived in Spain, purely because I've been too busy to fit reading it. Shall have to rectify this as still carting small library around and getting sick of this extra weight.
Am back in Barcelona at my favourite hostel - travel to Austria this Sunday, hooray!
This week's confession: I've been ripping pages from books. One book, actually, and it is mine and, well, only a guide book but a book nonetheless.
My first Valencian night wasn't parade worthy but things picked up the next day. One of my liberated pages pronounced Valencia a true walking city so I decided to test this and see how far and wide my backpack and I could go. Before the true adventure began I ducked to the bus station to change my return to Barcelona to Thursday rather than Saturday and hurried of an email to Alessia begging a bed for two extra nights.
I decided to visit the Valencian food market and see how it compared to Barcelona's offerings. The markets are housed in an architectural marvel with dome-shaped ceilings and stained-glass windows that draw the sun in. Not as large as Barcelona's but the fare was comparable. I found Spanish pasties for 90 cents, which were so good I went back everyday for lunch. I walked through the centre of the historical district to the bull fighting arena and though it was free admission, I viewed the stadium from the outside as bull fighting disgusts me, no matter what tradition says.
Choosing streets at random I zagged and zigged my way until I found myself at Jardines Del Turia, a boulevard of gardens that stretch its way to the sea. Here I met Iddriss (693683561) expert mobile phone repairer, newly arrived from Africa, who, like me, knew no Spanish. Unfortunately Iddriss didn't know much English either so our conversation was brief. Also as nice as Iddriss probably was, I was too busy worrying about the location of my wallet.
I kept walking and came across a pool of water fountains framed at one end by a series of columns; I picked one and spent the next hour reading in the sun. Dinner back in the empty hostel kitchen, wishing futilely that someone would materialise and be my friend - was my lowest point.
Tuesday was reserved for Monasterio de san Miguel de Los Reyes, a monastery that was being used as the national library. To my dismay, it was only open for school children visitors and nether I nor the girl at the hostel desk thought I could pass. Instead I caught the bus out of Valencia, through Albufera National Park, to El Palmar, a tiny village that until the 14th century was an island. Apparently this central meeting place for all the world's wind currents, served as the inspiration for some of our great writers. If I seem skeptical it's because, frankly, I am. It's pretty, to be sure, and I dutifully spent forty-five minutes strolling around admiring the architecture, which was nice enough but nothing screamed, or even yelled, inspiration for great works of genius. Back at the fountain (bus stop) I encountered the petite old lady who had travelled out with me and after learning I didn't speak Spanish, she took my arm and walked me over to stand between the two orange cones, which was very nice of her but really, was the bus driver going to refuse me entry because I'd chosen the shade of the fountain to rest by?
I visited the free Museu de Bellas Artes (museum of fine arts) that afternoon and after two floors of religious works discovered the true Spanish gems on the top level. By this time I was hungry so decided to walk in the general direction of Plaza de la Reina (of which my hostel is located). I spied a small cafe with tables offering the perfect street viewing of a busy junction and to my delight discovered their Menu del Dia had paella as the second dish; I'd been meaning to try it as Valencia is the birthplace of this famed Spanish meal. I think I shall have to try it again in Barcelona as am afraid, while I enjoyed it, I wasn't about to open every conversation with 'gosh, isn't paella the best thing you've ever had?'.
Wednesday was my favourite day; I love bikes. Not the most common sentence combination, I know, but exploring a foreign city by bike is possibly the most fun I've had. Especially when bike riders are practically lawless. The guy whom I hired my wheels from put it best: how do you say when a car is travelling one direction and you are travelling the other? Me: in opposite directions? Guy: Yes, exactly, that is allowed; everything is allowed.
The sensible part of me knows that helmets were invented for a reason, and a darn good one, but there's something liberating about being hatless with the wind dancing your hair like streamers. My bike and I went to Museo Valenciano de la Ilustracion y la Modernidad (museum of enlightenment and modernity) not for scholarly purposes but because I was curious about what you displayed to represent enlightenment and modernity - bike riders with helmets, perhaps? Unfortunately the sole exhibition, a session on modern thought, was in Spanish and my curiosity only extended so far. Never daunted I rode on to IVAM, the institute of Modern Art, which lauded itself as presenting the most avant-guard artistic proposals. I viewed the three exhibitions and came out feeling puzzled and every time I think back that puzzlement returns.
I took my bike through the Turio gardens; the sea was my ultimate destination. Discovered eating lunch on a bike is like putting shin guards on while driving a manual car: achievable but not recommended. Owing to construction my path came to a stop so I wasn't able to follow the gardens all the way to the waterfront. Instead I zoomed along the streets (true use of zoomed; the wind was so powerful I didn't need to peddle or do anything except hold on as I was propelled forward) driven by the scent of sea in the air. I passed the Royal Marina, home of the 32nd America's Cup, and then made my way along Malvarrosa, the seafront promenade for some reading in the sun.
On my way back I decided to visit the monastery I'd hoped to see the day before. It is the perfect home for a library; a Renaissance formation with a domed church rising from the centre. I parked my bike and was leaning over the railing with my camera when a guard materialised next to me and questioned me in Spanish. Hastily explained I didn't speak Spanish (in Spanish) and then followed with my English explanation that I was just looking. He disappeared and returned a few moments later with a brochure. He would prefer I look in the book.
Turning my bike around I found a side lane and rode down in hope of peeking in the grounds. No luck but to my surprise I came across open fields and people working, hoeing crops. In my intent to find the library I hadn't noticed the landscape changing - and realised that I was seeing how the poor Spanish lived. Back on the street, near the monastery, ribbons tied to the balcony of dilapidated abandoned buildings caught me eye and it struck me as odd that someone would bother decorating such worn-down empty dwellings and then I realised that it was washing and that people actually live here, and my tourist feelings of enchantment dimmed a little. I'm staying less than ten minutes away in the nicest area you could imagine and it's sad to think that such niceness can't extend for ever.
I ended my Valencian adventure with a dinner of churros, Spanish donuts that are long stick-like mouth-joys, which you dip in a cup of thick hot chocolate, at Horchateria Chocolatina cafe just near my hostel. I also finished at roughly the same time Scarlett Thomas' The End of Mr Y - I haven't mentioned books since I arrived in Spain, purely because I've been too busy to fit reading it. Shall have to rectify this as still carting small library around and getting sick of this extra weight.
Am back in Barcelona at my favourite hostel - travel to Austria this Sunday, hooray!
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
A little fall of rain
Bonjour mes Amis!
I've been in Paris three days, and though it's been raining on and off, I've refused to let this interfere with my explorations. This morning I was determined to pay hommage to victor Hugo and thus marched resolutely into the downpour in search of notre dame. Even with my umbrella I got drenched, running into the church screaming, 'sanctuary! Sanctuary!' a la Esmerelda. The interior took my breath away. I'm not religeous, and no building is likely to covert me, but if one could, it would be notre dame. It's just so huge and ornate and ancient, it's pretty hard not to be blown away.
After that, I blasted some Les mis on my iPod and headed through the student quarter to the pantheon, where Hugo is buried. I swear I soaked up a few iq points just by being in there! Points to Paris for having a building dedicated to great thinkers!
Well, that pretty much filled my education quota for the day, so I headed for a stroll in the jardins des Luxemburg before lunch then hit the shops. I'll be honest, I showed little restraint. But I feel it was necessary. Parisians are just so beautiful and exquisitely dressed (imagine a city filled with close relatives of the Cullens) so you can imagine how I've been feeling with my seven weeks of regrowth and travel-weary jeans and hoodies. Yeah, not good. But infinitely better now I have new clothes : )
There is mystery beneath all this beauty, however, as there are more pattiseres than people, and yet, everybody reamins skinny. I honestly don't understand. At first I thought that maybe all the sumptuous looking treats might actually taste horrible, but I've sampled the nuttela crepes, the pain au chocolat, chocolat chaud and macaroons, and I can honestly say Parisians make the best desserts everywhere. If my room wasn't on te sixth floor and if I was more inclined to spend money on metro tickets rather than clothes, I'd be making an elephant look like a lightweight by now!
Well, am very tired from walking off all the food and REALLY need my beauty sleep (looks up as guy who makes Edward look almost ugly walks past, and sighs with longing). Also, need to be up bright an early: have declared tomorrow )
gothic day and will need my wits about me to face all the catacombes, crypts and cemeteries!
French kisses,
Margaux
I've been in Paris three days, and though it's been raining on and off, I've refused to let this interfere with my explorations. This morning I was determined to pay hommage to victor Hugo and thus marched resolutely into the downpour in search of notre dame. Even with my umbrella I got drenched, running into the church screaming, 'sanctuary! Sanctuary!' a la Esmerelda. The interior took my breath away. I'm not religeous, and no building is likely to covert me, but if one could, it would be notre dame. It's just so huge and ornate and ancient, it's pretty hard not to be blown away.
After that, I blasted some Les mis on my iPod and headed through the student quarter to the pantheon, where Hugo is buried. I swear I soaked up a few iq points just by being in there! Points to Paris for having a building dedicated to great thinkers!
Well, that pretty much filled my education quota for the day, so I headed for a stroll in the jardins des Luxemburg before lunch then hit the shops. I'll be honest, I showed little restraint. But I feel it was necessary. Parisians are just so beautiful and exquisitely dressed (imagine a city filled with close relatives of the Cullens) so you can imagine how I've been feeling with my seven weeks of regrowth and travel-weary jeans and hoodies. Yeah, not good. But infinitely better now I have new clothes : )
There is mystery beneath all this beauty, however, as there are more pattiseres than people, and yet, everybody reamins skinny. I honestly don't understand. At first I thought that maybe all the sumptuous looking treats might actually taste horrible, but I've sampled the nuttela crepes, the pain au chocolat, chocolat chaud and macaroons, and I can honestly say Parisians make the best desserts everywhere. If my room wasn't on te sixth floor and if I was more inclined to spend money on metro tickets rather than clothes, I'd be making an elephant look like a lightweight by now!
Well, am very tired from walking off all the food and REALLY need my beauty sleep (looks up as guy who makes Edward look almost ugly walks past, and sighs with longing). Also, need to be up bright an early: have declared tomorrow )
gothic day and will need my wits about me to face all the catacombes, crypts and cemeteries!
French kisses,
Margaux
Monday, February 22, 2010
An australian in paris
Remember the opening scene from moulin rouge? Replace the suave Ewan mcgregor with a rather dishevelled image of me weighed down with luggage & in need of a shower & sleep after a 12 hour train ride & you have my morning. Like baz luhrmann's pennyless poet I also have an attic room in montmartre with it's own little balcony that seems to be specifically designed for one to stand upon looking wistfully down the street for sightings of the muse. Unfortunately I clouldnt check into my room until 4 & my train got in at 9, so I stowed the hermit shell that is my backpack & set off to explore montmartre with the enthusiasm of a kid on their first day at hogwarts. I started with a traditional French breakfast: a crossant & chocolate chaud at a funky little cafe halfway up the hill to sacre-coeur (all right so I couldn't make it up in one go, that hill is damn steep!) then I got into some serious sight seeing. First up sacre-coeur, which is pretty impressive as far as churches go, but for me the interior had nothing on the views of the city offered outside, you can pretty much make out all the major landmarks, it's really breathtaking! Next I wandered down to the Dali museum, which I've been wanting to see sine I watched hitchock's Spellbound when I was 14. This was probably the highlight of the day for me, they had over 300 of his works on display! I particularly liked his Alice in wonderland series. After that I made my way to the cimetiere de Montmartre, and let me tell you, I thought the folks down in new Orleans romanticized death, but they've got nothing on the Parisians! The crypts looked like mini cathedrals, and some of them aren't all that old. For fans of the Gothic cimetiere de Montmartre is the mother ship. I was feeling a little gloomy after looking at all the graves so made my way down to the covered passageways for some retail therapy. Didn't buy anything, but had a yummy baguette for lunch & killed some time sipping coffee and trying to look incredibly Parisian chic while reading in a cafe (side mote: finished halucinating foucault & absolutely LOVED it!) after that was finally able to check into hostel! While my room is a writer's dream with aformentioned balcony and a little writing desk, my shower floods the bathroom & my computer doesn't like it here, so this work of literary genius has been typed on my phone! Am now absolutely exhausted from sightseeing & attempting to communicate with the little vocab I picked up in yr 9 French. Hopefully a goodnight's sleep will restore me; tomorrow I take on the opera district! Au revoir mon Amies & a kiss for each cheek! X & X
margs
margs
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Going Solo
What's the point in a blog if you can't whinge a little?
Getting pulled back into reality land isn't always pleasant. After a too-good-to-be true week in Barcelona at my dream hostel, I say goodbye to my wonderful travel companion and board the bus to Valencia. The ride is uneventful and I arrive, as usual, late. My hostel has instructed me to walk out the exit of the station and board bus number 8, which will take me to Placa de la Reina - this does not happen(at least, not the Placa de la Reina bit; I walked just fine).
Phrase book in hand I tell the driver where I want to go. He responds with a nod and says something I don't understand but presume it means he will let me know when I need to exit the bus. I take a seat right near him so he can direct me.
After a while I begin to wonder if I'm even on the right bus as it wasn't supposed to be a long journey and just as I'm about to ask him again, he points to another traveller to get off; she asks him something and she tells me in English that I should have got departed four stops ago. How I envy multilingual people. I'm given instructions to walk in a straight line, which proves impossible owing to large buildings and curving streets. After numerous, useless conversations with Spaniards, I finally see a newspaper stall and decide it must have a map: it does and I get another instruction to walk in a straight line. I do and once again, the streets hinder me.
But I must have found the hostel as I'm using the Internet, you think. This is true; I do find the hostel one horrible hour later. Nothing else to report except I'm sharing my tiny four-bed room with two guys who snore - I know this as they managed to fall asleep while I was unpacking my bags. I'm sitting in the freezing kitchen, drinking soup and wishing myself back in Barcelona, which is where I will be next Saturday at 2.30, probably 2.45 if the bus is behaving normally.
So I have to keep myself entertained for 5 days - that shouldn't be so hard, right? I'm in Europe, aren't I? Stop complaining, Mad!!
I shall keep you posted on Valencia; no doubt I will find something to occupy my time here. I really do wish one of you was with me - if only so someone else could suffer in that horrible room. Thank god for ear plugs, right?
xxxx
Getting pulled back into reality land isn't always pleasant. After a too-good-to-be true week in Barcelona at my dream hostel, I say goodbye to my wonderful travel companion and board the bus to Valencia. The ride is uneventful and I arrive, as usual, late. My hostel has instructed me to walk out the exit of the station and board bus number 8, which will take me to Placa de la Reina - this does not happen(at least, not the Placa de la Reina bit; I walked just fine).
Phrase book in hand I tell the driver where I want to go. He responds with a nod and says something I don't understand but presume it means he will let me know when I need to exit the bus. I take a seat right near him so he can direct me.
After a while I begin to wonder if I'm even on the right bus as it wasn't supposed to be a long journey and just as I'm about to ask him again, he points to another traveller to get off; she asks him something and she tells me in English that I should have got departed four stops ago. How I envy multilingual people. I'm given instructions to walk in a straight line, which proves impossible owing to large buildings and curving streets. After numerous, useless conversations with Spaniards, I finally see a newspaper stall and decide it must have a map: it does and I get another instruction to walk in a straight line. I do and once again, the streets hinder me.
But I must have found the hostel as I'm using the Internet, you think. This is true; I do find the hostel one horrible hour later. Nothing else to report except I'm sharing my tiny four-bed room with two guys who snore - I know this as they managed to fall asleep while I was unpacking my bags. I'm sitting in the freezing kitchen, drinking soup and wishing myself back in Barcelona, which is where I will be next Saturday at 2.30, probably 2.45 if the bus is behaving normally.
So I have to keep myself entertained for 5 days - that shouldn't be so hard, right? I'm in Europe, aren't I? Stop complaining, Mad!!
I shall keep you posted on Valencia; no doubt I will find something to occupy my time here. I really do wish one of you was with me - if only so someone else could suffer in that horrible room. Thank god for ear plugs, right?
xxxx
Saturday, February 20, 2010
The Rain in Spain
It´s the only bad thing about Barcelona. Last night the streets were practically flooding. The water soaked through our jeans and shoes and we spent the night partying in wet socks. But there have been many, many good and even more great things about this city.
Most exciting, for me, was celebrating my birthday here on Wednesday. When the date clicked over till the 17th we were still out at dinner. Alessia had used her connections to get us a table at a funky tapas bar, much to the annoyance of the other customers who´d been waiting in line for forty minutes to be seated. The food was amazing, made even better by copious amounts of wine, and at midnight everyone sang ´Happy Birthday´to me in their native language and the waiters brought our plate of desserts with candles in it as though it were a cake.
On my birthday proper we checked out the local flea market and had lunch at a little cafe where the hot chocolate was served in the traditional style (basically a lump of chocolate melted into a cup) and all the food is made in a local monistary. We spent the afternoon browsing in the shops in the Gothic Quarter and went on a Gaudi hunt, finding three of his buildings, including La Familla (not entirely sure how to spell it), his famous church that´s still under construction. That night Mirco cooked us all a fabulous chicken dish for dinner and the most delicious birthday cake I´ve ever tasted (not sure if I mentioned it in the last blog, but Mirco is a former master chef and has run two restaurants, so you can imagine how good his cooking is!) Two more Australians, Patrick and Amy, checked into the hostel, which was good because our friends Mikey and Anna were checking out the following day. And two Sweedish guys also checked in, one used to be a popstar and we had fun youtubing his clips before we all headed out for a night of live music, tequila, absinthe and sangria.
Surprisingly, we didn´t do much the next day. The hostel was like a graveyard until lunchtime, and the things that began emerging from ther rooms about this time certainly bore more resemblance to the undead than to the people they´d been the night before. I had some bad news that day, I went to reserve my tickets for my train trips and found that Lisbon took up too many days on my pass because of their stupid rule about overnight trips departing before 7pm counting as two days, so Lisbon´s out for both Mads and I. The silver lining? My six nights in Paris has been extened to eleven!
Yesterday we continued our Gaudi hunt and hiked up to Parc Guell. Note: If you´re ever in Barcelona and plan to visit (which we highly recommend you do), don´t walk. Take a bus, catch a cab, or pay someone to carry you, cause it´s up hill all the way. It was worth it in the end though: the views are spectaucular and the park itself is like something out of a fairy tale. It was originally designed to be a self-contained village, but the project flopped, so dotted along the cloistered pathways are mosaic benches and rotundas. At night we continued with the fairytale theme and went to a bar with Amy and Patrick designed to look like an enchanted forrest. One of the rooms was done up like a child´s bedroom and the rest was like something out of A Midsummer Night´s Dream, obviously meant to be what the child was imagining. There was even a mini waterfall! Hands down, coolest bar ever!!! Before that we went and watched some traditional Flamenco dancing, which was very intense and lots of fun!
Today we packed a picnic and journeyed with Partick and Amy up to Mt Tibidabo, which offers amazing views, the most ornate church I´ve ever seen and one of the oldest theme parks in Europe!
Now, after all that, I´m pretty exhausted! Tomorrow´s going to be another big one, as Mads and I say Adios to Barcelona and to each other. She´s off to sunny Valencia and I´m catching the overnight train to Paris!
Missing you all, and very sad to miss the Fringe opening!
Love,
Margs
xo xo xo
Most exciting, for me, was celebrating my birthday here on Wednesday. When the date clicked over till the 17th we were still out at dinner. Alessia had used her connections to get us a table at a funky tapas bar, much to the annoyance of the other customers who´d been waiting in line for forty minutes to be seated. The food was amazing, made even better by copious amounts of wine, and at midnight everyone sang ´Happy Birthday´to me in their native language and the waiters brought our plate of desserts with candles in it as though it were a cake.
On my birthday proper we checked out the local flea market and had lunch at a little cafe where the hot chocolate was served in the traditional style (basically a lump of chocolate melted into a cup) and all the food is made in a local monistary. We spent the afternoon browsing in the shops in the Gothic Quarter and went on a Gaudi hunt, finding three of his buildings, including La Familla (not entirely sure how to spell it), his famous church that´s still under construction. That night Mirco cooked us all a fabulous chicken dish for dinner and the most delicious birthday cake I´ve ever tasted (not sure if I mentioned it in the last blog, but Mirco is a former master chef and has run two restaurants, so you can imagine how good his cooking is!) Two more Australians, Patrick and Amy, checked into the hostel, which was good because our friends Mikey and Anna were checking out the following day. And two Sweedish guys also checked in, one used to be a popstar and we had fun youtubing his clips before we all headed out for a night of live music, tequila, absinthe and sangria.
Surprisingly, we didn´t do much the next day. The hostel was like a graveyard until lunchtime, and the things that began emerging from ther rooms about this time certainly bore more resemblance to the undead than to the people they´d been the night before. I had some bad news that day, I went to reserve my tickets for my train trips and found that Lisbon took up too many days on my pass because of their stupid rule about overnight trips departing before 7pm counting as two days, so Lisbon´s out for both Mads and I. The silver lining? My six nights in Paris has been extened to eleven!
Yesterday we continued our Gaudi hunt and hiked up to Parc Guell. Note: If you´re ever in Barcelona and plan to visit (which we highly recommend you do), don´t walk. Take a bus, catch a cab, or pay someone to carry you, cause it´s up hill all the way. It was worth it in the end though: the views are spectaucular and the park itself is like something out of a fairy tale. It was originally designed to be a self-contained village, but the project flopped, so dotted along the cloistered pathways are mosaic benches and rotundas. At night we continued with the fairytale theme and went to a bar with Amy and Patrick designed to look like an enchanted forrest. One of the rooms was done up like a child´s bedroom and the rest was like something out of A Midsummer Night´s Dream, obviously meant to be what the child was imagining. There was even a mini waterfall! Hands down, coolest bar ever!!! Before that we went and watched some traditional Flamenco dancing, which was very intense and lots of fun!
Today we packed a picnic and journeyed with Partick and Amy up to Mt Tibidabo, which offers amazing views, the most ornate church I´ve ever seen and one of the oldest theme parks in Europe!
Now, after all that, I´m pretty exhausted! Tomorrow´s going to be another big one, as Mads and I say Adios to Barcelona and to each other. She´s off to sunny Valencia and I´m catching the overnight train to Paris!
Missing you all, and very sad to miss the Fringe opening!
Love,
Margs
xo xo xo
Friday, February 19, 2010
More New York!
Some pretty pics of all the snow, iceskating in Central Park and the Rockafella Centre, and inside the New York Publice Library.
Yale
What can I say, love Flinders, but I WANNA GO HERE!!! The big cathedral-like building is the main library. The interior shot is the foyer in the library and the many, many books are just a sample of what´s in their special collections´library--which is in a different building.
New York, New York!
Alrighty, time to catch up on some pics! Here´s a few from NYC: Times Square, the Chrisler building, my first snow ball, me in front of the castle in Central Park, and Kats the hundred-year old Jewish diner featured in When Harry met Sally and where they make AMAZING burgers!
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Greetings from the Continent!
Today has been our first full day in Barcelona, and being 8pm, the day is far from over. We are very much enjoying the Spanish way of life: sleep late, hu-uge lunch between 2-3, light dinner around 9-10, then off to the bar. It´s like being an undergrad again, without that pesky study business!
We set off this morning eager to explore. In the nineteenth century the city underwent a major expansion, so a lot of the architecture is from around then and is very similar to that in the French Quarter in New Orleans (there´s only three French buildings left in the Quarter, the rest are Spanish), and we love it! We started our wanderings this morning on Las Ramblas, which is like a nineteenth century Spanish version of Rundle Mall and has a big produce market with fruit, meat, bread and chocolate stalls, and makes our Adealaide markets look a little small by comparison (although it doesn´t have Lucias, so clearly not as cool). We then made our way down to Ramblas del Mar, which is the walkway along the harbour, where there are hundreds of boats moored.
We stopped for lunch at one of the many little restaurants dotted along the very narrow, maze-like streets and sampled Menu del Dia, where you get two main dishes, bread, dessert and a karaffe of wine for around 10 Euros--which is incredibly cheap.
This afternoon we visited a chocolate Museum, where the entry tickets were bars of chocolate and then we browsed the shops, where I found a birthday dress! (This is very exciting as I have been wearing rather ugly pants every single day since we left!)
Tonight we are heading out for tapas with Mikey and Anna, which should be great, Alessia has recommended us a few good places to try!
We´ve only been in Europe a few days, but absolutely loving it. Spain is like nothing I could have imagined, and I think we´re going to have a hard time leaving Barcelona at the end of the week! The language thing is a bit scary, although most people in Barcelona seem to speak English, which wasn´t really the case in Malaga. It´s very strange and slightly unsettling to be walking down a street and not understand a word anyone around you is saying, and stranger still when you can´t make yourself understood!
Love,
Margs
xo
Today has been our first full day in Barcelona, and being 8pm, the day is far from over. We are very much enjoying the Spanish way of life: sleep late, hu-uge lunch between 2-3, light dinner around 9-10, then off to the bar. It´s like being an undergrad again, without that pesky study business!
We set off this morning eager to explore. In the nineteenth century the city underwent a major expansion, so a lot of the architecture is from around then and is very similar to that in the French Quarter in New Orleans (there´s only three French buildings left in the Quarter, the rest are Spanish), and we love it! We started our wanderings this morning on Las Ramblas, which is like a nineteenth century Spanish version of Rundle Mall and has a big produce market with fruit, meat, bread and chocolate stalls, and makes our Adealaide markets look a little small by comparison (although it doesn´t have Lucias, so clearly not as cool). We then made our way down to Ramblas del Mar, which is the walkway along the harbour, where there are hundreds of boats moored.
We stopped for lunch at one of the many little restaurants dotted along the very narrow, maze-like streets and sampled Menu del Dia, where you get two main dishes, bread, dessert and a karaffe of wine for around 10 Euros--which is incredibly cheap.
This afternoon we visited a chocolate Museum, where the entry tickets were bars of chocolate and then we browsed the shops, where I found a birthday dress! (This is very exciting as I have been wearing rather ugly pants every single day since we left!)
Tonight we are heading out for tapas with Mikey and Anna, which should be great, Alessia has recommended us a few good places to try!
We´ve only been in Europe a few days, but absolutely loving it. Spain is like nothing I could have imagined, and I think we´re going to have a hard time leaving Barcelona at the end of the week! The language thing is a bit scary, although most people in Barcelona seem to speak English, which wasn´t really the case in Malaga. It´s very strange and slightly unsettling to be walking down a street and not understand a word anyone around you is saying, and stranger still when you can´t make yourself understood!
Love,
Margs
xo
Monday, February 15, 2010
Saint Madeline
So I'm going to let you in on a secret and I don't know whether I should because I like hoarding secrets.
Margs and I have found the best hostel in the world. Big call, right? It's true.
Let me explain: we arrive - gorgeous apartment on wonderland street front - did I mention the location? Because we're right near the centre; I saw a Gaudi building just around the corner.
As we're putting our bags away in our brand new room (this place only opened Friday), Alessia (part owner) comes in and says, have you had dinner yet, girls? Jimmy, another guest, is looking for some people to eat with - I'm just taking him down to the printer's and we'll be back in fifteen.
Sounds promising - did you get that bit about the printer's? Where do you find service like that?
So while we wait we meet Mikey and Anna, American and Finnish, respectively, two extra-nice students studying in France.
Alessia and Jimmy, lovely Englishman here for a conference (as a side job he caters at England's Womad) return to hostel, and we learn Alessia and Mirko, her partner, are taking us out to a favourite Spanish restaurant for dinner. They used to own a restaurant - Mirko is a chef - voted third best in Barcelona so they know their food.
We eat cod salad, octopus, ribs, veal, a creme caramel-like dessert (sauce has alcohol, Dad; might be something to try next time), homemade rum-raisin-type ice cream, coffee and wine for under ten euro each. Is that even possible?
We listen to Alessia (Argentinian) and Mirko (Italian) - learn of their wonderful adventures in New York and Europe. I want to be a traveller just like Alessia - she's been everywhere.
They drive us home - Margs and I retreat to our room to scream in glee. Lovely hostel with too-good-to-be-true-hosts and fellow guests. What on earth have we done to deserve this?
I must have been a saint in a past life.
p.s. I'm keeping the name a secret for now.
Margs and I have found the best hostel in the world. Big call, right? It's true.
Let me explain: we arrive - gorgeous apartment on wonderland street front - did I mention the location? Because we're right near the centre; I saw a Gaudi building just around the corner.
As we're putting our bags away in our brand new room (this place only opened Friday), Alessia (part owner) comes in and says, have you had dinner yet, girls? Jimmy, another guest, is looking for some people to eat with - I'm just taking him down to the printer's and we'll be back in fifteen.
Sounds promising - did you get that bit about the printer's? Where do you find service like that?
So while we wait we meet Mikey and Anna, American and Finnish, respectively, two extra-nice students studying in France.
Alessia and Jimmy, lovely Englishman here for a conference (as a side job he caters at England's Womad) return to hostel, and we learn Alessia and Mirko, her partner, are taking us out to a favourite Spanish restaurant for dinner. They used to own a restaurant - Mirko is a chef - voted third best in Barcelona so they know their food.
We eat cod salad, octopus, ribs, veal, a creme caramel-like dessert (sauce has alcohol, Dad; might be something to try next time), homemade rum-raisin-type ice cream, coffee and wine for under ten euro each. Is that even possible?
We listen to Alessia (Argentinian) and Mirko (Italian) - learn of their wonderful adventures in New York and Europe. I want to be a traveller just like Alessia - she's been everywhere.
They drive us home - Margs and I retreat to our room to scream in glee. Lovely hostel with too-good-to-be-true-hosts and fellow guests. What on earth have we done to deserve this?
I must have been a saint in a past life.
p.s. I'm keeping the name a secret for now.
The Grand Tour Begins
Mads and Marga are in Barcelona, Spain, Europe.
The flight to Frankfurt wasn't that awful. Margs and I got to sit in a double row and not next to any of those horrible high schoolers we ended up near in the airport. The food was actually decent, much superior to United Airlines, even if it was strange to have dinner and then five hours later breakfast. We had to fast forward seven hours and arrived in Frankfurt at about 6am and then had to hang around, and stay awake, until 2 for our Malaga flight.
I found some newspapers in English and read a fascinating article about the dodgy airlines. Ten years ago a flight from point A to point B would take, say, 2 hours, but is now listed as a 2 hour and 45 minute flight. This is because airlines assume that there will be delays so account for them rather than fixing the problem. So I spent about half an hour being angry with airlines and then discovered the free coffee machine offered by the nice airline who understood I didn't want to part with my brand new euros and three mochas later (no sleep = desperate need of caffeine) that anger went away.
We left Frankfurt late (we had to wait for a machine to come and wash away the ice) but arrived on time (!) and had an easy trip catching one bus to the hostel. Our instructions for walking to the hostel were bizarrely complicated, but as it turned out the building was just around the corner from the stop. Certainly not the nicest hostel we've been to but as it was for one night only and the lights were dim enough to hide anything we didn't need to see I shan't complain too much. We were told nothing was open on Sundays but managed to find an Italian place for dinner. Somehow managed to order a pizza with nothing but different cheeses and vowed to find a phrase book at next opportunity.
As we hadn't slept in twenty-four hours I had the best night's sleep imaginable and woke to a breakfast of stale cereal and bread, and warm milk. Rain, tourist attractions being closed on Mondays and my sore heel (my heel hurts!) meant Margs and I got to the airport five hours early (the sort of thing my mother would do) for our flight to Barcelona.
Have arrived at possibly the best hostel known to man, and couldn't be happier. Since we're about to leave for dinner, I shall end here because at 9.45pm, food is much more important than you lot.
The flight to Frankfurt wasn't that awful. Margs and I got to sit in a double row and not next to any of those horrible high schoolers we ended up near in the airport. The food was actually decent, much superior to United Airlines, even if it was strange to have dinner and then five hours later breakfast. We had to fast forward seven hours and arrived in Frankfurt at about 6am and then had to hang around, and stay awake, until 2 for our Malaga flight.
I found some newspapers in English and read a fascinating article about the dodgy airlines. Ten years ago a flight from point A to point B would take, say, 2 hours, but is now listed as a 2 hour and 45 minute flight. This is because airlines assume that there will be delays so account for them rather than fixing the problem. So I spent about half an hour being angry with airlines and then discovered the free coffee machine offered by the nice airline who understood I didn't want to part with my brand new euros and three mochas later (no sleep = desperate need of caffeine) that anger went away.
We left Frankfurt late (we had to wait for a machine to come and wash away the ice) but arrived on time (!) and had an easy trip catching one bus to the hostel. Our instructions for walking to the hostel were bizarrely complicated, but as it turned out the building was just around the corner from the stop. Certainly not the nicest hostel we've been to but as it was for one night only and the lights were dim enough to hide anything we didn't need to see I shan't complain too much. We were told nothing was open on Sundays but managed to find an Italian place for dinner. Somehow managed to order a pizza with nothing but different cheeses and vowed to find a phrase book at next opportunity.
As we hadn't slept in twenty-four hours I had the best night's sleep imaginable and woke to a breakfast of stale cereal and bread, and warm milk. Rain, tourist attractions being closed on Mondays and my sore heel (my heel hurts!) meant Margs and I got to the airport five hours early (the sort of thing my mother would do) for our flight to Barcelona.
Have arrived at possibly the best hostel known to man, and couldn't be happier. Since we're about to leave for dinner, I shall end here because at 9.45pm, food is much more important than you lot.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Bye Bye, USA
The eve of departure: Margs and I are frantically trying to do the impossible and pack all our goodies in the most uncomfortable backpacks of the known world. If only I were Maddy Poppins. Another trip to the post office is in order.
The last Boston days have been busy. Thursday I went to see the Broadway production of Dream Girls, oh-my wonderful, and the theatre, built in 1906, was gorgeously turned out in red-patterned wallpaper and gold fixtures. With the theme music whirring around my head I skipped back to our hostel (YWCA not YMCA as I stated in my earlier blog – though, either way, it’s full of old people) where I met up with Margs, who had been on a Eurail mission, and we went to a FREE jazz concert at the New England Conservatorium.
Matt Sheens, a family friend whom I haven’t seen since Deep Creek camping days – thousands of years ago - was playing and invited us along. Truly excellent music; Margs and I were most impressed and wish for more free things of such high standards.
We organised to meet up with Matt and his friend Lauren, another visiting Adelaideian, Friday morning for a walking tour of Boston. The sky was conveniently blue with nary a cloud in sight. Tour guide Matt took us to the Rundle Mall and Alexander Ave of Boston and then the Adelaide comparisons ended. We met some squirrel pals at Boston Common – squirrels, it turns out, are quite dumb and if they think you might have bread in your rolled up mitt, they will come to inspect. After How to Talk to Squirrels 101, we went and viewed The Most Important Building in Boston, which had a spectacular golden roof I wish sat on the residence of 11 Cooper Place; I can’t for the life of anyone remember what this building's importance was.
We then visited Beacon Hill, home to wealthy Bostonites and the first of the graveyards – Boston has quite a few – where, if the sign is to be believed, Mother Goose of nursery rhyme fame is buried. MG, Mrs Vangoose, and family are all buried here and her grand-son-in-law, a newspaper owner, published the Mother Goose nursery rhymes. All this we did before lunch.
Boston has a large Irish quarter, so we headed that way and stopped at the Best Irish Pub in Boston where I finally tried a Rueben sandwich; don’t actually think this is Irish but has been recommended numerous times on trip and now I can recommend it too - was mmmm-delicious. Then, and of course there’s a then, we followed the Freedom Trail (a red-brick path through downtown Boston that leads the walker to sixteen significant historical sites) to Mike’s – an Italian patisserie in the Italian quarter (not a significant historical site, but it should be).
Margs and I had actually stumbled across this place a few nights ago, not realising it was famous. Matt, Laruen and I opted for their specialty, the ricotta cannoli Florentine, and Margs choose the peanut chocolate cookie. Then another graveyard visit; This site, with its sea views, was reorganised in the 1830s by the cemetery committee who declared that all tombstones be arranged in neat rows – so Here Lies the body of the beloved Nathanial Potter is a big fat lie.
After some discussions on tombstone robbery and the difficulties of moving that slab of stone past customs we walked along the sea, back up to Beacon Hill for tea, and then our truly excellent day was all over.
Tomorrow we fly to Malaga (first a pit stop in Frankfurt). Then the following day you’ll find us partying in Barcelona – if only you could be there with us.
Only eight days till the joint-adventure ends, then it’s solo travel time.
Much love, Mad x
The last Boston days have been busy. Thursday I went to see the Broadway production of Dream Girls, oh-my wonderful, and the theatre, built in 1906, was gorgeously turned out in red-patterned wallpaper and gold fixtures. With the theme music whirring around my head I skipped back to our hostel (YWCA not YMCA as I stated in my earlier blog – though, either way, it’s full of old people) where I met up with Margs, who had been on a Eurail mission, and we went to a FREE jazz concert at the New England Conservatorium.
Matt Sheens, a family friend whom I haven’t seen since Deep Creek camping days – thousands of years ago - was playing and invited us along. Truly excellent music; Margs and I were most impressed and wish for more free things of such high standards.
We organised to meet up with Matt and his friend Lauren, another visiting Adelaideian, Friday morning for a walking tour of Boston. The sky was conveniently blue with nary a cloud in sight. Tour guide Matt took us to the Rundle Mall and Alexander Ave of Boston and then the Adelaide comparisons ended. We met some squirrel pals at Boston Common – squirrels, it turns out, are quite dumb and if they think you might have bread in your rolled up mitt, they will come to inspect. After How to Talk to Squirrels 101, we went and viewed The Most Important Building in Boston, which had a spectacular golden roof I wish sat on the residence of 11 Cooper Place; I can’t for the life of anyone remember what this building's importance was.
We then visited Beacon Hill, home to wealthy Bostonites and the first of the graveyards – Boston has quite a few – where, if the sign is to be believed, Mother Goose of nursery rhyme fame is buried. MG, Mrs Vangoose, and family are all buried here and her grand-son-in-law, a newspaper owner, published the Mother Goose nursery rhymes. All this we did before lunch.
Boston has a large Irish quarter, so we headed that way and stopped at the Best Irish Pub in Boston where I finally tried a Rueben sandwich; don’t actually think this is Irish but has been recommended numerous times on trip and now I can recommend it too - was mmmm-delicious. Then, and of course there’s a then, we followed the Freedom Trail (a red-brick path through downtown Boston that leads the walker to sixteen significant historical sites) to Mike’s – an Italian patisserie in the Italian quarter (not a significant historical site, but it should be).
Margs and I had actually stumbled across this place a few nights ago, not realising it was famous. Matt, Laruen and I opted for their specialty, the ricotta cannoli Florentine, and Margs choose the peanut chocolate cookie. Then another graveyard visit; This site, with its sea views, was reorganised in the 1830s by the cemetery committee who declared that all tombstones be arranged in neat rows – so Here Lies the body of the beloved Nathanial Potter is a big fat lie.
After some discussions on tombstone robbery and the difficulties of moving that slab of stone past customs we walked along the sea, back up to Beacon Hill for tea, and then our truly excellent day was all over.
Tomorrow we fly to Malaga (first a pit stop in Frankfurt). Then the following day you’ll find us partying in Barcelona – if only you could be there with us.
Only eight days till the joint-adventure ends, then it’s solo travel time.
Much love, Mad x
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Something Wicked
Weather update: We're snowed in. Schools have shut down and shopes
closed early. They get bad weather over here and everybody gets the
day off, a policy I think we should definitely adopt in Australia. It
started out okay, the snow was all light and fluffy and pretty this
morning, in fact it was the first time the flakes were big enough that
you could actually see the patterns in them, which I was, briefly,
very excite3d about--until the solid flakes became more like slushy,
very cold rain soaking through my coat, hat and scarf and makig the
side walks very slippery. Now, curled up in a big armchair by the
heater, it all looks very pretty again.
Before the weather decided to confine us indoors we did manage a brief
trip out to Salem this morning (Jo, your art prac was way better than
the memorial they put up, they have 19 stone chairs with the victims
names on them). Like Concord, the town itself is entirely postcard
worthy, and definitely not the sort of place you imagine as the site
of one of the darkest stains in America's history. The town itself, I
think, would rather forget the witch trials of 1692, where 18
townsfolk were hanged for supposedly being witches, and another was
crushed to death with stones for witholding information. The video
they screen at the Visitor's centre brushes over it pretty quickly
stating: 'in the puritans' defence, they did actually believe these
people to be witches' and 'we've benefitted from the incident, as it
taught us a valuable lesson in tolerence'. They made similar remarks
about the cloth mills run several centuries later, citing them as
shining examples of the American work eithic...one in three of the
workers died working at those mills...
So ol' Salem's got a pretty sketchy past, in fiction, as well as fact,
as it turns out. While yesterday the good folk of Concord did their
darndest to claim Nathaniel Hawthorne as their own, Salem is equally
keen for the priveledge. Personally, I'm giving that one to Salem, if
you ask me, Concord is a bit greedy on the author front.
Hawthorne was actually born in Salem and the House of Seven Gables is
just off the main drag (yup, it's real), though, unfortunately by the
time we discovered this the mushy rain had set in and I added treking
through sleet to the list of things I won't do for the sake of
literature.
We did find yet another amazing book shop though, after the Strand in
NYC, this has definitely been the best. All the books are staked in
precarious piles that have a tendancy to topple over at random, and
bad luck if you wanted the title on the bottom, or in one of the
stacks behind the staks. And it was uber cheap, all 50% off and if you
bought 4, number 5 was free.
As you've probably gathered, we've been a bit book focused this week.
And I feel I've been particularly lucky; I haven't read a book yet
that I haven't loved. I want to talk a little about the latest two,
they've had me so excited!
First off, I finished Fitzgerald's This Side of Paradise last night.
Wow. It's a toss up between that and Gone with the Wind for the
bestlast line ever award. I'll admit, I don't think I'm quite mature
enough to really 'get' a lot of it yet. I'm going to have to come back
to it in about twenty years. But it was so beautiful, tragically
beautiful, romantic, melancholy and bursting with youthful arrogance.
My favourite chapter was the story of Amory and Elenor. She's a
fabulous charcter.
I was pretty sure, having sat and stared out into nothing for some
time with the last page open on my lap, that whatever I picked up next
would be a disappointment.
I was wrong.
I picked up Tim Bowler's Frozen Fire on a whim, and I'm only halfway
through, so it could still go either way, but the first half, wow! I
only got through the first few pages last night, but they had me. You
know that freeling; your eyes feel like they're locked onto the words.
I hadn't been gripped like this since The Hunger Games.
The premise actually sounds a little lame. A girl, Dusty, who's
brother mysteriously disappeared two years earlier, gets a mysterious
phone call one night from an unknown caller who seems to know a lot
about her brother and who tells Dusty that he, the caller, is in the
middle of a suicide attempt and doesn't want to be saved, he just
wants someone to talk to. Yeah, I know, sounds very angsty. It's not.
I couldn't sleep last night. I was terrified. Bowler's way with words
had brought all my adolescent fears to the surface and I was afraid to
close my eyes. I also wanted to keep reading. The plot is really
fast-paced and exploding with suspense. I'll keep you updated as to
wether the second half manages to keep it up! Incidently, has anyone
read any of his other stuff? Can recommend anything similar?
Well, I'm starting to get hungry. Time to suit up and venture out into
the snow for some grub!
Miss you all. Rach, if you're reading, give the dustball a big cuddle
from me, reading a book with a character called Dusty is making me
miss her so much!
Love,
Margs
xo xo xo
closed early. They get bad weather over here and everybody gets the
day off, a policy I think we should definitely adopt in Australia. It
started out okay, the snow was all light and fluffy and pretty this
morning, in fact it was the first time the flakes were big enough that
you could actually see the patterns in them, which I was, briefly,
very excite3d about--until the solid flakes became more like slushy,
very cold rain soaking through my coat, hat and scarf and makig the
side walks very slippery. Now, curled up in a big armchair by the
heater, it all looks very pretty again.
Before the weather decided to confine us indoors we did manage a brief
trip out to Salem this morning (Jo, your art prac was way better than
the memorial they put up, they have 19 stone chairs with the victims
names on them). Like Concord, the town itself is entirely postcard
worthy, and definitely not the sort of place you imagine as the site
of one of the darkest stains in America's history. The town itself, I
think, would rather forget the witch trials of 1692, where 18
townsfolk were hanged for supposedly being witches, and another was
crushed to death with stones for witholding information. The video
they screen at the Visitor's centre brushes over it pretty quickly
stating: 'in the puritans' defence, they did actually believe these
people to be witches' and 'we've benefitted from the incident, as it
taught us a valuable lesson in tolerence'. They made similar remarks
about the cloth mills run several centuries later, citing them as
shining examples of the American work eithic...one in three of the
workers died working at those mills...
So ol' Salem's got a pretty sketchy past, in fiction, as well as fact,
as it turns out. While yesterday the good folk of Concord did their
darndest to claim Nathaniel Hawthorne as their own, Salem is equally
keen for the priveledge. Personally, I'm giving that one to Salem, if
you ask me, Concord is a bit greedy on the author front.
Hawthorne was actually born in Salem and the House of Seven Gables is
just off the main drag (yup, it's real), though, unfortunately by the
time we discovered this the mushy rain had set in and I added treking
through sleet to the list of things I won't do for the sake of
literature.
We did find yet another amazing book shop though, after the Strand in
NYC, this has definitely been the best. All the books are staked in
precarious piles that have a tendancy to topple over at random, and
bad luck if you wanted the title on the bottom, or in one of the
stacks behind the staks. And it was uber cheap, all 50% off and if you
bought 4, number 5 was free.
As you've probably gathered, we've been a bit book focused this week.
And I feel I've been particularly lucky; I haven't read a book yet
that I haven't loved. I want to talk a little about the latest two,
they've had me so excited!
First off, I finished Fitzgerald's This Side of Paradise last night.
Wow. It's a toss up between that and Gone with the Wind for the
bestlast line ever award. I'll admit, I don't think I'm quite mature
enough to really 'get' a lot of it yet. I'm going to have to come back
to it in about twenty years. But it was so beautiful, tragically
beautiful, romantic, melancholy and bursting with youthful arrogance.
My favourite chapter was the story of Amory and Elenor. She's a
fabulous charcter.
I was pretty sure, having sat and stared out into nothing for some
time with the last page open on my lap, that whatever I picked up next
would be a disappointment.
I was wrong.
I picked up Tim Bowler's Frozen Fire on a whim, and I'm only halfway
through, so it could still go either way, but the first half, wow! I
only got through the first few pages last night, but they had me. You
know that freeling; your eyes feel like they're locked onto the words.
I hadn't been gripped like this since The Hunger Games.
The premise actually sounds a little lame. A girl, Dusty, who's
brother mysteriously disappeared two years earlier, gets a mysterious
phone call one night from an unknown caller who seems to know a lot
about her brother and who tells Dusty that he, the caller, is in the
middle of a suicide attempt and doesn't want to be saved, he just
wants someone to talk to. Yeah, I know, sounds very angsty. It's not.
I couldn't sleep last night. I was terrified. Bowler's way with words
had brought all my adolescent fears to the surface and I was afraid to
close my eyes. I also wanted to keep reading. The plot is really
fast-paced and exploding with suspense. I'll keep you updated as to
wether the second half manages to keep it up! Incidently, has anyone
read any of his other stuff? Can recommend anything similar?
Well, I'm starting to get hungry. Time to suit up and venture out into
the snow for some grub!
Miss you all. Rach, if you're reading, give the dustball a big cuddle
from me, reading a book with a character called Dusty is making me
miss her so much!
Love,
Margs
xo xo xo
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Snippets
Ongoing conversation concerning traveller's woes:
'My feet hurt.'
'So do mine.'
'And my neck.'
'Uhuh.'
'I'm crippled.'
'Me too.'
'I don't want to get old and be like this all the time.'
'God, no. How perfectly awful.'
Handwritten note posted in the lifts, hallways, bathrooms and dining rooms of YMCA Berkeley hostel, Boston:
'Bianca left her lavender coat in the laundry last night and who so ever has it can they please leave it at the front desk?'
Conversation on leaving Alcott home:
'I had no idea Little Women was so autobiographical. I mean, I knew parts of it were based on her family life but I didn't realise to what extent.'
'I can't believe we actually saw the desk where she wrote it, and that everything has been preserved - how is it possible all that furniture was saved?'
'I know - how incredibly fortunate. We should make sure someone saves our stuff - so that when it comes to putting together our museums they don't have to fabricate anything.'
What was wrong with that magical book:
'I still think Jo should have ended up with Laurie.'
'Me too. What was Louisa thinking?'
'What did the video say? She didn't want her readers to think that marriage was everything, some feminist notion.'
'Hmm, I'm an enlightened reader and I still would prefer a Jo-Laurie ending.'
'Of course, especially seeing as Christian Bale played him in the movie.'
Conversation on visiting graveyard with its 'ridge of writers' section:
'Oh,I found the Alcott's. There's Louisa.'
'Beth's here too, isn't she? She must be the E - only 23. She was younger in the book.'
'They were all younger, weren't they? Oh, look, Louisa has a civil war marker.'
'Why didn't she write a book about her experiences?'
'Jo's father fights in the civil war.'
'True, but it's not the same.'
'No, it isn't, I suppose. I wouldn't mind reading her collection of letters. Look, the Emerson family are here - there's Ralph.'
'Can you see Nathanial Hawthorne?'
'Not yet - how lucky Louisa was to grow up with all these writers coming in and out of her life. And how exactly is it, that they arranged to have all the writers buried in the one place?'
'Maybe they relocated the graves or perhaps they got together before they all died and said, frankly it would be easier for the tourists if we were all lined up nice and neat.'
'They could have thought a bit further and asked, do tourists want to trek up a steep hill?'
'They were only writers.'
'Ooo, it's cold. Cupcake?'
'Yes, please.'
Conversation had while exiting the train station:
'I think it's colder than yesterday.'
'That's the wind.'
'No, really, it's definitely colder.'
'What's the point in the sun being out when it doesn't do anything.'
Conversation had on way to dinner:
'I think the first bookshop was my favourite.'
'Mmm, I liked the third one - I did get 5 books for $14.'
'Actually that was pretty good. I'm going to have to send another package home soon.'
'Uhuh, me too. I have way too many books. Hey, is that a Borders across the road?'
'Wanna go in?'
'Of course.'
What occurred when walking back to Berkeley St after China Town dinner:
'Boy, I could go a peanut butter chocolate chip cookie or even, say, a donut.'
'Yeah, me too - it's not like we haven't earned it.'
'True - we must have walked miles today. Not as much as yesterday, though.'
'It's winter - you have to eat more in winter or you might die.'
'Oh, definitely.'
'Besides those Eskimos eat whale blubber to keep warm - this weather definitely rates a donut.'
'My feet hurt.'
'So do mine.'
'And my neck.'
'Uhuh.'
'I'm crippled.'
'Me too.'
'I don't want to get old and be like this all the time.'
'God, no. How perfectly awful.'
Handwritten note posted in the lifts, hallways, bathrooms and dining rooms of YMCA Berkeley hostel, Boston:
'Bianca left her lavender coat in the laundry last night and who so ever has it can they please leave it at the front desk?'
Conversation on leaving Alcott home:
'I had no idea Little Women was so autobiographical. I mean, I knew parts of it were based on her family life but I didn't realise to what extent.'
'I can't believe we actually saw the desk where she wrote it, and that everything has been preserved - how is it possible all that furniture was saved?'
'I know - how incredibly fortunate. We should make sure someone saves our stuff - so that when it comes to putting together our museums they don't have to fabricate anything.'
What was wrong with that magical book:
'I still think Jo should have ended up with Laurie.'
'Me too. What was Louisa thinking?'
'What did the video say? She didn't want her readers to think that marriage was everything, some feminist notion.'
'Hmm, I'm an enlightened reader and I still would prefer a Jo-Laurie ending.'
'Of course, especially seeing as Christian Bale played him in the movie.'
Conversation on visiting graveyard with its 'ridge of writers' section:
'Oh,I found the Alcott's. There's Louisa.'
'Beth's here too, isn't she? She must be the E - only 23. She was younger in the book.'
'They were all younger, weren't they? Oh, look, Louisa has a civil war marker.'
'Why didn't she write a book about her experiences?'
'Jo's father fights in the civil war.'
'True, but it's not the same.'
'No, it isn't, I suppose. I wouldn't mind reading her collection of letters. Look, the Emerson family are here - there's Ralph.'
'Can you see Nathanial Hawthorne?'
'Not yet - how lucky Louisa was to grow up with all these writers coming in and out of her life. And how exactly is it, that they arranged to have all the writers buried in the one place?'
'Maybe they relocated the graves or perhaps they got together before they all died and said, frankly it would be easier for the tourists if we were all lined up nice and neat.'
'They could have thought a bit further and asked, do tourists want to trek up a steep hill?'
'They were only writers.'
'Ooo, it's cold. Cupcake?'
'Yes, please.'
Conversation had while exiting the train station:
'I think it's colder than yesterday.'
'That's the wind.'
'No, really, it's definitely colder.'
'What's the point in the sun being out when it doesn't do anything.'
Conversation had on way to dinner:
'I think the first bookshop was my favourite.'
'Mmm, I liked the third one - I did get 5 books for $14.'
'Actually that was pretty good. I'm going to have to send another package home soon.'
'Uhuh, me too. I have way too many books. Hey, is that a Borders across the road?'
'Wanna go in?'
'Of course.'
What occurred when walking back to Berkeley St after China Town dinner:
'Boy, I could go a peanut butter chocolate chip cookie or even, say, a donut.'
'Yeah, me too - it's not like we haven't earned it.'
'True - we must have walked miles today. Not as much as yesterday, though.'
'It's winter - you have to eat more in winter or you might die.'
'Oh, definitely.'
'Besides those Eskimos eat whale blubber to keep warm - this weather definitely rates a donut.'
Monday, February 8, 2010
We got into Harvard...what, like it's hard?
I am broken. When I bend my fingers the skin over my knuckles cracks open and I bleed. My feet are blistered, new wounds bubbling up where the old have not yet healed. My shoulders, my back, my neck, my legs, my arms, everything aches. My lips are sandpaper. They may never be kissed again. And my eyes, I can barely hold them open. You see, we have been walking these last two days, between cities, through fierce winds and bitter cold (yeah, I know, we've been walking the whole time, but not like this). What could make us sacrifice our bodies in this way, twice (yup, we've walked there twice)? Harvard. Holy grail of the Ivys. Okay, admittedly we could have caught the train from Boston to Cambridge, but then we wouldn't have got to experience crossing Longfellow Bridge and seen the wide expanse of the Charles River frozen below, or spent many happy hours exploring the bookshops and cafes of Mass. Ave and Harvard Sqaure...that and since discovering doughnut flavoured muffins, we reallyneed all the exercise we can get.
The campus is pretty awe-inspiring, as you can imagine. I was kinda lugging my jaw along on the ground behind me as the tour guide pointed out the sights: the gate that Samuel Johnson donated; Memorial Hall, which has the most stained glass of any non-religeous building in the world; the main library (there are many, many libraries) houses over 15 million books and is growing at a rate of six books an hour. All I can say is, thank God for document delivery.
So all this hanging about in Harvard Yard and reading with a look of practised, pensivity while drinking coffee on the Square, has turn my thoughts to literary matters.
While we were lucky to find a hostel in the centre of Boston, that was cheap and provides a great free breakfast, it's not exactly a hive of youthful activity, in fact most of the guests seem like they might have fond memories of the nineteenth century and the place has a nursing home vibe going (tonight the place is buzzing: it's bingo night), but on the plus side, we're getting A LOT of reading done. I've just started F. Scott Fitzgerald's This Side of Paradise, which I'm really enjoying, but haven't read enough to comment on in any depth yet. Before that I sank my fangs into Robin McKinley's Sunshine, a vampire romance (oh, the irony!). Yeah, turns out not even Harvard could cure me of my love for the suckers. For those of you out there who share my guilty pleasure, be sure to get your hands on this one, if you haven't already--Jess, I especially thought of you when I was reading it. The main character (the girl, not the vampire, obviously) works in a bakery making cinamon scrolls for a lovably quirky cast of regular customers by day, while being drawn into the vampiric underworld by night. The heroine spent a lot of time consuming baked goods, drinking, lying around in pools of sunlight and being excorted out of danger and tucked up in bed and watched over by the terribly well-spoken, gentlman-like, yet still totally mad, bad and dangerous to know, vampire hero. And while the feminists among you are more than justified in wanting to stake me for it, after all these weeks of being cold, literally taking on the worldand being all independent and responsible, days of tea, cinamon buns and warm sunlight and a vampire wanting to get all broody and protective over me, is VERY appealing (oh, come on, it's a vampire romance, you just know he's going to need to puny human to save his arse in the big battle). A real hot chocolate read!
Right, now must get back to being engrossed in This Sideof Paradise before one of the Harvard people catches on that I'm going gooey over suckers rather than writing an incredibly profound response to something Fitzgerald wrote!
Tomorrow we're off on a day trip to Concord to contuinue our American literary adventures!
Love,
Margs
xo xo xo
The campus is pretty awe-inspiring, as you can imagine. I was kinda lugging my jaw along on the ground behind me as the tour guide pointed out the sights: the gate that Samuel Johnson donated; Memorial Hall, which has the most stained glass of any non-religeous building in the world; the main library (there are many, many libraries) houses over 15 million books and is growing at a rate of six books an hour. All I can say is, thank God for document delivery.
So all this hanging about in Harvard Yard and reading with a look of practised, pensivity while drinking coffee on the Square, has turn my thoughts to literary matters.
While we were lucky to find a hostel in the centre of Boston, that was cheap and provides a great free breakfast, it's not exactly a hive of youthful activity, in fact most of the guests seem like they might have fond memories of the nineteenth century and the place has a nursing home vibe going (tonight the place is buzzing: it's bingo night), but on the plus side, we're getting A LOT of reading done. I've just started F. Scott Fitzgerald's This Side of Paradise, which I'm really enjoying, but haven't read enough to comment on in any depth yet. Before that I sank my fangs into Robin McKinley's Sunshine, a vampire romance (oh, the irony!). Yeah, turns out not even Harvard could cure me of my love for the suckers. For those of you out there who share my guilty pleasure, be sure to get your hands on this one, if you haven't already--Jess, I especially thought of you when I was reading it. The main character (the girl, not the vampire, obviously) works in a bakery making cinamon scrolls for a lovably quirky cast of regular customers by day, while being drawn into the vampiric underworld by night. The heroine spent a lot of time consuming baked goods, drinking, lying around in pools of sunlight and being excorted out of danger and tucked up in bed and watched over by the terribly well-spoken, gentlman-like, yet still totally mad, bad and dangerous to know, vampire hero. And while the feminists among you are more than justified in wanting to stake me for it, after all these weeks of being cold, literally taking on the worldand being all independent and responsible, days of tea, cinamon buns and warm sunlight and a vampire wanting to get all broody and protective over me, is VERY appealing (oh, come on, it's a vampire romance, you just know he's going to need to puny human to save his arse in the big battle). A real hot chocolate read!
Right, now must get back to being engrossed in This Sideof Paradise before one of the Harvard people catches on that I'm going gooey over suckers rather than writing an incredibly profound response to something Fitzgerald wrote!
Tomorrow we're off on a day trip to Concord to contuinue our American literary adventures!
Love,
Margs
xo xo xo
Friday, February 5, 2010
Farewell, New York
I no longer feel sorry for small New Yorkers: yes, they may not have large backyards, or any backyard for that matter, but they do have Central Park - and who could ask for more? Today I saw a pack of them tearing madly about with a soccer ball and to the side beneath the trees were hay bales! Who needs to play kick the can when someone is laying out hay bales under trees for you.
And with no connective thread, I move on to the subject of heavy doors. I found it odd, in a nice way, that men would stop and hold the door for me. Not just once, but all the time - it got to the point where I'd forgotten how. Then I came to New York and started going to girly places where men don't frequent so they aren't around to hold doors open when you want to pass through and I learnt why they bothered to in the first place: America has the heaviest doors known to man. I could lean into these doors with all my body weight and have nothing happen. I can't fathom what the doormakers were thinking - all I could come up with was they must all be men.
And again I jump about: my first Broadway experience was wonderful. I went to see Memphis, a musical about race relations in the 1950s. Warm, funny, heartbreaking with dance-around-in-your-bedroom music that was composed by a member of Jon Bon Jovi's band (thought that might interest you, James and any other once-were fans out there). The box office attendant took pity on me and put me in the front row; I was close enough to see the flying spit and the loose hem on the lead's dress. And as a bonus, I have never before seen a more attractive sigh-worthy male cast.
Yesterday, as Margs said, I was on a Europe organising mission, so we went our separate ways. By mid-afternoon I was restless so decided to go on a treasure-seeking outing. My aunty Vick had sent me a list of places to visit so I dutifully entered them in Google and made my map.
First stop: Zabar's. I've gone on a lot about food, I know, but nothing compares to this place. It's a food palace; you walk in and the smells get you straight away. There are teetering stacks of cheeses; row upon row of deli meats; freshly baked bread, pastries, cookies, bagels,muffins, donuts, brownies, baklava, pie, croissant; baked goods I can't name but could identify again based on smell alone; food from every conceivable country; strudels, knish and puddings and curries; salads and sushi and dumplings; a coffee aisle that smells better than chocolate tastes. I left with a bag of goodies for dinner, desperately sad I wouldn't be able to visit at will.
Across the road, I pretended not to see the BOOKS sign and turned into Filene's Basement, a discount designer store my aunt promised would hurt the budget. I truly intended to have a quick look only, skirt the edges and be on my way, and walked out the proud new owner of a cashmere jumper. I jumped on the subway down Broadway and got out on 18th street. There I found my last stop, the poorly named ABC store. I was skeptical when Vickie had suggested this as it conjured up Play School images, but she had described it like an Aladdin's cave and it was. I wanted to be like Aladdin and find a genie and then sensibly wish all these goodies straight home to my bedroom. I finally pulled myself away but only because I had a movie to get to - a romantic comedy set in New York, so was fun to point out things to the stranger next to me and say, hey, I've been there!
Today, our last proper day, was again, surely you can't be surprised, dedicated to food. I dragged Margs back to Zabar's where we got goodies for a picnic lunch - mmmmm to the almond croissants, then we walked back to our hostel, where we had to change buildings (that's another story) and then we walked down to Greenwich Village for dinner at Katz's, made famous by When Harry met Sally (or is it the other way around - either way, I've never seen it). Best cheeseburger I've ever had and stomach agreed. Went in search of dessert and ended up back at Magnolia's for a So Long New York cupcake.
I've made myself hungry with all these food talk but shall have to wait until morning as I'm off to bed. We depart for Boston tomorrow - if we make it to the bus stop with our heavy loads, that is. Fingers crossed. Good night all.
And with no connective thread, I move on to the subject of heavy doors. I found it odd, in a nice way, that men would stop and hold the door for me. Not just once, but all the time - it got to the point where I'd forgotten how. Then I came to New York and started going to girly places where men don't frequent so they aren't around to hold doors open when you want to pass through and I learnt why they bothered to in the first place: America has the heaviest doors known to man. I could lean into these doors with all my body weight and have nothing happen. I can't fathom what the doormakers were thinking - all I could come up with was they must all be men.
And again I jump about: my first Broadway experience was wonderful. I went to see Memphis, a musical about race relations in the 1950s. Warm, funny, heartbreaking with dance-around-in-your-bedroom music that was composed by a member of Jon Bon Jovi's band (thought that might interest you, James and any other once-were fans out there). The box office attendant took pity on me and put me in the front row; I was close enough to see the flying spit and the loose hem on the lead's dress. And as a bonus, I have never before seen a more attractive sigh-worthy male cast.
Yesterday, as Margs said, I was on a Europe organising mission, so we went our separate ways. By mid-afternoon I was restless so decided to go on a treasure-seeking outing. My aunty Vick had sent me a list of places to visit so I dutifully entered them in Google and made my map.
First stop: Zabar's. I've gone on a lot about food, I know, but nothing compares to this place. It's a food palace; you walk in and the smells get you straight away. There are teetering stacks of cheeses; row upon row of deli meats; freshly baked bread, pastries, cookies, bagels,muffins, donuts, brownies, baklava, pie, croissant; baked goods I can't name but could identify again based on smell alone; food from every conceivable country; strudels, knish and puddings and curries; salads and sushi and dumplings; a coffee aisle that smells better than chocolate tastes. I left with a bag of goodies for dinner, desperately sad I wouldn't be able to visit at will.
Across the road, I pretended not to see the BOOKS sign and turned into Filene's Basement, a discount designer store my aunt promised would hurt the budget. I truly intended to have a quick look only, skirt the edges and be on my way, and walked out the proud new owner of a cashmere jumper. I jumped on the subway down Broadway and got out on 18th street. There I found my last stop, the poorly named ABC store. I was skeptical when Vickie had suggested this as it conjured up Play School images, but she had described it like an Aladdin's cave and it was. I wanted to be like Aladdin and find a genie and then sensibly wish all these goodies straight home to my bedroom. I finally pulled myself away but only because I had a movie to get to - a romantic comedy set in New York, so was fun to point out things to the stranger next to me and say, hey, I've been there!
Today, our last proper day, was again, surely you can't be surprised, dedicated to food. I dragged Margs back to Zabar's where we got goodies for a picnic lunch - mmmmm to the almond croissants, then we walked back to our hostel, where we had to change buildings (that's another story) and then we walked down to Greenwich Village for dinner at Katz's, made famous by When Harry met Sally (or is it the other way around - either way, I've never seen it). Best cheeseburger I've ever had and stomach agreed. Went in search of dessert and ended up back at Magnolia's for a So Long New York cupcake.
I've made myself hungry with all these food talk but shall have to wait until morning as I'm off to bed. We depart for Boston tomorrow - if we make it to the bus stop with our heavy loads, that is. Fingers crossed. Good night all.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
'Splorin the City
Today Mads decided she needed a break from all the rushing about to try and organise stuff for Europe. I probably did too, but I'm like a school girl with a serious crush on this city and when it beckons, I run out into the street to meet it. So, wanting to do something Carrie-esque, I arranged a date with New York City.
I wondered, if Mr. Big or other suitably attractive male asked me out in NYC, where would I want him to take me? We started with a pretzel in the Park. It wasn't too cold today, in fact, there was even a little sun, but there was still enough snow around from the last few days to make the park very romantic.
Next stop was the Museum of Modern Art, where they had an exibition of Tim Burton's work and five floors of uber-famous works. The highlight for me was Van Gogh's Starry Night. I have a love hate relationship with this work since 'help replicate Starry Night to 9x4m' turned up on my to-do list when I was working on the set for The Popular Mechanicals at Wildy a few years back. The result was a little like comparing my rendition of Catherine with Scarlett Johanssen's. But very exciting to see the original, and it's tiny! Also saw my frist original Dali (eep!), and I'm hoping to visit the Dali museum in Paris (it is in Paris, right?), 'cause I am a hu-uge fan.
Looking at all those paintings made me hungry, so next up NY and I stopped off at the Magnolia Bakery for cupcakes and took them and a Starbucks down to the Rockafella Centre to enjoy while we watched the iceskaters.
To me, it wouldn't be a perfect date without pandering to my innerbookworm, so full of cupcakey yumminess, we made our way up to the New York Public Library, which is hit-the-floor-with-your-jaw amazing. Everything's marble, and there's chandelliers and grand sweeping staircases and big desks to read at. Sigh.
But there was no time to read today. By the time I'd finished drooling over the library and we'd taken a stroll through the Fashion District (I even saw the apartment building where the Project Runway contestants stay), it was dinner time. NY took me to a lovely little Italian restaraunt where we enjoyed a fabulous meal of eggplant fagottini with a walnut cream sauce (seriously, it's p[ossibly the best meal I've ever eaten, and considering some of the stuff I've tasted over here, that's saying A LOT).
Of course, it wouldn't be a perfect date in New York if it didn't end with the bright lights of Broadway, so we finished up by seeing Mary Poppins. It's coming to Australia, and you've all definitely got to see it! I mean, it's worth it for the set alone, which is a mechanical wonder. Although, it's very different from the film, and they did change/leave out a lot of my favourite bits. But still awesome.
So that was my date in/with New York City, and the only thing missing was a good night kiss. but honestly, that doesn't seem like much of a let down. And what's more, I think I'm in love.
Margs
xo xo
I wondered, if Mr. Big or other suitably attractive male asked me out in NYC, where would I want him to take me? We started with a pretzel in the Park. It wasn't too cold today, in fact, there was even a little sun, but there was still enough snow around from the last few days to make the park very romantic.
Next stop was the Museum of Modern Art, where they had an exibition of Tim Burton's work and five floors of uber-famous works. The highlight for me was Van Gogh's Starry Night. I have a love hate relationship with this work since 'help replicate Starry Night to 9x4m' turned up on my to-do list when I was working on the set for The Popular Mechanicals at Wildy a few years back. The result was a little like comparing my rendition of Catherine with Scarlett Johanssen's. But very exciting to see the original, and it's tiny! Also saw my frist original Dali (eep!), and I'm hoping to visit the Dali museum in Paris (it is in Paris, right?), 'cause I am a hu-uge fan.
Looking at all those paintings made me hungry, so next up NY and I stopped off at the Magnolia Bakery for cupcakes and took them and a Starbucks down to the Rockafella Centre to enjoy while we watched the iceskaters.
To me, it wouldn't be a perfect date without pandering to my innerbookworm, so full of cupcakey yumminess, we made our way up to the New York Public Library, which is hit-the-floor-with-your-jaw amazing. Everything's marble, and there's chandelliers and grand sweeping staircases and big desks to read at. Sigh.
But there was no time to read today. By the time I'd finished drooling over the library and we'd taken a stroll through the Fashion District (I even saw the apartment building where the Project Runway contestants stay), it was dinner time. NY took me to a lovely little Italian restaraunt where we enjoyed a fabulous meal of eggplant fagottini with a walnut cream sauce (seriously, it's p[ossibly the best meal I've ever eaten, and considering some of the stuff I've tasted over here, that's saying A LOT).
Of course, it wouldn't be a perfect date in New York if it didn't end with the bright lights of Broadway, so we finished up by seeing Mary Poppins. It's coming to Australia, and you've all definitely got to see it! I mean, it's worth it for the set alone, which is a mechanical wonder. Although, it's very different from the film, and they did change/leave out a lot of my favourite bits. But still awesome.
So that was my date in/with New York City, and the only thing missing was a good night kiss. but honestly, that doesn't seem like much of a let down. And what's more, I think I'm in love.
Margs
xo xo
A (Wicked) View from the Bridge
It's okay, I'm not standing atop the Brooklyn Bridge having melancholy thoughts, quite the opposite, in fact. Yesterday I treated myself to a Broadway double bill. I'd been hearing great things about the latest production of Arthur Miller's A View From the Bridge (in which Scarlett Johanssen is making her Broadway debut), but all the evening shows were soldout, so I didn't think I would get to see it. However, Thespus must ahve been watching over me because I managed to get a ticket to a mattinnee through the last minute discount ticket place in Times Square an hour before the performance started.
I've always wanted to see A View from the Bridge, not just because I'm a fan of Miller and of deeply depressing 20th century American tragedies in general, but because (way back in the day when I was still flirting with a career on the stage) I read the part of Catherine for my Drama Centre directing audition. Obviously that didn't go too well, but I really liked that piece (if you're familiar with the play, it was the scene from near the beginning of Act II where Catherine tries to explain to Rodolpho why she can't hate Eddie) and to see Scarlett Johanssen perform it on Broadway was one of those real WOW moments. The whole production was incredibly moving. I cried through the entre second half and the bows, only just managing to pull myself together (after giving myself a stern talking to in the bathroom after the show) as I stepped back out onto the street. While Scarlett was great, Liev Schreiber (who fans of the Scream trilogy will remember played Cotton) was 0the real standout as Eddie. In fact, the entire cast were just in a class of their own.
After that though, I needed cheering up (picture me moping around Times Square, occassionaly wiping away a stray tear). Fortunately, I'd planned ahead and bought a ticket to the evening performance of Wicked, which I couldn't afford to see in Aus. because I was saving up for this trip. It was worth the wait. I mean witches, a boarding school and a romance all thrown together in a musical? That is a bonified recepie for AWESOME! Like A View from the Bridge, it was a show that hit close to my heart. Think of my Twilight obsession. It's pretty bad, right? Well, that's got nothing on my childhood obsession with The Wizard of Oz and Return to Oz (best sequel ever btw--if you haven't seen it, you must it's completely messed up). My parents and Jess can testify to this. The only other obsession I've had that's come close was my obsession for witches. Mum, Dad and Jess can also testify to this. So I was always going to like the show. And I did. I mean I ABSOLUTELY FRICKIN' LOVED IT!!! The minute I get to Boston, I'm getting the book (I'm on a self-imposed book buying ban until we leave New York--Mum, there's two boxes headed your way). I mean, the sets, the singing, the dancing, everything was fantastic. My only criticism of the whole show was Fiyero. Fiyero. What kind of a name for a hero is that? I wasn't impressed. It's almost as bad as Rhett. I've still got a bone to pick with Margaret Mitchel about that, that and her snapping eyes.
But Wicked wasn't just fantastic and wonderful, it was a little bit sad too. They kept saying Oz, over and over. Oz, Oz, Oz, Aus. By the end I was ready jump up on stage, steal the ruby slippers and click my heels together three times because the show let that thought creep into my head, the one that must be kept at bay at all costs: there's no place like home. New York is the last place I thought I'd get homesick because I love this city, really, really love it, but last night it felt about a bazillion miles from where I wanted to be. Yes, we're having the time of our lives over here, and no, I wouldn't give up this opportunity for anything, but I want you all to know that I'm thinking of you, I miss you, and I wish you were here with us.
Love,
Margs
xo xo xo
I've always wanted to see A View from the Bridge, not just because I'm a fan of Miller and of deeply depressing 20th century American tragedies in general, but because (way back in the day when I was still flirting with a career on the stage) I read the part of Catherine for my Drama Centre directing audition. Obviously that didn't go too well, but I really liked that piece (if you're familiar with the play, it was the scene from near the beginning of Act II where Catherine tries to explain to Rodolpho why she can't hate Eddie) and to see Scarlett Johanssen perform it on Broadway was one of those real WOW moments. The whole production was incredibly moving. I cried through the entre second half and the bows, only just managing to pull myself together (after giving myself a stern talking to in the bathroom after the show) as I stepped back out onto the street. While Scarlett was great, Liev Schreiber (who fans of the Scream trilogy will remember played Cotton) was 0the real standout as Eddie. In fact, the entire cast were just in a class of their own.
After that though, I needed cheering up (picture me moping around Times Square, occassionaly wiping away a stray tear). Fortunately, I'd planned ahead and bought a ticket to the evening performance of Wicked, which I couldn't afford to see in Aus. because I was saving up for this trip. It was worth the wait. I mean witches, a boarding school and a romance all thrown together in a musical? That is a bonified recepie for AWESOME! Like A View from the Bridge, it was a show that hit close to my heart. Think of my Twilight obsession. It's pretty bad, right? Well, that's got nothing on my childhood obsession with The Wizard of Oz and Return to Oz (best sequel ever btw--if you haven't seen it, you must it's completely messed up). My parents and Jess can testify to this. The only other obsession I've had that's come close was my obsession for witches. Mum, Dad and Jess can also testify to this. So I was always going to like the show. And I did. I mean I ABSOLUTELY FRICKIN' LOVED IT!!! The minute I get to Boston, I'm getting the book (I'm on a self-imposed book buying ban until we leave New York--Mum, there's two boxes headed your way). I mean, the sets, the singing, the dancing, everything was fantastic. My only criticism of the whole show was Fiyero. Fiyero. What kind of a name for a hero is that? I wasn't impressed. It's almost as bad as Rhett. I've still got a bone to pick with Margaret Mitchel about that, that and her snapping eyes.
But Wicked wasn't just fantastic and wonderful, it was a little bit sad too. They kept saying Oz, over and over. Oz, Oz, Oz, Aus. By the end I was ready jump up on stage, steal the ruby slippers and click my heels together three times because the show let that thought creep into my head, the one that must be kept at bay at all costs: there's no place like home. New York is the last place I thought I'd get homesick because I love this city, really, really love it, but last night it felt about a bazillion miles from where I wanted to be. Yes, we're having the time of our lives over here, and no, I wouldn't give up this opportunity for anything, but I want you all to know that I'm thinking of you, I miss you, and I wish you were here with us.
Love,
Margs
xo xo xo
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Kicking Cans and Capturing Flags
Now that I am far from Australian shores I confess that with few exceptions I prefer American literature to ours. Not such a great surprise if you browse my shelves. I'd always thought, though, that it didn't particularly matter as there were other things I liked more about home, like children's games.
Kick the Can and Capture the Flag were two of my favourites, taught by my cousin to my siblings and I when holidaying at the farm, which I then taught all my friends in hope that among my peers I would have a greater chance at victory.
But now I have reason to doubt the origins of these games; I have reason to suspect that they aren't in fact true blue Australians but immigrants, come to our home from far of places. I'm reading Annie Dillard's An American Childhood and have discovered that Annie also engaged in such activities as a kid. Which got me Googling (off topic but seeing as no one was inclined to feed my laziness: a mountain must be higher than a hill, which according to one (possibly unreliable) source must be smaller than 305 metres and anything considerably smaller than a hill is a hillock - our hostel rests on a hillock) and all I discovered was that neither one was Australian, both could be American and possibly European, depending on whom you choose to believe, and that there are other Googlers out there wanting answers.
Yes, I realise I'm in New York, a most exciting city where the origins of children's games shouldn't be taking up blog space, but I couldn't help but notice, in this most exciting city, that there isn't any room for such games, unless of course you're a Mary Norton character.
I also like American TV shows and Gilmore Girls is a favourite with the women of our household. So I was tickled by the idea of visiting Rory's haunts at Yale. Margs and I took a tour, which was very entertaining - did you know the Frisbee was invented at Yale (so also not Australian) and that New Haven is home to the first hamburger? - but our tour guide did not care for GG so was not forthcoming with any 'and this is where Rory ate or sat and read or walked to class' moments; was slightly disappointed. But not with Yale itself, the college is gorgeous. This is a university where I would have bothered to attend all my lectures; it has an underground library, an underground rock-climbing wall, an underground tea room. Uhuh, you heard me right, this place has everything.
It's bedtime so I'll sign off abruptly - next time I'll provide a more comprehensive guide to our daily activities but probably not till after I complain at length about the weighty doors that annoy me so. Obviously exciting stuff to come. Much love to everyone; you've survived a month without us. x
p.s. if there's time after tomorrow night's broadway show (we're thinking Mary Poppins) a game of Kick the Can might take place on our street.
Kick the Can and Capture the Flag were two of my favourites, taught by my cousin to my siblings and I when holidaying at the farm, which I then taught all my friends in hope that among my peers I would have a greater chance at victory.
But now I have reason to doubt the origins of these games; I have reason to suspect that they aren't in fact true blue Australians but immigrants, come to our home from far of places. I'm reading Annie Dillard's An American Childhood and have discovered that Annie also engaged in such activities as a kid. Which got me Googling (off topic but seeing as no one was inclined to feed my laziness: a mountain must be higher than a hill, which according to one (possibly unreliable) source must be smaller than 305 metres and anything considerably smaller than a hill is a hillock - our hostel rests on a hillock) and all I discovered was that neither one was Australian, both could be American and possibly European, depending on whom you choose to believe, and that there are other Googlers out there wanting answers.
Yes, I realise I'm in New York, a most exciting city where the origins of children's games shouldn't be taking up blog space, but I couldn't help but notice, in this most exciting city, that there isn't any room for such games, unless of course you're a Mary Norton character.
I also like American TV shows and Gilmore Girls is a favourite with the women of our household. So I was tickled by the idea of visiting Rory's haunts at Yale. Margs and I took a tour, which was very entertaining - did you know the Frisbee was invented at Yale (so also not Australian) and that New Haven is home to the first hamburger? - but our tour guide did not care for GG so was not forthcoming with any 'and this is where Rory ate or sat and read or walked to class' moments; was slightly disappointed. But not with Yale itself, the college is gorgeous. This is a university where I would have bothered to attend all my lectures; it has an underground library, an underground rock-climbing wall, an underground tea room. Uhuh, you heard me right, this place has everything.
It's bedtime so I'll sign off abruptly - next time I'll provide a more comprehensive guide to our daily activities but probably not till after I complain at length about the weighty doors that annoy me so. Obviously exciting stuff to come. Much love to everyone; you've survived a month without us. x
p.s. if there's time after tomorrow night's broadway show (we're thinking Mary Poppins) a game of Kick the Can might take place on our street.
Prep
I'm going to preface this with a disclaimer: it's almost midnight, and it's been a full-on day, so this is going to be full of mistakes, but I gotta get this down. I'm absoluetly buzzing.
First off, minor excitement: it snowed tonight! We emerged from the subway and it was coming down, very light, very soft, but very much there. (I'm going to try for a poetic description in a minute, but firstly you should know that rather thaqn mereley observing the experience, I was wandering down the street with my mouth wide open to catch the icy pricks on my tongue and laughing like an idiot at the excitement of it all). By the time we reached the diner where we were stopping for dessert it was dusted all down the front of my coat, like I'd been eating beignets and making a mess of myself with the icing sugar. They say snow is exciting the first time you see it and a pain in the arse everytime thereafter, but I'd be happy to showel driveways every year for the rest of my life for the experience of seeing snow fall that first time. It was absolutely magical. Everything it touched looked as though it were covered with millions of tiny crystals, especially when the streetlights hit it, and it falls so silently. It's not like rain, which patters or splatters, depending how heavy it is, and there's something eerie and enchanting about that quiet, even with the blaring horns of New York taxis all around.
Okay, now the major excitement (for me, anyway, and you gotta remember I can be uber nerdy when the mood strikes me, as it did today). We went to Yale!!! Second stop on my thus-far highly successful Ivy League lecture series, and I gotta tell you, they seem far more impressed with my academic standing over here than they do back home, I mean, they were that concerned for my safety (you can imagine the throng of faculty and students clamouring to meet me), that they even arranged for a police escort to see me safely from the campus. Impressive, huh?
It really was pretty amazing though. The campus is stunning. A lot of it was actually built around 1935, but the architect designed it to look much older, to the point of shattering window panes and reparing them and using all kinds of bricks in the walls to make it look as though there'd been all this restorative work done. And the library (oh the library!) is designed to resemble a cathedral inside and out. I'll try and get some pics up soon. The central desk looks like an altar and there's a shrine to Lady Yale, who bares uncanny resemblance to the Virgin Mary.
I should probably interupt my gushing at this point to explain a little about my enthgusiasm for spending my intermission seeking out libraries and campuses. Sadly, I realised a few days ago that I had to cut my side trip to Bennington College in Vermont(where Donna Tartt wrote much of The Secret History and upon which the fictional Hampden College is based (for those of you who don't know TSH is one of the major primary texts I'm using in my thesis and also the book that started my obsession with American college life)). To this point I'd always thought I'd do almost anything for my thesis, but it's easy to make such lofty claims from the warmth of a cozy library. Turns out the only way to reach the campus, or the surrounding township, if you don't happen to own a car, is to hitchike. And that's my limit. I will not hitchike when it's -12 and snowing. Just not happening. So channelling all my nerdy excitemnt into the Ivys instead. And boy are they awesome so far! After we took the campus tour we went to a nearby cafe and it was full of students discussing set texts and projects they were working on, and they all sounded so smart! We also hung around to have dinner in one of the many book shop cafes (eep!) and on the train ride back I just felt so invigurated. I did a whole heap of unrealistic goal setting in my journal when we got back to the apartment, and I'm all like, 'Yeah, I could totally become a tenured professor at an Ivy League school in the next fifty years! I'm gonna become an article-publishing machine when I get back, read every book ever written, make the next draft of my novel kick-ass, understand the major cultural theorists (to this point I've got my hands on copies of Kristeva's Power's of Horror and some pretty hardcover talking about Lacan's take on Freud and applying it to crime fiction), and generally become some kind of literary/academic wunderkind...oh, and I figure I'll do away with sleep too. Of course, it's all too easy to ride this inspirational high whilst wandering through the snowy quads of Yale, about a zillion miles and several months away from having to think a scholarly thought or write a coherent, grammatically correct, creative sentence. But for now, I'm chosing to remain convinced that these things are indeed possible.
Ooh, while I'm briefely re-visiting the world of academia: have been asked to chair one of the sessions for the Magic and the Supernatural conference (they just randomly selected people), which I know isn't a big deal, but freaking out just the same! And, Ash, if you're reading, I've seen the draft program and there's a Lord of the Rings session! I will, of course take notes, and they're going to put all the papers up online before hand too, so I'll send you the link as soon as they're up!
Ooh, and Tully and Ash and other other 21st Century Lit. course people: just finished Stephen King's Lisey's Story and there were SO MANY paralles with Ellis's Lunar Park! Though not actually sure which was published first, Lisey's Story was '06 I think and can't remember when Lunar Park was. But there were Daddy issues, blurry lines between fiction and reality, ideas about writers and their interactions with their work, horror (duh), even a lot of similarities with the way each text uses language, making innocent, child-like saysings and objects really creepy. Would make a great comparative study.
Right. I need to stop now. Tomorrow we take on Broadway!
This is uber goober (Margs) signing out!
First off, minor excitement: it snowed tonight! We emerged from the subway and it was coming down, very light, very soft, but very much there. (I'm going to try for a poetic description in a minute, but firstly you should know that rather thaqn mereley observing the experience, I was wandering down the street with my mouth wide open to catch the icy pricks on my tongue and laughing like an idiot at the excitement of it all). By the time we reached the diner where we were stopping for dessert it was dusted all down the front of my coat, like I'd been eating beignets and making a mess of myself with the icing sugar. They say snow is exciting the first time you see it and a pain in the arse everytime thereafter, but I'd be happy to showel driveways every year for the rest of my life for the experience of seeing snow fall that first time. It was absolutely magical. Everything it touched looked as though it were covered with millions of tiny crystals, especially when the streetlights hit it, and it falls so silently. It's not like rain, which patters or splatters, depending how heavy it is, and there's something eerie and enchanting about that quiet, even with the blaring horns of New York taxis all around.
Okay, now the major excitement (for me, anyway, and you gotta remember I can be uber nerdy when the mood strikes me, as it did today). We went to Yale!!! Second stop on my thus-far highly successful Ivy League lecture series, and I gotta tell you, they seem far more impressed with my academic standing over here than they do back home, I mean, they were that concerned for my safety (you can imagine the throng of faculty and students clamouring to meet me), that they even arranged for a police escort to see me safely from the campus. Impressive, huh?
It really was pretty amazing though. The campus is stunning. A lot of it was actually built around 1935, but the architect designed it to look much older, to the point of shattering window panes and reparing them and using all kinds of bricks in the walls to make it look as though there'd been all this restorative work done. And the library (oh the library!) is designed to resemble a cathedral inside and out. I'll try and get some pics up soon. The central desk looks like an altar and there's a shrine to Lady Yale, who bares uncanny resemblance to the Virgin Mary.
I should probably interupt my gushing at this point to explain a little about my enthgusiasm for spending my intermission seeking out libraries and campuses. Sadly, I realised a few days ago that I had to cut my side trip to Bennington College in Vermont(where Donna Tartt wrote much of The Secret History and upon which the fictional Hampden College is based (for those of you who don't know TSH is one of the major primary texts I'm using in my thesis and also the book that started my obsession with American college life)). To this point I'd always thought I'd do almost anything for my thesis, but it's easy to make such lofty claims from the warmth of a cozy library. Turns out the only way to reach the campus, or the surrounding township, if you don't happen to own a car, is to hitchike. And that's my limit. I will not hitchike when it's -12 and snowing. Just not happening. So channelling all my nerdy excitemnt into the Ivys instead. And boy are they awesome so far! After we took the campus tour we went to a nearby cafe and it was full of students discussing set texts and projects they were working on, and they all sounded so smart! We also hung around to have dinner in one of the many book shop cafes (eep!) and on the train ride back I just felt so invigurated. I did a whole heap of unrealistic goal setting in my journal when we got back to the apartment, and I'm all like, 'Yeah, I could totally become a tenured professor at an Ivy League school in the next fifty years! I'm gonna become an article-publishing machine when I get back, read every book ever written, make the next draft of my novel kick-ass, understand the major cultural theorists (to this point I've got my hands on copies of Kristeva's Power's of Horror and some pretty hardcover talking about Lacan's take on Freud and applying it to crime fiction), and generally become some kind of literary/academic wunderkind...oh, and I figure I'll do away with sleep too. Of course, it's all too easy to ride this inspirational high whilst wandering through the snowy quads of Yale, about a zillion miles and several months away from having to think a scholarly thought or write a coherent, grammatically correct, creative sentence. But for now, I'm chosing to remain convinced that these things are indeed possible.
Ooh, while I'm briefely re-visiting the world of academia: have been asked to chair one of the sessions for the Magic and the Supernatural conference (they just randomly selected people), which I know isn't a big deal, but freaking out just the same! And, Ash, if you're reading, I've seen the draft program and there's a Lord of the Rings session! I will, of course take notes, and they're going to put all the papers up online before hand too, so I'll send you the link as soon as they're up!
Ooh, and Tully and Ash and other other 21st Century Lit. course people: just finished Stephen King's Lisey's Story and there were SO MANY paralles with Ellis's Lunar Park! Though not actually sure which was published first, Lisey's Story was '06 I think and can't remember when Lunar Park was. But there were Daddy issues, blurry lines between fiction and reality, ideas about writers and their interactions with their work, horror (duh), even a lot of similarities with the way each text uses language, making innocent, child-like saysings and objects really creepy. Would make a great comparative study.
Right. I need to stop now. Tomorrow we take on Broadway!
This is uber goober (Margs) signing out!
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