Because I grew up in the country and have lived in cities as an adult, suburbs simultaneously fascinate and confuse me. It is strange that suburban San Francisco bears much resemblance to suburban Chicago, all chain stores and wide intersections that lead you to cloverleaf exchanges.
Yesterday I drove to Mountain View for the first time. No mountains were viewed, but the psychic cleaners sign made me laugh. I saw it while driving around like a slow-witted crazy person trying to locate my destination. Found some irony in Google Maps giving wrong directions to its own town.
I'd rented a Smart car not because it was cool, but because it cost half of what other rentals did. (Miser.) Word to the wise: If the bulk of your trip involves highway driving, you may want to rethink this plan of action. It had been a couple of years since I'd driven a Smart, and what I remembered as quirks turned out to be terrifying safety hazards.
For instance: Most cars will shift from first to second gear rather smoothly. You press the gas pedal, it crescendos into a vroom and then gently slides into another one. Easy, seamless, fast. But in the Smart, this is the acceleration process:
1: Press gas pedal, maybe even all the way to the floor.
2: Wait one second. Slightly panic when car does not respond at all.
3: Second gear kicks in.
4: Wait one more second, hope air bags work, and then feel the car finally thrust forward.
Essentially, it's like working a manual transmission in slow motion, except the rest of the world isn't slowing down with you. That is some Quantum Leap stuff right there.
The other thing to note with Smarts is that other drivers — especially those in Hummers and other house-sized vehicles — tend to marvel at its wee size. I caught a few drivers looking at it with peculiar expressions, but they were probably laughing at the tiny car instead of its tiny driver who was howling along to its tiny stereo. On the way home, I discovered that anything past 85 miles per hour is pushing it a little too much. (Cars are not supposed to wobble and vibrate, right?)
Final verdict: the car was entertaining/terrifying enough for Saturday's suburban jaunt, but squeezing four grown women into a Smart (see above) provides more oh-god-we're-gonna-die thrills.
Labels: travel
I don't think I will ever get over the marvel of flight. To be able to hop hundreds of miles in a little over an hour is the kind of everyday magic that we take for granted too often. I am on the air bart bus — me and six men — and I am very tired and very ready to find sleep. When I got on the bus, one of the men turned to me. "You escaped Portland," he said.
"I didn't know it needed escaping," I replied. I was slightly nervous; how had he known I'd come from there?
He must have read my guarded face, because he then alluded to the much-delayed flight. That made sense. He must have seen me on the plane. He called someone and promised to be home soon.
I am so used to watching people that I never imagine I am being watched. Earlier today, Jaime and I saw a guy with a Michigan Crew t-shirt. I asked him about it; he'd graduated in 2000 like us. "I thought I knew your face," he told me, and then remembered where he'd seen me ten years previous.
Now I wait for the train that will return me to the city. The orange lights overhead crackle and sigh, casting their sickly glow over my skin. Further out in the night, rows of streetlights haphazardly define hills. The East Bay is quiet tonight, and I am too. I want to be home in my bed with the cats claiming too much of it, but I don't mind waiting for the train. It gives me time to study this midnight, burn it to mind. It feels like something to document, a solitary moment that I will revisit like cinema.
"I didn't know it needed escaping," I replied. I was slightly nervous; how had he known I'd come from there?
He must have read my guarded face, because he then alluded to the much-delayed flight. That made sense. He must have seen me on the plane. He called someone and promised to be home soon.
I am so used to watching people that I never imagine I am being watched. Earlier today, Jaime and I saw a guy with a Michigan Crew t-shirt. I asked him about it; he'd graduated in 2000 like us. "I thought I knew your face," he told me, and then remembered where he'd seen me ten years previous.
Now I wait for the train that will return me to the city. The orange lights overhead crackle and sigh, casting their sickly glow over my skin. Further out in the night, rows of streetlights haphazardly define hills. The East Bay is quiet tonight, and I am too. I want to be home in my bed with the cats claiming too much of it, but I don't mind waiting for the train. It gives me time to study this midnight, burn it to mind. It feels like something to document, a solitary moment that I will revisit like cinema.
Labels: travel
At the airport, I discovered that the departure fee I'd paid in cash last time was somehow included in my fare this time. So there I was, stuck with $70BZ and 90 minutes to kill. Might as well buy a "thanks for feeding the cats" gift for Sabrina, I thought. At Maya Endings, the souvenir shop, I picked up a few items, a book, and saved a little cash for Jet's Bar. As a woman of my word, I planned to try the rum punch.
Unfortunately Jet was nowhere to be found. On top of that, the rum punch costs $10BZ, but I had only $8 left. (Just haaaaaaaad to buy that copy of Colonialism and Resistance in Belize: Essays in Historical Sociology at the gift shop, didn't we?) You go to a place like Jet's for the experience, though, so I bought a water and made the best of it.
A few minutes later, Jet sidled up to me. "Meese?" he said. "Why do you not have my rum punch?" I explained that my appetite for the dry writings of O. Nigel Bolland was greater than my appetite for rum punch. Well, actually, I said that I'd spent my money.
"But you must try!" he said. "If you don't try it, you'll never believe it. And you won't believe it unless you try it."
He darted behind the bar and mixed me a drink. Hawaiian Punch may have been involved. Then he returned with a plastic cup and triumphantly set it in front of me. "I mix it nice and stiff for you," he said conspiratorially. Dude was not kidding.
I complimented him on the concoction — yes, best in Belize, I said.
"You have boyfriend?" he said, smiling.
No, I have cats. I decided not to talk about Milo's short legs because Jet could have interpreted it as a slight against his own stature.
"You have four-legged cat," he replied. "How about you take two-legged cat? I'll be your cat. Come live with you." I should again mention that he speaks very quietly, and I think it may be a trick to get women to lean closer to him — which affords a better view of the bosom. I had worn a scarf just to cover what cleavage I do have.
"Ah, but you're more expensive to feed than the four-legged cats," I said.
He laughed. Then he began drawing a picture for me and signed it ANNIE LOVE JET STAY SWEET. I thanked him.
He squinted at me. "You 'ave cam-er-a?" he asked. Yes.
"You take picture with me?" he said. Yes.
So he led me by the arm behind the bar, where countless other women have posed with him. (He has framed many of the pictures, which he calls his "babies.") A nice and interesting middle-aged concrete worker from southern Illinois took the picture. I think we got it on the first take, don't you?
Unfortunately Jet was nowhere to be found. On top of that, the rum punch costs $10BZ, but I had only $8 left. (Just haaaaaaaad to buy that copy of Colonialism and Resistance in Belize: Essays in Historical Sociology at the gift shop, didn't we?) You go to a place like Jet's for the experience, though, so I bought a water and made the best of it.
A few minutes later, Jet sidled up to me. "Meese?" he said. "Why do you not have my rum punch?" I explained that my appetite for the dry writings of O. Nigel Bolland was greater than my appetite for rum punch. Well, actually, I said that I'd spent my money.
"But you must try!" he said. "If you don't try it, you'll never believe it. And you won't believe it unless you try it."
He darted behind the bar and mixed me a drink. Hawaiian Punch may have been involved. Then he returned with a plastic cup and triumphantly set it in front of me. "I mix it nice and stiff for you," he said conspiratorially. Dude was not kidding.
I complimented him on the concoction — yes, best in Belize, I said.
"You have boyfriend?" he said, smiling.
No, I have cats. I decided not to talk about Milo's short legs because Jet could have interpreted it as a slight against his own stature.
"You have four-legged cat," he replied. "How about you take two-legged cat? I'll be your cat. Come live with you." I should again mention that he speaks very quietly, and I think it may be a trick to get women to lean closer to him — which affords a better view of the bosom. I had worn a scarf just to cover what cleavage I do have.
"Ah, but you're more expensive to feed than the four-legged cats," I said.
He laughed. Then he began drawing a picture for me and signed it ANNIE LOVE JET STAY SWEET. I thanked him.
He squinted at me. "You 'ave cam-er-a?" he asked. Yes.
"You take picture with me?" he said. Yes.
So he led me by the arm behind the bar, where countless other women have posed with him. (He has framed many of the pictures, which he calls his "babies.") A nice and interesting middle-aged concrete worker from southern Illinois took the picture. I think we got it on the first take, don't you?
Last time I was in Belize, Louis and I were riding horses through a tiny village called San Jose Succotz. We clip-clopped past ramshackle houses with tin roofs, scared away chickens in the dusty road, and headed toward the jungle. It was quiet in Succotz until I heard music. Blink-182 was slipping out of an open window, and that moment made me understand how major-label music truly goes worldwide.
Last night, I treated Louis and his friend Caitlin (Caitlyn? Katelyn? Kaytelynne? etc?) to pizza. Then we went to Faya Wata, which is the happening bar in San Ignacio. I kind of hate it because THE JUKEBOX IS ALWAYS REALLY LOUD, I MEAN REALLY OBNOXIOUSLY LOUD. It pumps out top-40 stuff: Fergie, Linkin Park, and terrible techno along the lines of that "Y'all ready for this?" song that plays at sporting matches.
After finishing a game of pool (won, ahem, by yours truly) I decided to take off. Louis offered to walk me back to the hotel. Caitlin is 20, blonde, and built like a brick shithouse, and I did not think it was wise to have her wait in the bar by herself. "No, that's okay," I said. "I walk alone."
"Like the Green Day song," Louis said. We laughed. Music is a glue.
It's interesting to listen to Belize. On the islands, it's 95% reggae and 5% punta rock. Since there's only so much Bob Marley anyone can take -- for me, about 20 seconds -- there are plenty of other options. For instance, did you know that a reggae-lite version of "One More Night" exists? Or how about "Wonderwall" done up in bouncy reggae beats? Yep. In Belize City, I've heard mostly hip-hop and rap coming out of cars. The closer you get to the Guatemalan border, the more you hear bouncy songs with Spanish lyrics.
The other day, I was riding around the southern streets in the late morning. This is where the non-tourists live and work, and for the most part it's filled with clapboard houses on stilts. I was coasting toward a well-weathered house when a familiar strain came blaring out: And in the darkened underpass I thought Oh God, my chance has come at last...
I paused under the window until the chorus spoke of inextinguishable lights, then imagined an iconoclastic teenage Belizean rebelling against reggae and playing the universal music of adolescent and thirty-something mopesters everywhere. Who on this tropical island is into the Smiths, I wondered. How did he or she find out about them? It's not like the Smiths get a lot of media play these days. Were they handed down from an older sibling, found on a good radio show, read about and tracked down on CD like we used to do? Found on the internet? Maybe, but access is pricey, so maybe not.
I passed the house again a couple of times later to see what else might come out of the stereo -- would have plotzed if it had been Ride or something like that -- but there was only silence. During that morning, though, I felt a frisson of commonality. Just like when you're 17 and you see someone with a band t-shirt and you automatically want to be each other's friend because of music. It was a tiny sliver of this trip, but one of the brightest, too.
Last night, I treated Louis and his friend Caitlin (Caitlyn? Katelyn? Kaytelynne? etc?) to pizza. Then we went to Faya Wata, which is the happening bar in San Ignacio. I kind of hate it because THE JUKEBOX IS ALWAYS REALLY LOUD, I MEAN REALLY OBNOXIOUSLY LOUD. It pumps out top-40 stuff: Fergie, Linkin Park, and terrible techno along the lines of that "Y'all ready for this?" song that plays at sporting matches.
After finishing a game of pool (won, ahem, by yours truly) I decided to take off. Louis offered to walk me back to the hotel. Caitlin is 20, blonde, and built like a brick shithouse, and I did not think it was wise to have her wait in the bar by herself. "No, that's okay," I said. "I walk alone."
"Like the Green Day song," Louis said. We laughed. Music is a glue.
It's interesting to listen to Belize. On the islands, it's 95% reggae and 5% punta rock. Since there's only so much Bob Marley anyone can take -- for me, about 20 seconds -- there are plenty of other options. For instance, did you know that a reggae-lite version of "One More Night" exists? Or how about "Wonderwall" done up in bouncy reggae beats? Yep. In Belize City, I've heard mostly hip-hop and rap coming out of cars. The closer you get to the Guatemalan border, the more you hear bouncy songs with Spanish lyrics.
The other day, I was riding around the southern streets in the late morning. This is where the non-tourists live and work, and for the most part it's filled with clapboard houses on stilts. I was coasting toward a well-weathered house when a familiar strain came blaring out: And in the darkened underpass I thought Oh God, my chance has come at last...
I paused under the window until the chorus spoke of inextinguishable lights, then imagined an iconoclastic teenage Belizean rebelling against reggae and playing the universal music of adolescent and thirty-something mopesters everywhere. Who on this tropical island is into the Smiths, I wondered. How did he or she find out about them? It's not like the Smiths get a lot of media play these days. Were they handed down from an older sibling, found on a good radio show, read about and tracked down on CD like we used to do? Found on the internet? Maybe, but access is pricey, so maybe not.
I passed the house again a couple of times later to see what else might come out of the stereo -- would have plotzed if it had been Ride or something like that -- but there was only silence. During that morning, though, I felt a frisson of commonality. Just like when you're 17 and you see someone with a band t-shirt and you automatically want to be each other's friend because of music. It was a tiny sliver of this trip, but one of the brightest, too.
Four Belizean transport things that you can't do in the U.S.
1. Ride in the bed of pickup trucks without getting ticketed. You see this all the time. People pile in the back and usually look like they're enjoying the wind whipping their hair. Betty would kill me if she knew this... but I've done it, too. Yesterday I rode a mile uphill in the back of these German/Costa Rican guys' Chevrolet, and when I trudged away from the jungle in a downpour, they let me hop in back again.* DON'T TELL BETTY.
2. Take a colectivo taxi. No matter what make or model a car is, if the license plate is green, it is a taxi. You flag the car down on the highway and squeeze in with any other passengers. You can go maybe six miles for $4 BZ unless you're a tourist, in which case you get charged a little extra. But, really, if you haggle over 50 cents US, you are an a-hole.
3. Hop on a refurbished school bus and head from one end of the country to the other for $10 BZ. (That's five bucks US.) Unfortunately, the bus stops every ten feet to let people on or off. I am exaggerating, but only a little. On the way from Belmopan to San Ignacio, one lady refused to deboard the bus with a group of people. She insisted that the driver take her approximately 20 feet down the road, which he did. This level of service means that it takes forever to get where you're going.
4. Use a golf cart as your primary mode of transportation. On carless Caye Caulker, this is the fastest way to move. I guess people must do this in Florida and other warm places with old people, but it's not the main way to get around.
* I couldn't help but remember the story I overheard a local tell the other day. Background: Spanish Lookout is a Mennonite colony not too far from San Ignacio. It's mostly known for farming, construction and what-have-you. Nothing too crazy, or so you'd think. Anyway, this guy** starts talking about how some Mennonites are helping traffic drugs up to Mexico; there was a big bust in which the fuzz found cocaine in coconuts. Last year some deal must have gone wrong and a Mennonite was found shot in the back of the head. Anyway, the drug trade is lucrative (duh) and so you've got a few people living l-a-r-g-e in buggy country.
While climbing Xunantunich, I'd run into the ride-giving guys. They were nice enough but something about the way they were quiet gave me an odd feeling. They were talking in a language that sounded vaguely German, but it wasn't German. Dutch? No. I asked and they told me it was a dialect of German called Plautdietsch. Oh, and they're from Spanish Lookout.
So while going downhill in the back of a new, slick, decked-out, expensive pickup, I thought, "This is one of the nicest trucks I've seen in the whole country. I bet it cost a lot." Then I did the math. Let's say that the truck cost (conservatively) $20,000 US. Double that for the 100% (!) Belizean duty fee and we're at $40,000 US. That is about 18 times the yearly income of the average Belizean.
As we reached the river -- my hop-out point -- I thought, "Golly, I hope I'm not hitching a ride with Mennonite drug smugglers." Maybe they were Mennonite oil barons?
**He just walked into the computer cafe as I was typing this up. Small world.
1. Ride in the bed of pickup trucks without getting ticketed. You see this all the time. People pile in the back and usually look like they're enjoying the wind whipping their hair. Betty would kill me if she knew this... but I've done it, too. Yesterday I rode a mile uphill in the back of these German/Costa Rican guys' Chevrolet, and when I trudged away from the jungle in a downpour, they let me hop in back again.* DON'T TELL BETTY.
2. Take a colectivo taxi. No matter what make or model a car is, if the license plate is green, it is a taxi. You flag the car down on the highway and squeeze in with any other passengers. You can go maybe six miles for $4 BZ unless you're a tourist, in which case you get charged a little extra. But, really, if you haggle over 50 cents US, you are an a-hole.
3. Hop on a refurbished school bus and head from one end of the country to the other for $10 BZ. (That's five bucks US.) Unfortunately, the bus stops every ten feet to let people on or off. I am exaggerating, but only a little. On the way from Belmopan to San Ignacio, one lady refused to deboard the bus with a group of people. She insisted that the driver take her approximately 20 feet down the road, which he did. This level of service means that it takes forever to get where you're going.
4. Use a golf cart as your primary mode of transportation. On carless Caye Caulker, this is the fastest way to move. I guess people must do this in Florida and other warm places with old people, but it's not the main way to get around.
* I couldn't help but remember the story I overheard a local tell the other day. Background: Spanish Lookout is a Mennonite colony not too far from San Ignacio. It's mostly known for farming, construction and what-have-you. Nothing too crazy, or so you'd think. Anyway, this guy** starts talking about how some Mennonites are helping traffic drugs up to Mexico; there was a big bust in which the fuzz found cocaine in coconuts. Last year some deal must have gone wrong and a Mennonite was found shot in the back of the head. Anyway, the drug trade is lucrative (duh) and so you've got a few people living l-a-r-g-e in buggy country.
While climbing Xunantunich, I'd run into the ride-giving guys. They were nice enough but something about the way they were quiet gave me an odd feeling. They were talking in a language that sounded vaguely German, but it wasn't German. Dutch? No. I asked and they told me it was a dialect of German called Plautdietsch. Oh, and they're from Spanish Lookout.
So while going downhill in the back of a new, slick, decked-out, expensive pickup, I thought, "This is one of the nicest trucks I've seen in the whole country. I bet it cost a lot." Then I did the math. Let's say that the truck cost (conservatively) $20,000 US. Double that for the 100% (!) Belizean duty fee and we're at $40,000 US. That is about 18 times the yearly income of the average Belizean.
As we reached the river -- my hop-out point -- I thought, "Golly, I hope I'm not hitching a ride with Mennonite drug smugglers." Maybe they were Mennonite oil barons?
**He just walked into the computer cafe as I was typing this up. Small world.
In Belize, I have many boyfriends. It helps to have a boyfriend when you're traveling alone, because men like to say hello. Hey, Snow White in Belize City. Look at those red lips in Caye Caulker. My favorite: You like to read, huh? in Cayo. (At least this time, unlike last, I was not propositioned by a teenage boy. "Ay, mami," he'd said while cruising by on his bike. "Yes," I thought. "I'm old enough to be your mommy.")
In almost every conversation, a man asks where my husband is. No husband? Boyfriend, then? Yes, boyfriend, I say. Depending on who's asking, he's either waiting for me in the States or back at the guest house. Sometimes he is a scientist, other times he's an artist; these details shift for no reason at all. He is always possessive of me, though, and I can't be gone too long or he worries about where I am. Of course, no such gent exists -- and if he did, he would certainly not be the kind of stifling person I'd date -- but my "boyfriend" helps steer the conversation away from whether a drink can be purchased for me tonight.
(For what it's worth, the attention isn't about me. It would happen to any solo lady. I feel the need to say this so you don't think I'm egomaniacal.)
In San Ignacio, the lies became a little lighter because I roomed with two boys. Will had sat next to me on the plane down from Houston, and oddly enough, we ran into each other at the Belize Zoo. He, his friend Brian, and yours truly rode a very hot, very crowded bus to San Ignacio where most rooms were sold out. When we found a room with three beds for $100 BZ, we took it. So when this mildly sketchy guy kept hitting on me last night -- asking me three times if I was traveling with friends -- it was comforting to truthfully say that two guys were in my room upstairs.
And then, just as I told Mr. Can't-Take-a-Hint that it was strange that it was unlike my Belizean friend to be late, up walks Louis looking exactly the same. "Your hair is longer, Annie," he said. I don't know why this simple statement was so comforting, but it was. (FYI, he always calls me by my name, which is nice.) Louis had spent the day studying, I'd spent it spelunking, and we finished it with milkshakes. How wholesome, I joked, because it was.
In almost every conversation, a man asks where my husband is. No husband? Boyfriend, then? Yes, boyfriend, I say. Depending on who's asking, he's either waiting for me in the States or back at the guest house. Sometimes he is a scientist, other times he's an artist; these details shift for no reason at all. He is always possessive of me, though, and I can't be gone too long or he worries about where I am. Of course, no such gent exists -- and if he did, he would certainly not be the kind of stifling person I'd date -- but my "boyfriend" helps steer the conversation away from whether a drink can be purchased for me tonight.
(For what it's worth, the attention isn't about me. It would happen to any solo lady. I feel the need to say this so you don't think I'm egomaniacal.)
In San Ignacio, the lies became a little lighter because I roomed with two boys. Will had sat next to me on the plane down from Houston, and oddly enough, we ran into each other at the Belize Zoo. He, his friend Brian, and yours truly rode a very hot, very crowded bus to San Ignacio where most rooms were sold out. When we found a room with three beds for $100 BZ, we took it. So when this mildly sketchy guy kept hitting on me last night -- asking me three times if I was traveling with friends -- it was comforting to truthfully say that two guys were in my room upstairs.
And then, just as I told Mr. Can't-Take-a-Hint that it was strange that it was unlike my Belizean friend to be late, up walks Louis looking exactly the same. "Your hair is longer, Annie," he said. I don't know why this simple statement was so comforting, but it was. (FYI, he always calls me by my name, which is nice.) Louis had spent the day studying, I'd spent it spelunking, and we finished it with milkshakes. How wholesome, I joked, because it was.
I think Oscar Wao left me some of his fuku, because this trip has been a bloody adventure. LITERALLY. Yesterday's snorkeling adventure involved many marine sightings, including the big excitement of the trip: a sea turtle. (Yes, it is possible to coo underwater.) Unfortunately, at the second snorkel stop, there were sharks and stingrays. They didn't make me nervous, but an angry moray eel did, and its snakelike appearance made me swim away a little less carefully than I had earlier in the day. Leg, meet coral. Leg, meet pain.
All of the travel-book warnings talk about how if left untreated, coral scrapes can become infected and then your leg swells up and they have to cut it off but you wind up dying anyway, all because you are scared of eels. But I decided to stop worrying and get on with life.
This smug satisfaction lasted for less than 24 hours. I decided to take a clothed swim. Clothed because, despite my freakish reapplication of sunblock yesterday, my back is the color of a lobster. (We saw lobsters while snorkeling, too.) It hurts and I'm too cheap to spend $13 US on aloe vera gel. Anyway, I was very careful while floating around the Caribbean. Didn't want to step on starfish (can they hurt you?) and so I'd look through the clear water before putting my feet anywhere.
Until, of course, the point at which I really should have been careful.
I crawled onto the concrete barrier that separated the sea from a little inlet, and oh, looky there, a mini angelfish or something similarly cute and bright! And oh my god, what was that? Pain! In staring at the fish, I'd forgotten that the concrete was jagged in places. I thought it was just a scratch, so I went back to fish-watching until I noticed that the water was getting cloudy. I moved my foot and a bright red blot of blood stained the sand. Shit shit shit. Blood everywhere! Oh god, sharks, they're going to come for me and someone else will get bitten and it will all be my fault! Etc.
I limped back to my lodging, dripping an impressive amount of blood all the way. Blood flowed over my flip-flop, leaving a little trail of blood behind me. "Did you step on a nail?" the proprietor asked. I don't know, I just bleed here. "You should get a tetanus shot if it was a nail," she said.
I bicycled to the store, where the clerk spoke only a few words of English, and I didn't know how to say "Do you have Neosporin?" in Chinese. (After scouring the entire store, I can report that they do not have Neosporin.) Cleaned the wound with alcohol and hydrogen peroxide, began thinking of the clerk's tetanus question, and went to the guest house's computer to IM Scott about whether he thinks I need to get a shot. He is the one who taught me how to properly clean a wound this past summer, and when I bleed, I think of him.
So. Off to the clinic. I'd like to pretend that I'm super cool and laid-back about this, but instead, each painful throb at the wound site is another sign that I'll need to be airlifted to the States. (Each word written here is another way to fill the time before the clinic closes, because guess who is terrified of a tetanus shot?)
All of the travel-book warnings talk about how if left untreated, coral scrapes can become infected and then your leg swells up and they have to cut it off but you wind up dying anyway, all because you are scared of eels. But I decided to stop worrying and get on with life.
This smug satisfaction lasted for less than 24 hours. I decided to take a clothed swim. Clothed because, despite my freakish reapplication of sunblock yesterday, my back is the color of a lobster. (We saw lobsters while snorkeling, too.) It hurts and I'm too cheap to spend $13 US on aloe vera gel. Anyway, I was very careful while floating around the Caribbean. Didn't want to step on starfish (can they hurt you?) and so I'd look through the clear water before putting my feet anywhere.
Until, of course, the point at which I really should have been careful.
I crawled onto the concrete barrier that separated the sea from a little inlet, and oh, looky there, a mini angelfish or something similarly cute and bright! And oh my god, what was that? Pain! In staring at the fish, I'd forgotten that the concrete was jagged in places. I thought it was just a scratch, so I went back to fish-watching until I noticed that the water was getting cloudy. I moved my foot and a bright red blot of blood stained the sand. Shit shit shit. Blood everywhere! Oh god, sharks, they're going to come for me and someone else will get bitten and it will all be my fault! Etc.
I limped back to my lodging, dripping an impressive amount of blood all the way. Blood flowed over my flip-flop, leaving a little trail of blood behind me. "Did you step on a nail?" the proprietor asked. I don't know, I just bleed here. "You should get a tetanus shot if it was a nail," she said.
I bicycled to the store, where the clerk spoke only a few words of English, and I didn't know how to say "Do you have Neosporin?" in Chinese. (After scouring the entire store, I can report that they do not have Neosporin.) Cleaned the wound with alcohol and hydrogen peroxide, began thinking of the clerk's tetanus question, and went to the guest house's computer to IM Scott about whether he thinks I need to get a shot. He is the one who taught me how to properly clean a wound this past summer, and when I bleed, I think of him.
So. Off to the clinic. I'd like to pretend that I'm super cool and laid-back about this, but instead, each painful throb at the wound site is another sign that I'll need to be airlifted to the States. (Each word written here is another way to fill the time before the clinic closes, because guess who is terrified of a tetanus shot?)
While I was waiting for my Pterodactyl Airlines flight to Caye Caulker, a tiny little old man came up to me. Or more accurately, he came up to my boobs. "Ellomeese," he said. Close talker, shrill Lynchian purr of a voice. "Wattis your nay-ayme?"
I told him.
"Ah, Annie! Mrzrll jetbarumrrrbunch!"
Oh Jesus. "Pardon me?" I said.
"Mrzrll jetbar rumbunch! Me! Bessin Belize," said The Man From Another Place.
It took a good minute to understand that this wee man was trying to get me to visit his airport bar. As a solo lady traveler, I felt it would be unwise to have rum punch before getting to my tropical destination. I am a lightweight and I imagined myself falling out of the puddle jumper. "I'll have some when I'm leaving to go to the States," I told my new friend.
He put his hand on my shoulder and leaned in. "Meesannie," he stage-whispered. "If you donut try, you donut have bessin Belize!"
Abruptly, he walked away, only to return a minute later with a Xeroxed magazine article. He'd autographed it for me: ANNIE LOVE JET. I sat down and read the story, which described our friend Jet and his bar. Apparently, Jet is notorious for accosting ladies in the airport and persuading them to try his rum punch. Or hot dogs; he has those, too.
"See? Famous! If you donut try..."
At this point, he leaned in to kiss my cheek. Oh hell no! I love a harmlessly lecherous old man as much as the next young lady, but I draw the line at first base. "My father was older than you," I blurted. I don't know why. It stopped the smooch.
"How old?" he asked.
"He would have been 79," I said.
"Ha!" Jet said. "I'm seventy-two."
All right then. Normally, random smoochy men raise my Take Back the Night hackles, but I couldn't help but smile at this character. So before I hop aboard my flight back to the States, I will head to the airport bar, order some rum punch, and remind Jet that my eyes are about a foot higher than where he's currently looking.
I told him.
"Ah, Annie! Mrzrll jetbarumrrrbunch!"
Oh Jesus. "Pardon me?" I said.
"Mrzrll jetbar rumbunch! Me! Bessin Belize," said The Man From Another Place.
It took a good minute to understand that this wee man was trying to get me to visit his airport bar. As a solo lady traveler, I felt it would be unwise to have rum punch before getting to my tropical destination. I am a lightweight and I imagined myself falling out of the puddle jumper. "I'll have some when I'm leaving to go to the States," I told my new friend.
He put his hand on my shoulder and leaned in. "Meesannie," he stage-whispered. "If you donut try, you donut have bessin Belize!"
Abruptly, he walked away, only to return a minute later with a Xeroxed magazine article. He'd autographed it for me: ANNIE LOVE JET. I sat down and read the story, which described our friend Jet and his bar. Apparently, Jet is notorious for accosting ladies in the airport and persuading them to try his rum punch. Or hot dogs; he has those, too.
"See? Famous! If you donut try..."
At this point, he leaned in to kiss my cheek. Oh hell no! I love a harmlessly lecherous old man as much as the next young lady, but I draw the line at first base. "My father was older than you," I blurted. I don't know why. It stopped the smooch.
"How old?" he asked.
"He would have been 79," I said.
"Ha!" Jet said. "I'm seventy-two."
All right then. Normally, random smoochy men raise my Take Back the Night hackles, but I couldn't help but smile at this character. So before I hop aboard my flight back to the States, I will head to the airport bar, order some rum punch, and remind Jet that my eyes are about a foot higher than where he's currently looking.
...come around and talk it over. After 10 hours of traveling, I made it to Belize. One of the great things about returning to a favorite spot is that its scent is familiar. In my mind, Belize didn't have a smell, but it does. Kind of earthy, like leaves we don't have in the States.
Customs was odd. Nice guy asked me if I knew anybody in Belize. Yes, I said. Where? Benque Viejo. Did I bring any gifts? A book. Apparently you do not need to declare books, and from there I went to book a flight on Pterodactyl Airlines. Cash is king, delivering a 30% discount if you skip plastic. So I bought my ticket (which is actually just a Xeroxed form that the clerk scribbles on) and went through security.
When traveling, I try to bat Bambi lashes and charm people. This, I feel, should minimize any hassle. Unfortunately, there was a snag at the x-ray station. Belize also bows to the tyranny of the 3.4 ounce liquid rule, and the x-ray scanner guy said he'd need to examine my bag of liquids. "You can't take this through," he said when looking at my Target brand SPF 70. "It needs to be two ounces or less."
I silently called bullshit. Of the three sunblocks I packed (different ones for different needs!) the Target one had the girliest packaging, but the La Roche-Posay weighed in at 3.4 ounces compared to Target's 3.0. I'm just saying, this clearly had nothing to do with size. I suspect our guy liked the tulip on the Target tube.
"Are you sure?" I asked.
"Yes, no more than two ounces. You can't take it."
I pointed to the official Belizean airport security sign that clearly stated it was a 3.0, not 2.0 ounce limit. "All right, you can have it," the guy said sullenly. Why did he want my sunblock? I like to think he wanted to give it to a special ladyfriend. Still, it was my SPF 70, and those of you who know me understand my freakish heliophobia. A tiny part of me feels like a jackass for not letting the guy hork my sunblock, because it's expensive here, and... let the first-worlder guilt begin!
Customs was odd. Nice guy asked me if I knew anybody in Belize. Yes, I said. Where? Benque Viejo. Did I bring any gifts? A book. Apparently you do not need to declare books, and from there I went to book a flight on Pterodactyl Airlines. Cash is king, delivering a 30% discount if you skip plastic. So I bought my ticket (which is actually just a Xeroxed form that the clerk scribbles on) and went through security.
When traveling, I try to bat Bambi lashes and charm people. This, I feel, should minimize any hassle. Unfortunately, there was a snag at the x-ray station. Belize also bows to the tyranny of the 3.4 ounce liquid rule, and the x-ray scanner guy said he'd need to examine my bag of liquids. "You can't take this through," he said when looking at my Target brand SPF 70. "It needs to be two ounces or less."
I silently called bullshit. Of the three sunblocks I packed (different ones for different needs!) the Target one had the girliest packaging, but the La Roche-Posay weighed in at 3.4 ounces compared to Target's 3.0. I'm just saying, this clearly had nothing to do with size. I suspect our guy liked the tulip on the Target tube.
"Are you sure?" I asked.
"Yes, no more than two ounces. You can't take it."
I pointed to the official Belizean airport security sign that clearly stated it was a 3.0, not 2.0 ounce limit. "All right, you can have it," the guy said sullenly. Why did he want my sunblock? I like to think he wanted to give it to a special ladyfriend. Still, it was my SPF 70, and those of you who know me understand my freakish heliophobia. A tiny part of me feels like a jackass for not letting the guy hork my sunblock, because it's expensive here, and... let the first-worlder guilt begin!
In just over a week, I'll set the alarm for 2:30am and be on my way to Belize again. Last time, I didn't get to see everything that I wanted to see thanks to a tropical depression. (That's what you get when you travel during hurricane season.)
This time, I plan to snorkel and swim with nurse sharks. I hope, with the same greedy desire that children have in toy stores, to see a sea turtle or two. It is so wonderful to go somewhere and be close to animals you've encountered only in pages or behind glass windows.
As before, I am paranoid about being attacked by botflies and snakes, both of which are probably plotting against me with the help of their jellyfish colluders. Oh, and there's some sort of disease that you can get from swallowing snail-tainted river water. Need to watch out for that. Then there are the fire ants, some of which crawled up my pant leg and bit the back of my thighs about seven times; it took almost a year for the scars to fade. See, relaxing!
I haven't told Louis that I'm coming yet; part of me wants to surprise him by calling him from San Ignacio. "What are you doing for dinner tonight, Louis?" I could ask. But he works so much — and I mean really works because he's a rancher — that I imagine he's busy most of the time, and it would be more polite to give advance notice. Or maybe I will go help him herd goats again.
All of this is an elaborate setup to highlight the best thing I found today while researching the trip. The website for Crystal Belize is proudly garish, yet oddly charming in the innocently showy way that Belizean advertising favors. Were I to rent a car, I'd skip Avis and go with these guys all the way.
This time, I plan to snorkel and swim with nurse sharks. I hope, with the same greedy desire that children have in toy stores, to see a sea turtle or two. It is so wonderful to go somewhere and be close to animals you've encountered only in pages or behind glass windows.
As before, I am paranoid about being attacked by botflies and snakes, both of which are probably plotting against me with the help of their jellyfish colluders. Oh, and there's some sort of disease that you can get from swallowing snail-tainted river water. Need to watch out for that. Then there are the fire ants, some of which crawled up my pant leg and bit the back of my thighs about seven times; it took almost a year for the scars to fade. See, relaxing!
I haven't told Louis that I'm coming yet; part of me wants to surprise him by calling him from San Ignacio. "What are you doing for dinner tonight, Louis?" I could ask. But he works so much — and I mean really works because he's a rancher — that I imagine he's busy most of the time, and it would be more polite to give advance notice. Or maybe I will go help him herd goats again.
All of this is an elaborate setup to highlight the best thing I found today while researching the trip. The website for Crystal Belize is proudly garish, yet oddly charming in the innocently showy way that Belizean advertising favors. Were I to rent a car, I'd skip Avis and go with these guys all the way.
Usually, when rough times come crashing down, it's time to raid the travel fund and book a ticket to somewhere interesting. Whether the trip goes well or not, I think going somewhere new helps shift my thoughts into a better place.
For obvious mobility reasons, I was not able to get out of town this past autumn. Before breaking my foot, I'd planned to use my frequent flier miles to spend Christmas in Japan, but limping around Nakameguro did not seem like fun. So I looked into flights to Thailand. The fare wasn't too painful, but I'd rather go there with somebody, or save it for the inevitable "I'm taking six months off and going to Southeast Asia" freakout. And South America will have to wait until my language skills improve. Arizona sounded good, but not quite right.
Anyway, right before leaving the office tonight, I looked up some flights on a whim. To my delight, they cost about half of what they normally do. So without overthinking it, I booked a ticket to get the hell out of Dodge. Why not, you know? Life is for living, and travel savings are there to be used. There's a 24-hour window to cancel the ticket in case I can't get the time off work, so I haven't lost anything. I don't want to jinx myself by mentioning the destination, but it is exciting to envision new surroundings and the new ways of thinking that correspond in kind. Then again, tomorrow I might actually look at my savings balance and change my mind completely. In that case, it's the spirit of adventure that counts, right?
(Also, whenever I see any airport, this song runs through my head. Always.)
(I don't know why this looks bad. It looked OK in preview. Too lazy to look at the code.)
For obvious mobility reasons, I was not able to get out of town this past autumn. Before breaking my foot, I'd planned to use my frequent flier miles to spend Christmas in Japan, but limping around Nakameguro did not seem like fun. So I looked into flights to Thailand. The fare wasn't too painful, but I'd rather go there with somebody, or save it for the inevitable "I'm taking six months off and going to Southeast Asia" freakout. And South America will have to wait until my language skills improve. Arizona sounded good, but not quite right.
Anyway, right before leaving the office tonight, I looked up some flights on a whim. To my delight, they cost about half of what they normally do. So without overthinking it, I booked a ticket to get the hell out of Dodge. Why not, you know? Life is for living, and travel savings are there to be used. There's a 24-hour window to cancel the ticket in case I can't get the time off work, so I haven't lost anything. I don't want to jinx myself by mentioning the destination, but it is exciting to envision new surroundings and the new ways of thinking that correspond in kind. Then again, tomorrow I might actually look at my savings balance and change my mind completely. In that case, it's the spirit of adventure that counts, right?
(Also, whenever I see any airport, this song runs through my head. Always.)
 | MAKE-UP - International Airport |  |
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 | Found at skreemr.com |  |
Labels: travel
These last two years have been the busiest traveling years of my life. And the trips are not spaced out well at all; I think I had 17 flights in six weeks last year. The last 48 hours have been similarly insane: I flew from San Francisco to New York, was in the city for 10 hours before jetting to Chicago, at which point I drove 85 miles per hour to Michigan. I'll fly some more in a few days, then back to Chicago in a few weeks. The jetset lifestyle is not as glamorous as I had imagined it would be.
Labels: travel
As previously mentioned, Scott and I went to Spain. As you can see, we had a horrible time and annoyed each other to no end:
OR DID WE? Scott and I don't know each other very well, or at least we didn't before going on this trip. I think we'd met maybe three, four times, through Sabrina. I am notoriously difficult to travel with (sorry, friends with whom I've traveled) because I need a lot of alone time and because I tend to get crabby whenever I find too little to eat. Before embarking on this trip, I warned Scott of my toddler-like tendencies, explaining these things and apologizing in advance for any bad behavior.
It wasn't until after we'd parted at the Barcelona airport, when I was nodding off over the Pyrenées, that I realized that not only did we have a squabble-free adventure, we had also spent the entire week together without interruption (save for bathroom breaks and showers, of course). That is the longest amount of time I have spent straight with anybody aside from my parents, ever. Either I am becoming more mellow with age or Scott is the world's easiest person to travel with, but that was a nice surprise. (A not-so-nice surprise: It was difficult for us to find good food in Spain. Where did we go wrong?)
OR DID WE? Scott and I don't know each other very well, or at least we didn't before going on this trip. I think we'd met maybe three, four times, through Sabrina. I am notoriously difficult to travel with (sorry, friends with whom I've traveled) because I need a lot of alone time and because I tend to get crabby whenever I find too little to eat. Before embarking on this trip, I warned Scott of my toddler-like tendencies, explaining these things and apologizing in advance for any bad behavior.
It wasn't until after we'd parted at the Barcelona airport, when I was nodding off over the Pyrenées, that I realized that not only did we have a squabble-free adventure, we had also spent the entire week together without interruption (save for bathroom breaks and showers, of course). That is the longest amount of time I have spent straight with anybody aside from my parents, ever. Either I am becoming more mellow with age or Scott is the world's easiest person to travel with, but that was a nice surprise. (A not-so-nice surprise: It was difficult for us to find good food in Spain. Where did we go wrong?)
Labels: travel
My niece was born when I was eight years old, and that event propelled my family to England. I still remember sitting with Elizabeth, holding her carefully in a room filled with porcelain, trying hard not to break the baby or the Royal Worcester. My parents and I also made the journey from Merry Olde to Paris on a hovercraft; I suppose we must have left from Dover, but I don't recall seeing its white cliffs. Regardless, I still have little bits and pieces of that trip in my head, and whenever I go to Paris, the rubbery scent of the Métro whisks me back to that time.
After that trip, I didn't leave the country again for at least 10 years, and then only to Canada. While I like Canada, it only feels like an international adventure if you have to fly there; crossing the bridge from Detroit by flashing your driver license doesn't have that same flair. In 2003, I took a solo trip to Montréal (which did feel different) and it was all over for me. Taking a plane somewhere, exploring a city, getting lost... I was hooked on travel. After that, I saved my money to go traveling every year.
Last year, it felt like I was living in a jet. I drew a flight map of my trips: three to Chicago, two to New York, two to Los Angeles, one to San Diego, one to Houston and onward to Belize City, and one from New York to Nice to Charles de Gaulle back to San Francisco. (Most were for work; I'm not independently wealthy.) It was exciting on some levels, but for a while in September, I would jolt awake in the middle of the night, not knowing where I was or what time zone I was in.
This year, I have flown only to New York. But that will soon change, because next month I'm going to Paris (predictably) and from there, to Spain. I very seriously considered wedging a two-day trip to Marrakech in there, because it is so close; however, I read that snake charmers in the market square will drape snakes on tourists and then expect them to pay money for a photo. My deep, decades-old ophidiophobia was enough to make me wait until I have a proper traveling companion to protect me from such terrors. Just thinking about that has my heart racing above a churning stomach. Oh god.
Anyway, Spain. Starting out in Barcelona and going to Granada (to make a Tony Wilson joke at the Alhambra, natch) and wherever else the mood takes me. And in the spirit of impulsiveness and adventure, Scott — a man I have met in person maybe four times, a friend of Sabrina's — is going to be my porter. Somehow, a running joke about us eloping in Paris turned into a running joke about him carrying my bags for this trip, until today we said, Hell, why not? Carpe diem, etc. So in a month, we will traipse across Spain. (I am going to Paris alone, so there will be no elopement.) We figure we'll either be best friends or we'll drive each other nuts by the end of the trip, and if it's the latter, well, he lives in Portland so it's not like we'll run into each other around town. If it's the former, what a way to launch a friendship, no? Adventure!
(PS, hoppy Easter from eleven years ago)
After that trip, I didn't leave the country again for at least 10 years, and then only to Canada. While I like Canada, it only feels like an international adventure if you have to fly there; crossing the bridge from Detroit by flashing your driver license doesn't have that same flair. In 2003, I took a solo trip to Montréal (which did feel different) and it was all over for me. Taking a plane somewhere, exploring a city, getting lost... I was hooked on travel. After that, I saved my money to go traveling every year.
Last year, it felt like I was living in a jet. I drew a flight map of my trips: three to Chicago, two to New York, two to Los Angeles, one to San Diego, one to Houston and onward to Belize City, and one from New York to Nice to Charles de Gaulle back to San Francisco. (Most were for work; I'm not independently wealthy.) It was exciting on some levels, but for a while in September, I would jolt awake in the middle of the night, not knowing where I was or what time zone I was in.
This year, I have flown only to New York. But that will soon change, because next month I'm going to Paris (predictably) and from there, to Spain. I very seriously considered wedging a two-day trip to Marrakech in there, because it is so close; however, I read that snake charmers in the market square will drape snakes on tourists and then expect them to pay money for a photo. My deep, decades-old ophidiophobia was enough to make me wait until I have a proper traveling companion to protect me from such terrors. Just thinking about that has my heart racing above a churning stomach. Oh god.
Anyway, Spain. Starting out in Barcelona and going to Granada (to make a Tony Wilson joke at the Alhambra, natch) and wherever else the mood takes me. And in the spirit of impulsiveness and adventure, Scott — a man I have met in person maybe four times, a friend of Sabrina's — is going to be my porter. Somehow, a running joke about us eloping in Paris turned into a running joke about him carrying my bags for this trip, until today we said, Hell, why not? Carpe diem, etc. So in a month, we will traipse across Spain. (I am going to Paris alone, so there will be no elopement.) We figure we'll either be best friends or we'll drive each other nuts by the end of the trip, and if it's the latter, well, he lives in Portland so it's not like we'll run into each other around town. If it's the former, what a way to launch a friendship, no? Adventure!
(PS, hoppy Easter from eleven years ago)
Labels: travel
I woke up early yesterday to take a bus to Belize City. "I'll see the sights," I thought. I didn't have any illusions about it being a gleaming, beautiful city or anything, but as soon as I disembarked from the bus, I wished I'd stayed in San Ignacio for those extra hours. The 10 blocks from the bus station to the swing bridge were long and sketchy, with me enduring random bike-by commments from lascivious teenage boys. "I'm twice your age," I wanted to tell them.) A soused old man tried to hit on me at the library; maybe he was intrigued by my choice of Pale Fire? I relay these things not because I think I'm hot stuff, but because the culture was so different in the city than it was in Cayo.
I'd hoped to go to the Museum of Belize, but it's closed on the weekends, so I wound up sitting by the sea and writing instead. And it's actually a good thing that I didn't go to Ambergris Caye after all; the more I read about it, and after seeing the awful tourist tchotchkes for sale in Belize City (beer cozies, etc.), I realized that I would probably be happier at the relatively low-key and unspoilde Caye Caulker. Next time.
Now I am back home, surrounded by laundry and sporting the closest thing to a tan that I've had in 15 years. Truthfully, I would rather be back in Central America, even with the mosquitoes and flooding and terrifying SNAKES that lurked unseen.
I'd hoped to go to the Museum of Belize, but it's closed on the weekends, so I wound up sitting by the sea and writing instead. And it's actually a good thing that I didn't go to Ambergris Caye after all; the more I read about it, and after seeing the awful tourist tchotchkes for sale in Belize City (beer cozies, etc.), I realized that I would probably be happier at the relatively low-key and unspoilde Caye Caulker. Next time.
Now I am back home, surrounded by laundry and sporting the closest thing to a tan that I've had in 15 years. Truthfully, I would rather be back in Central America, even with the mosquitoes and flooding and terrifying SNAKES that lurked unseen.
The border crossing between Belize and Guatemala is simple and unimposing: The road ends, you park your car, then you walk into the Belize building, get stamped, then do the same in Guatemala. (Surprisingly, the Guatemalan facilities are more modern and upscale than those in Belize.) After crossing, we stopped at a food stand to exchange money and to grab a simple breakfast. I had beans and cheese and Gatorade; the mixture didn't sit well, but it didn't exactly upset me, either.
Today I was supposed to go to Ambergris Caye, a resort-y, touristy island. That plan changed thanks to a tropical storm that's forming, so I'm staying in San Ignacio instead. The odd thing is, I'm not disappointed at all. Part of that contentment is due to being able to spend more time with someone I've grown terribly fond of, but the remainder is just a genuine appreciation for the people here. They are uniformly friendly. This is the first trip I've taken that hasn't made me homesick for the cats. That seems silly, but it's progress.
Today I was supposed to go to Ambergris Caye, a resort-y, touristy island. That plan changed thanks to a tropical storm that's forming, so I'm staying in San Ignacio instead. The odd thing is, I'm not disappointed at all. Part of that contentment is due to being able to spend more time with someone I've grown terribly fond of, but the remainder is just a genuine appreciation for the people here. They are uniformly friendly. This is the first trip I've taken that hasn't made me homesick for the cats. That seems silly, but it's progress.
...in San Ignacio, Cayo, Belize. It's taped to the wall and it says GLOBAL "CRISIS" NEWS UPDATE SEPT/OCT 08 . Here's the last graf:
Crazy type treatments + 2012 mention = wryly amusing to me.
"Watch the alternative news folks. Move fast & prepare. Rumor has it space brothers are coming 10/14/08? as many predict (see trendsresearch.com, worldnetdaily.com). In 2009 the USA will collapse & the world will go into a worse great depression. We must not depend on a system that is quickly failing. We must learn commual living with a new bartering system & become more self-sufficient in growing food, alternative energy, recycling & in making & trading our own products to survive! From my new book "New Earth Survival #2, Revelation for 2012." -- Rev. Joshua
Crazy type treatments + 2012 mention = wryly amusing to me.
A week ago, I was flying from Nice to Paris. The flight took off at 6:20am, just in time to see the sun's rays gently eat away at the darkness. Looking out the window, I watched Corsica get smaller, the red sky intensify into oranges and pinks before breaking into blue. Over the Alps I realized how lucky I am, and then because I can no longer fly without having a tiny peak-oiler freakout, I wondered if I'd ever get to see anything so beautiful again.
Labels: the france, travel
C is off to Paris, and I gave him a long and informally constructed list of things to do while abroad. He's never been there, and in a way I'm envious because he'll see the city with virginal eyes. In case you, too, are planning a trip, here is an abbreviated version of my missive entitled "I'm Rick Steves, bitch!"
ARTSY FARTSY
Palais de Tokyo is the hipster art museum. It makes the MCA look stodgy in comparison. The cafe there, Tokyo Eat, is supposed to be a hot spot. The bookshop is great -- you'll find tons of wonderful and obscure books, CDs, DVDs and so on. It's near Trocadero, so you can get a beautiful view of the Eiffel Tower as well.
Set at least a half-day aside for the Louvre. I find that I can't do it for more than a few hours -- it's beautiful but also exhausting. If you have time, check out the medieval ruins that were excavated in the 1980s. The Mona Lisa is, well, the Mona Lisa. Expect lots of American gawkers discussing the merits of The DaVinci Code.
I wasn't completely blown away by Centre Pompidou, but many people are, so what do I know? I've never been to Musee d'Orsay but I hear good things, etc.
FOOD
It is difficult to have a bad meal in Paris, although you probably won't want to try, say, American or Mexican or Indian cuisine there. They French everything up, so your saag paneer will really be more like creamed spinach a la francaise. I tend to be cheap when it comes to eating abroad, opting to have only dessert in the fancier places, so here's my short list.
Even the lousy bakeries have delicious croissants. Oh my god. I get the vapors just thinking about the croissants. Cheap and deliciously buttery. If you order un cafe, you will receive something along the lines of an espresso. The French drink coffee after, not with, dessert. Choosing the plat du jour is usually cheaper than ordering a la carte, and it's often part of a menu, which includes an entree and dessert as well. The French will not automatically bring you the check. They think this is rude. You'll have to ask for it (l'addition, s'il vous plait) and although service is included, it's polite to leave a few coins if service was great.
If you're into ethnic food, you'll have no shortage of North African food. L'As du Fallafel has the best falafel I've ever had. Seriously. It's cheap and delicious, and you can take it to go (a emporter) or pay a little extra to have it in the restaurant. It's on the Rue des Rosiers in the Marais, and when you walk down this tiny street, the smells are amazing. This place is open on Sundays, and sometimes there is a little line, but it is worth it. Laduree is supposed to have excellent hot chocolate, but I've had only their macarons. They're delicious (and if you go to Printemps, there's a Laduree there. One-stop shopping!). Cafe de Flore is pretty much a tourist trap with overpriced food. See also: Bar Hemingway, where I spent 23 euros on a single cocktail. Whoops! If you need just a quick bite, there's a place on the right bank called La Ferme. Reasonably priced organic (bio) food, lots of seating, and cute little sealed glasses of wine. You can walk around Paris with a wine buzz and nobody cares. Whee! Go to Cafe Charbon if you want to see where the non-obnoxious hipsters hang. It's next to Nouveau Casino, a venue that hosts a lot of electro nights. Kong is supposed to be hotsy-totsy. Designed by Starck, it has a great view but the food is reputed to be just so-so. Don't know if you want ice cream, but Berthillon's chocolate ice cream is rich and wonderful.
GETTING AROUND
There is little reason to get a cab in Paris. It's easy to walk all over the place, and the Metro is great -- clean, efficient, inexpensive. Don't buy a Paris Visite card; it's a ripoff. How long will you be there? Either get a carnet, which is 10 tickets, or a weekly pass. Cheap and great. I love the Paris Metro.
ODDITIES
Look for the Space Invaders mosaics around town.
Everyone young wears Chuck Taylors.
The young women all have hair like Cat Power's.
French hip-hop types imitate American rappers, but they get the details slightly off, and it's endearingly cute.
RUH ROH
People say that the 17th and 18th arrondissements can be dicey. Nonsense. If you're from a city, you'll be fine. The only places that felt a little sketchy to me were the 19th and 20th, and the area around Gare de l'Est. The Quartier Latin is filled with tiquetonnes (pickpockets). It isn't dangerous, but keep an eye on your wallet. Same goes for the Metro and Gare du Nord. Just don't look like a wide-eyed tourist and you'll be fine.
SHOPPING
Shops are generally closed on Sundays (except in the Marais) and open later on Thursday nights. They don't have sales in France the way we do here; things go on sale twice a year, so you'll probably be paying full price. Tax is included, and the detaxe is a 12% refund for non-EU residents. It sounds great, but unless you're going to be purchasing thousands of dollars' worth of merch, it's a pain in the ass. You have to collect your receipts, go to a service desk to get a form, then take that form to the airport. And then at the airport, you will wait in two separate lines for hours (no exaggeration) to get the proper stamps. It's up to you, of course, but I found that I'd rather spend those hours in Paris than in the airport.
Printemps is the department store where I do my shopping. Tourists get a 10% off card, so if you plan to shop there, grab one. Same goes for Galeries Lafayette down the street, which is worth looking at just to see the beautiful ceiling. Le Bon Marche is slightly more snooty and upscale, and you don't get the 10% discount as a tourist. However, its neighboring food market, La Grande Epicerie, is definitely worth a stop. Its bakery is beautiful, you'll be amazed by the variety of cheese, and I assume their meats and whatnot are also nice. They have excellent jams -- I forget the name, but it has kind of a modern-looking label -- with fruit and flower infusions.
Colette is not as hip as it once was, but worth a quick stop if you're in the area. Most of the artsy stuff in there can be found here. However, I had a vegetable gratin in the downstairs cafe, and it was delicious. I think you'd like APC, which is very simple in its stylishness. Comptoir des Cotonniers is also an excellent source for well-made basics with good detailing. Zadig & Voltaire is huge with hip frogs in their 20s and 30s, but I don't get the fuss. Vanessa Bruno's clothing is all very chic, not flashy but definitely beautiful. I wish I'd bought more pieces from there; while they're not cheap, they're much less expensive than they are in the US, and they're beautifully made. Another good store for women is Maje. Habitat has reasonably priced, well-designed contemporary home decor. In Montmartre, Spree is a lovely concept store for women's clothing. Petit Bateau t-shirts are slim, soft and reasonably priced. There are stand-alone shops as well as departments in the department stores. These shirts are about $35 in the US, only about $12 over there. They are, in my opinion, the best t-shirts anywhere.
SLANG
If you want to seem Fraaaanch, you can use:
chouette -- cool, great
charmant -- if a lady says you are charmant, she likes you. Charmant and charmante seem to be the flirty word among the French.
vachement -- literally, "cowish." For some reason, it means "really" or "damned," as in "Ces baskets sont vachement chouettes!" (These are damned awesome sneakers)
une salope -- shh, this means "bitch" but with more nastiness. really, really rude!
les flics -- cops
les poules -- cops, but more like "pigs"
tu me dragues? -- are you chatting me up/hitting on me?
je vous en prie -- you're welcome, but also something that people will say that i take to mean "i'm happy to do it." Servers and shop clerks say this often.
TOURISTY STUFF
Canal St-Martin -- If you need to get away from the hustle and bustle of the tourist areas, the Canal St-Martin is relaxing and pretty. If you've seen Amelie, it's where she skips stones.
Notre-Dame is obviously a must for any good Catholic boy. It's stunning and definitely not overrated. Be sure to hop behind the cathedral so you can see the flying buttresses. Skip the crypt and take a short walk over to Hotel de Ville, which is City Hall. It's, uh, much more beautiful than Da Mare's office here. There's also a lovely flower market that's a birdy market on Sundays nearby.
The cemeteries are beautifully dark, and if you have time to pop into one, you'll find a nice sort of calm. A walk through the Jardin des Tuileries is beautiful, and you can walk from the Louvre on one end to Place de la Concorde (where the Champs-Elysees begins) on the other.
The Grand Palais was closed the day I visited it, but it's beautiful even from the outside.
Montmartre is what you make of it. The view from Sacre-Coeur is lovely, but the tourist shops are annoying. Spend a bit of time wandering through the neighborhood, though, and you'll find good restaurants and charming sights. There are a few independent designers' shops here, too -- great for picking up an accessory or two as gifts.
Champs-Elysees = not as beautiful as you'd think. Not ugly, and definitely worth checking out near L'Arc de Triomphe, but it's filled with Sephora and Lousy Vuitton and the like. Publicis Drugstore is a good spot to check out wine, grab a quick snack or browse magazines until 2am. That's right by L'Arc and the Charles de Gaulle Etoile Metro stop.
The bateaux-mouches are popular, but I never liked the idea of boating down the Seine. Moulin Rouge = Moulin snore. Don't even bother with this Vegas-style catastrophe.
La Tour Eiffel -- if you visit, take a walk down the park to la Musee de la Paix (I think. Something de la Paix, anyway). It's a modernist outdoor sculpture with etched glass, and you can get a pretty view of the Tower or take an arty shot like this.
ARTSY FARTSY
Palais de Tokyo is the hipster art museum. It makes the MCA look stodgy in comparison. The cafe there, Tokyo Eat, is supposed to be a hot spot. The bookshop is great -- you'll find tons of wonderful and obscure books, CDs, DVDs and so on. It's near Trocadero, so you can get a beautiful view of the Eiffel Tower as well.
Set at least a half-day aside for the Louvre. I find that I can't do it for more than a few hours -- it's beautiful but also exhausting. If you have time, check out the medieval ruins that were excavated in the 1980s. The Mona Lisa is, well, the Mona Lisa. Expect lots of American gawkers discussing the merits of The DaVinci Code.
I wasn't completely blown away by Centre Pompidou, but many people are, so what do I know? I've never been to Musee d'Orsay but I hear good things, etc.
FOOD
It is difficult to have a bad meal in Paris, although you probably won't want to try, say, American or Mexican or Indian cuisine there. They French everything up, so your saag paneer will really be more like creamed spinach a la francaise. I tend to be cheap when it comes to eating abroad, opting to have only dessert in the fancier places, so here's my short list.
Even the lousy bakeries have delicious croissants. Oh my god. I get the vapors just thinking about the croissants. Cheap and deliciously buttery. If you order un cafe, you will receive something along the lines of an espresso. The French drink coffee after, not with, dessert. Choosing the plat du jour is usually cheaper than ordering a la carte, and it's often part of a menu, which includes an entree and dessert as well. The French will not automatically bring you the check. They think this is rude. You'll have to ask for it (l'addition, s'il vous plait) and although service is included, it's polite to leave a few coins if service was great.
If you're into ethnic food, you'll have no shortage of North African food. L'As du Fallafel has the best falafel I've ever had. Seriously. It's cheap and delicious, and you can take it to go (a emporter) or pay a little extra to have it in the restaurant. It's on the Rue des Rosiers in the Marais, and when you walk down this tiny street, the smells are amazing. This place is open on Sundays, and sometimes there is a little line, but it is worth it. Laduree is supposed to have excellent hot chocolate, but I've had only their macarons. They're delicious (and if you go to Printemps, there's a Laduree there. One-stop shopping!). Cafe de Flore is pretty much a tourist trap with overpriced food. See also: Bar Hemingway, where I spent 23 euros on a single cocktail. Whoops! If you need just a quick bite, there's a place on the right bank called La Ferme. Reasonably priced organic (bio) food, lots of seating, and cute little sealed glasses of wine. You can walk around Paris with a wine buzz and nobody cares. Whee! Go to Cafe Charbon if you want to see where the non-obnoxious hipsters hang. It's next to Nouveau Casino, a venue that hosts a lot of electro nights. Kong is supposed to be hotsy-totsy. Designed by Starck, it has a great view but the food is reputed to be just so-so. Don't know if you want ice cream, but Berthillon's chocolate ice cream is rich and wonderful.
GETTING AROUND
There is little reason to get a cab in Paris. It's easy to walk all over the place, and the Metro is great -- clean, efficient, inexpensive. Don't buy a Paris Visite card; it's a ripoff. How long will you be there? Either get a carnet, which is 10 tickets, or a weekly pass. Cheap and great. I love the Paris Metro.
ODDITIES
Look for the Space Invaders mosaics around town.
Everyone young wears Chuck Taylors.
The young women all have hair like Cat Power's.
French hip-hop types imitate American rappers, but they get the details slightly off, and it's endearingly cute.
RUH ROH
People say that the 17th and 18th arrondissements can be dicey. Nonsense. If you're from a city, you'll be fine. The only places that felt a little sketchy to me were the 19th and 20th, and the area around Gare de l'Est. The Quartier Latin is filled with tiquetonnes (pickpockets). It isn't dangerous, but keep an eye on your wallet. Same goes for the Metro and Gare du Nord. Just don't look like a wide-eyed tourist and you'll be fine.
SHOPPING
Shops are generally closed on Sundays (except in the Marais) and open later on Thursday nights. They don't have sales in France the way we do here; things go on sale twice a year, so you'll probably be paying full price. Tax is included, and the detaxe is a 12% refund for non-EU residents. It sounds great, but unless you're going to be purchasing thousands of dollars' worth of merch, it's a pain in the ass. You have to collect your receipts, go to a service desk to get a form, then take that form to the airport. And then at the airport, you will wait in two separate lines for hours (no exaggeration) to get the proper stamps. It's up to you, of course, but I found that I'd rather spend those hours in Paris than in the airport.
Printemps is the department store where I do my shopping. Tourists get a 10% off card, so if you plan to shop there, grab one. Same goes for Galeries Lafayette down the street, which is worth looking at just to see the beautiful ceiling. Le Bon Marche is slightly more snooty and upscale, and you don't get the 10% discount as a tourist. However, its neighboring food market, La Grande Epicerie, is definitely worth a stop. Its bakery is beautiful, you'll be amazed by the variety of cheese, and I assume their meats and whatnot are also nice. They have excellent jams -- I forget the name, but it has kind of a modern-looking label -- with fruit and flower infusions.
Colette is not as hip as it once was, but worth a quick stop if you're in the area. Most of the artsy stuff in there can be found here. However, I had a vegetable gratin in the downstairs cafe, and it was delicious. I think you'd like APC, which is very simple in its stylishness. Comptoir des Cotonniers is also an excellent source for well-made basics with good detailing. Zadig & Voltaire is huge with hip frogs in their 20s and 30s, but I don't get the fuss. Vanessa Bruno's clothing is all very chic, not flashy but definitely beautiful. I wish I'd bought more pieces from there; while they're not cheap, they're much less expensive than they are in the US, and they're beautifully made. Another good store for women is Maje. Habitat has reasonably priced, well-designed contemporary home decor. In Montmartre, Spree is a lovely concept store for women's clothing. Petit Bateau t-shirts are slim, soft and reasonably priced. There are stand-alone shops as well as departments in the department stores. These shirts are about $35 in the US, only about $12 over there. They are, in my opinion, the best t-shirts anywhere.
SLANG
If you want to seem Fraaaanch, you can use:
chouette -- cool, great
charmant -- if a lady says you are charmant, she likes you. Charmant and charmante seem to be the flirty word among the French.
vachement -- literally, "cowish." For some reason, it means "really" or "damned," as in "Ces baskets sont vachement chouettes!" (These are damned awesome sneakers)
une salope -- shh, this means "bitch" but with more nastiness. really, really rude!
les flics -- cops
les poules -- cops, but more like "pigs"
tu me dragues? -- are you chatting me up/hitting on me?
je vous en prie -- you're welcome, but also something that people will say that i take to mean "i'm happy to do it." Servers and shop clerks say this often.
TOURISTY STUFF
Canal St-Martin -- If you need to get away from the hustle and bustle of the tourist areas, the Canal St-Martin is relaxing and pretty. If you've seen Amelie, it's where she skips stones.
Notre-Dame is obviously a must for any good Catholic boy. It's stunning and definitely not overrated. Be sure to hop behind the cathedral so you can see the flying buttresses. Skip the crypt and take a short walk over to Hotel de Ville, which is City Hall. It's, uh, much more beautiful than Da Mare's office here. There's also a lovely flower market that's a birdy market on Sundays nearby.
The cemeteries are beautifully dark, and if you have time to pop into one, you'll find a nice sort of calm. A walk through the Jardin des Tuileries is beautiful, and you can walk from the Louvre on one end to Place de la Concorde (where the Champs-Elysees begins) on the other.
The Grand Palais was closed the day I visited it, but it's beautiful even from the outside.
Montmartre is what you make of it. The view from Sacre-Coeur is lovely, but the tourist shops are annoying. Spend a bit of time wandering through the neighborhood, though, and you'll find good restaurants and charming sights. There are a few independent designers' shops here, too -- great for picking up an accessory or two as gifts.
Champs-Elysees = not as beautiful as you'd think. Not ugly, and definitely worth checking out near L'Arc de Triomphe, but it's filled with Sephora and Lousy Vuitton and the like. Publicis Drugstore is a good spot to check out wine, grab a quick snack or browse magazines until 2am. That's right by L'Arc and the Charles de Gaulle Etoile Metro stop.
The bateaux-mouches are popular, but I never liked the idea of boating down the Seine. Moulin Rouge = Moulin snore. Don't even bother with this Vegas-style catastrophe.
La Tour Eiffel -- if you visit, take a walk down the park to la Musee de la Paix (I think. Something de la Paix, anyway). It's a modernist outdoor sculpture with etched glass, and you can get a pretty view of the Tower or take an arty shot like this.
Labels: the france, travel
Obviously, I landed in London in one piece. The flight was all right, but I was seated next to a family of four: Yuppie Breastfeeding Mom, Seemingly Resentful Dad, their kicking toddler Chloe, and the baby, David -- who I referred to mentally as Fang when I thought of his tiny sprouts of teeth. The toddler was a brat, the baby was happy (honestly, he seemed a bit drunk), and mom and dad slept through both children bleating throughout the sleepytime of the flight. Oblivious to the glowering stares from other passengers, the parents snoozed: Mom in her seat, Dad stretched out on the cabin floor. I fear he may have tried to play footsie. When the happy family woke up, Mom decided to clip Chloe's toenails. Horrifying.
Anyway, London is much nicer in September than it is in London [Note: I meant March, but was obviously brain-tired]. Took the tube in and made it to the hotel, where I took a little naparoo. I woke up, unpacked, and then freaked the F out as I heard a key going into my door. It must be the housekeeping service," I thought. But it wasn't. It was a little Englishman stopped only by the chained door (see, Mom, I am traveling safely). "I'm sorry, but this is my room," he said. "Let me put on a shirt," I replied. I looked out at the little old man dwarfed by his rolling suitcase and decided I could easily take him in a fight if necessary, so I opened the door a bit. Before I had a chance to ask him what was going on, he started waving a confirmation slip of paper around. "Room 774!" he barked. "I booked this room in JANUARY!"
Jet-lagged and still groggy from my nap, I took a moment to realize that homeboy meant that he had booked this exact room. He began telling me about his late wife (uh oh) and how today was their anniversary (you know where this is going) and how they'd stayed here forty-eight years ago for their honeymoon and I simply was not part of this plan. "So you see," he was saying, "I have booked this room and there's been a mistake and this just will not do."
At first I felt horror: Is this what they do to the Priceline guests? Make them share rooms? Certainly that couldn't be the case, I thought. I felt sorry for this man, who was becoming more desperate as the story rolled on. I think he thought I was going to fight him for the room, which was not my intention. Finally I interrupted him and said, "I'm sure we can call the operator and straighten this out. I wouldn't want you to miss staying in this room." Well, that changed everything! Suddenly, we were compatriots, allies, a coalition of the willing hotel guests! After a few phone calls, the old man was assigned room 774. Yours truly was apologetically assigned room 212, which turns out to be a suite. With a robe on the bed and two tellies and a separate bath and shower and a nice little room that overlooks noisy Oxford Street. Yay!
Anyway, London is much nicer in September than it is in London [Note: I meant March, but was obviously brain-tired]. Took the tube in and made it to the hotel, where I took a little naparoo. I woke up, unpacked, and then freaked the F out as I heard a key going into my door. It must be the housekeeping service," I thought. But it wasn't. It was a little Englishman stopped only by the chained door (see, Mom, I am traveling safely). "I'm sorry, but this is my room," he said. "Let me put on a shirt," I replied. I looked out at the little old man dwarfed by his rolling suitcase and decided I could easily take him in a fight if necessary, so I opened the door a bit. Before I had a chance to ask him what was going on, he started waving a confirmation slip of paper around. "Room 774!" he barked. "I booked this room in JANUARY!"
Jet-lagged and still groggy from my nap, I took a moment to realize that homeboy meant that he had booked this exact room. He began telling me about his late wife (uh oh) and how today was their anniversary (you know where this is going) and how they'd stayed here forty-eight years ago for their honeymoon and I simply was not part of this plan. "So you see," he was saying, "I have booked this room and there's been a mistake and this just will not do."
At first I felt horror: Is this what they do to the Priceline guests? Make them share rooms? Certainly that couldn't be the case, I thought. I felt sorry for this man, who was becoming more desperate as the story rolled on. I think he thought I was going to fight him for the room, which was not my intention. Finally I interrupted him and said, "I'm sure we can call the operator and straighten this out. I wouldn't want you to miss staying in this room." Well, that changed everything! Suddenly, we were compatriots, allies, a coalition of the willing hotel guests! After a few phone calls, the old man was assigned room 774. Yours truly was apologetically assigned room 212, which turns out to be a suite. With a robe on the bed and two tellies and a separate bath and shower and a nice little room that overlooks noisy Oxford Street. Yay!
Love you. I am obviously a bit chatty and batty, so don't be surprised if you hear from me again. Off to track down something to eat.
We had a good time:
We bookended our trip in San Francisco, opting to drive up the coast for a sojourn. While out of the city, we stayed near Bodega Bay, where Hitchcock filmed The Birds. I kept hoping to see some touristy schlock that would point out where all the Birds-y places were, but instead we saw lots of boats. This was the view from our cottage.
The day before we took this photo, my sweet and athletic* boyfriend wanted to watch the sunset at Point Reyes. Because I was recovering from a mild yet painful asthma attack earlier in the day, and being purple-fingered cold from our outdoor adventures, I wanted nothing more than to get to the warmth of our rental car. What can I say? I am totally out of shape, and climbing hills is hard work. The sunset was taking forever, and so we didn't stick around for all of it. The next day, back in the city, we caught this one instead. I think it was just as pretty.
Kittens in the Macy's window.
We went to Japantown and watched a Taiko group. I was fascinated by the woman on the left. She wasn't just happy to be playing her drum; she was visibly filled with joy. Just watching her made me happy.
* I feel like I need to say here that he is not athletic in the no-neck, jockular way, but in the does-flips-on-the-beach way. He has a very pretty and defined neck.
We bookended our trip in San Francisco, opting to drive up the coast for a sojourn. While out of the city, we stayed near Bodega Bay, where Hitchcock filmed The Birds. I kept hoping to see some touristy schlock that would point out where all the Birds-y places were, but instead we saw lots of boats. This was the view from our cottage.
The day before we took this photo, my sweet and athletic* boyfriend wanted to watch the sunset at Point Reyes. Because I was recovering from a mild yet painful asthma attack earlier in the day, and being purple-fingered cold from our outdoor adventures, I wanted nothing more than to get to the warmth of our rental car. What can I say? I am totally out of shape, and climbing hills is hard work. The sunset was taking forever, and so we didn't stick around for all of it. The next day, back in the city, we caught this one instead. I think it was just as pretty.
Kittens in the Macy's window.
We went to Japantown and watched a Taiko group. I was fascinated by the woman on the left. She wasn't just happy to be playing her drum; she was visibly filled with joy. Just watching her made me happy.
* I feel like I need to say here that he is not athletic in the no-neck, jockular way, but in the does-flips-on-the-beach way. He has a very pretty and defined neck.
Labels: san francisco, travel
Earlier this year, my good friend Trevor and I went to London and Paris. We were delighted by the cheapness of the flight ($199 round-trip) and excited by the opportunity to do the big trip that we never took in college. Here are a few photographs (London first, Paris later) if that's your thing:
This sign stands outside of Heathrow. Our flight arrived around five in the morning local time, which may have been why I found the Hotel Hoppa heeeeeeelarious. Nobody else who sees the photo thinks it's funny. Go figure.
After sleeping off some of the jet lag, Trevor and I took the train from the suburbs into London. Our first stop: the Tate Modern, which was hosting this exhibit by Olafur Eliasson. Absolutely stunning sunning.
I didn't eat very well in London. This grumpy photo was taken the morning after a particularly unsatisfying vegetarian stew in Covent Garden, if memory serves. I tried to have a positive attitude toward dining in merry olde England, but most of my attempts fell flat. I was too scared to try the famous curries, because while we were visiting, that scary tandoori/cancer report came out. Yikes.
Spring hadn't hit back in the States, so we were very happy to see flowers and greenery and sunshine at Westminster Abbey.
The buses in London are great because there's an element of danger to them. You get to hop on and off while they're moving. Although the older buses are being replaced by safer models, there are still quite a few fun ones in service. They're much more fun and old-fashioned than any other buses I've been on before.
This sign stands outside of Heathrow. Our flight arrived around five in the morning local time, which may have been why I found the Hotel Hoppa heeeeeeelarious. Nobody else who sees the photo thinks it's funny. Go figure.
After sleeping off some of the jet lag, Trevor and I took the train from the suburbs into London. Our first stop: the Tate Modern, which was hosting this exhibit by Olafur Eliasson. Absolutely stunning sunning.
I didn't eat very well in London. This grumpy photo was taken the morning after a particularly unsatisfying vegetarian stew in Covent Garden, if memory serves. I tried to have a positive attitude toward dining in merry olde England, but most of my attempts fell flat. I was too scared to try the famous curries, because while we were visiting, that scary tandoori/cancer report came out. Yikes.
Spring hadn't hit back in the States, so we were very happy to see flowers and greenery and sunshine at Westminster Abbey.
The buses in London are great because there's an element of danger to them. You get to hop on and off while they're moving. Although the older buses are being replaced by safer models, there are still quite a few fun ones in service. They're much more fun and old-fashioned than any other buses I've been on before.
