I’m not really a breakfast eater at all, but how could I say no to free croissants? Add in some good hot chocolate mix to dump in my coffee, and I was a happy breakfaster indeed! I had my meal alone while Jordan and Amy finished getting ready upstairs, and struck up a conversation with the only other person in the room, an Asian guy sitting a couple tables down. He was on his winter holiday from an internship in Amsterdam, but didn’t have much to recommend there besides the obvious Van Gogh museum and Anne Frank House. As he seemed alone I invited him to the Louvre with us, but luckily (for him) he was just waiting on his friend to join him. They would be going to Rome for New Years, lucky fellows!
At probably 9 or so we hit the streets for a short jaunt to the subway line that would connect us to the Louvre stop. As we walked Jordan explained his uber-red eyes: unable to go back to sleep after our roommate turned in at 4 am, he finally gave up and went downstairs.
This probably merits some description: in the small lobby is a couple of computers with exorbitantly priced internet (1 euro/15 minutes!), then a couple of tables with chairs. Onto this is adjoined an open kitchen, and on the side of that is a cafe of sorts, basically just a common room where people bring their alcohol and socialize. At 5 in the morning Jordan reported that this common area was a hubbub of drunken backpackers/travellers, one girl even taking particular care to hit on the overnight receptionist.
We came a new way (for me) into the museum: instead of going above ground and descending into the glass pyramid, we found ourselves in a ritzy underground shopping center (APPLE STORE SIGHTING!), and had but a short security line to go through before purchasing our tickets from a machine. By this time it was probably 9:30ish, and it already felt moderately crowded as we made our way into the galleries. First destination: the Mona Lisa, of course! To get to her we had to pass through a hall of other Renaissance masters, my favorite being Da Vinci’s “The Madonna of the Rocks” I distinctly remember studying in art history class. I think it must have been my favorite only due to its happy familiarity…I remembered the Renaissance collection in Dresden making a much more striking impression on me.
Unlike my first visit we did not beat the crowd, and by the time we made it to the smiling lady we had to fight our way patiently to the front. I lost A&J during this time, and when I found them on the sidelines taking photos I started to scold them for not walking about to observe the effect of her famous eyes. Besides that, there really isn’t much to say about her, after all. They assured me that they had already been to the other side and back, and so we headed out to check out Venus de Milo. I got us lost in the Roman Antiquities, however, and so from there skipped over to my favorite - the Italian sculptures! Unfortunately only one Canova (my favorite sculptor, if you will remember) was available. After quickly perusing this section we tramped back to the antiquities and found the Greek stuff. Jordan and I fought our way through another throng to see the somewhat underwhelming Venus de Milo - she certainly wasn’t much compared to the first Greek female nude in the nearly-empty next room.
I love this, the idea of such life-like artistic perfection achieved SO long ago, thousands of years, and then copied by the Romans, and then eventually completely lost by the end of the Roman Empire. For a thousand years at least, European sculpture was no more realistic than Egyptian heiroglyphs, until finally, ta-DAH, Renaissance! Donatello! Michelangelo! evolving into Canova’s romantic, mythical delicacies. And today what do we have for scultpure? Black oblongs, painted cows, piles of carefully arranged trash…amazing, the evolution of art!
So yeah, by this time we’d had our fill of art in the limited time we had been given. We wandered down one more gallery (though I don’t recall which…obviously didn’t make too big an impression) and made our escape up through the famous pyramid.
There are lots of people taking photos here, and naturally you can’t come to the Louvre and not get a picture of yourself in front of it, right? To this end, I spotted some small light posts about 3 feet high on which people were posing. Perfect! Right?
After Jordan and Amy’s “I’m-at-the-LOOOOOUVRE!” photos, and patiently waiting for a group of Spaniards (or somesuch) to take their turn, I finally walked determinedly up, hoisted one foot on top, and before I could do much more than a strained hop, there was a disconcerting rrrrrrip! And cold air on my inner thigh. Fantastic. My worn-thin jeans had finally given way. In Paris. At the Louvre. Although J&A swore it wasn’t noticeable unless you were looking for it, happily Amy lent me her sweatshirt to cover it and give me a bit more security. Upwards and onwards!
From here it was my plan to have us walk to the Notre Dame Cathedral. But first we walked down a bit to have a look at the Tuileries Garden laid out in front of the Louvre. We stopped on the Tuileries Terrace and marveled at the view, but decided against wasting our time with an actual walk-through. Here Amy decided was an opportune place to get a photo, where a cement banister provided ample standing space for a posed “Me-in-snowy-Paris” photo. Now, this banister being only about waist-heigh, it didn’t occur to me to protest the obviously icy ledge. No, I happily cheered her on as Jordan voiced his concern.
I’ll skip a bit over what happened next…suffice it to say, I took my camera away from my face, and she wasn’t there any more. At this point Jordan was thinking to himself: that’s it, this trip is over, we’re going to the hospital. I wasn’t really concerned, however, until I went to peer over the ledge…and stretched…and stretched…until I was hanging about 10 feet over the hedges on the other side: apparently not just a banister, but a retaining wall for the gardens below. Duh. Amy was slumped against the wall, but my anxious queries were quickly assured as she looked laughingly back up at me. And we immediately all laughed until we cried. Although other people were about, no one was close, and I suppose seeing us all disintegrate into laughter didn’t really cause much more concern.
The most injury Amy sustained was some pretty fierce bruising and red scratches from the branch that broke her fall, along with a sizable swath of torn jean on her hip. She was a real trooper though, and uncomplainingly took her sweatshirt back to cover the damage and march on. She definitely had more need of it than me!
And so along the Seine we continued, bearing the cold breeze as best as we could. Even I was too chilled to take it for long, so we ducked into the first cafe we came to - overpriced and touristy, but Parisian nonetheless. Both Amy and I ordered sandwiches thinking they would be the same as the warm and melty concoction she had had the day before. In this case, though, it was stiff and crusty French baguettes. To warm our bones I had a hot wine, Amy hot chocolate (and $10 large soda!), and Jordan…I think just a soda for him, but his hot croquette monsieur or somesuch looked quite tasty compared to our cold sandwiches.
After the mediocre repast we were able to more cheerfully head back into the cold. On the way I gave in and got a plain sugar crepe that steamed and warmed my hands as I ate. Not much longer and we came upon Notre Dame, leaping out from around a corner on the Ile (Isle) de la Cite. Oh, the Gothic magnificence! It never fails to amaze me, how medieval peasants built such an elegantly grand space. Certainly it took them long enough, but the end result…I remember hearing or reading somewhere that Gothic design is meant to strike you with the awe and majesty of God’s presence, to help lift your mind to a higher plane of worship. And it’s easy to see how it could, even now as back in the day.
Upon entering we sat in silence for some minutes, just resting and taking it in. We then joined the throng in its slow loop around. I do seriously love myself some stained glass, and accompanied by sweeping gray arches and graceful pillars, what more could one ask?
With the cold and gray day, and only a few hours of sunlight left, my final suggestion for the day was visiting the Pantheon. My memories were a bit fuzzy, but I remembered finding it unexpectedly gorgeous. So we headed that way, leaving Amy at a cafe to recover her foot. As it turned out it cost maybe 8 euro to get in…Jordan wasn’t super-enthused to pay, and being on a budget myself I reluctantly agreed. Instead we settled with Amy at the cafe, me with another hot wine, Jordan with a Martini (this was when the Martini = vermouth click kicked in). We chatted and burst into laughter anew as I reviewed the photos from that morning.
Eventually we determined it was time to move, and with no further items on the agenda Jordan helped me find the best route back to the hostel. From here my memories get fuzzy…I guess I recall trooping out into the cold to get food with them. As expected by me (but not her), the sandwich-vendor people Amy went back to did not accept credit cards, and we were directed to an ATM 300 meters away. Grrr. And so forth we went to hunt down the elusive ATM. Many minutes and grumbles and coaxing and rising tempers later, we returned back empty-handed (although Jordan had succeeded in his quest for beer), and I acted as the sugar-mama for Amy’s dinner. Jordan was content with his beer, and by the time I got back from a grocery run he was well into it. I had grabbed what looked like delicious heat-and-eat ham and cheese crepes from the cold aisle, with some bags of chips. Trying to be cheap! I sat Jordan with me in the kitchen, taking pleasure in my ability to fry us up some good French grocery-crepes over a hot plate. I happily turned them onto 2 plates and presented Jordan with his, feeling accomplished. When we actually tried to eat, however…well, suffice it to say they turned out to be less than appealing. Although I forced myself to eat most of mine, Jordan’s went into the trash. Even the chips were somehow gross. Who can make CHIPS bad??? Disappointing!
And so we retired for the night. Amy was already snoring sonorously as always on her top bunk, feet propped on her packed and zippered suitcase. I still had my shower and repacking to do, but Jordan was ready soon enough. After all, with the jet lag and sleep deprivation he certainly needed it! At first he tried poking Amy awake to get her to turn over, to no avail. And although he seemed certain he would be unable to sleep with her racket, before I had finished packing he was gently snoring as well. When it was my turn to settled in, it took me a couple minute to focus on Amy and Jordan’s snores as a sort of lullaby. Ere long, even I was asleep, barely awoken by our roommate’s entrance at another ungodly hour.
Coming next: Adventures in Amsterdam!
FB photos can be found here.
…picking up where London left off:
Anxiety! Well, maybe not anxiety…or nervousness…excitement, really, the kind that burns your stomach and makes time move too slowly. I felt this on the plane, as we landed, when we disembarked, and as I waited impatiently for my baggage. At last I was hauling it as quickly as I could through airport corridors with my luggage cart, eagerness marking each decisive step.
I spotted Amy first, her back to me, across the…what do you call a wide square cut out of a floor that looks down on the floor below, like in a mall? Whatever that is. I practically glided in glee, unseen until I practically crashed into her. I then accosted Jordan as he got money from the ATM where we had arranged to meet (luckily he was then wrapping it up).
We examined each other and took stock: luggage good, their flight an hour late making them perfectly on time for my arrival. As little sleep for them on their crappy American Airlines experience, too. I envied Jordan’s perfect luggage set-up: a matching backpack and small wheelie case that could be attached together to form an even larger backpack/wheelie, if needed. How I wish I could look so perfectly travel-coordinated and unencumbered!
From here we descended down into the train station. I got our tickets and led the way to one of these automated turnstyle thingies to get down to the train. But alas, my ticket didn’t work! So we went into some gates farther down, and still nothing. OK. Trek back across to the other end of the station, and try those gates. STILL nothing??? At this point Jordan discovered that his ticket worked perfectly fine, and I had been using the identically-shaped receipt to try to gain access. Well, so much for me being a travel know-it-all! Better they find out asap, I supposed.
The train ride into the city was nothing spectacular: gritty little graffitied stations with impossible-to-correctly-pronounce names, weedy fields, etc. Our journey to the hostel was relatively short and easy, merely involving a transfer to the city metro, one stop, and WHAM - we emerged above ground into REAL Paris: tourists swarming in bright, cold sunshine; white, shuttered facades rising over smoothly cobbled streets; shops’ wares of scarves, berets, postcards, and a multitude of kitschy Parisian memorabilia spilling onto the street.
A couple of blocks later we easily found the hostel. Naturally we were told our reservation had somehow been mysteriously cancelled unbeknownst to us. Nonetheless, after an extra 10 minutes of paper-shuffling and needless trying to figure out what happened, the friendly staffer got us checked into our 4-bed dorm on the top floor for a cheaper rate than we’d originally booked (unintentionally, I think).
Thus we were finally able to tug our bags into what must be the smallest elevator in the WORLD: no possibility of squeezing another person in once your bags were inside, although I believe Jordan did manage it somehow, and had a slight claustrophobic panic attack on the short ride up…or perhaps that was later?
Our fabulous view of the Sacre Coeur was SO worth any inconvenience at check-in. I was quite pleased that Jordan and Amy were able to have such a good first-hostel experience! With 2 bunk beds, I shoved myself into the bed underneath our unknown bunkmate. As it turned out, we practically had the room to ourselves (luckily for Amy’s inevitable stuff-explosion once her suitcase was unzipped). The other guy only came in after we were asleep, and we were out before he had risen. I never even saw his face for the two nights we stayed there! That, and having our own little ensuite bathroom, made it feel more like a cheap hotel. Downstairs, of course, was a different story…but that for later.
After settling in with our things, we headed out to greet the wintry but cheery Parisian afternoon for real. Just around the corner and up a block or two we beheld the grand Sacre Coeur basilica topping its Montmartre hill like one of those elaborate cakes on that show about cake decorating (you know?). But before ascending Amy and Jordan needed lunch. Jordan chose a crepe stand and a wonderful cheese-and-ham crepe, Amy a sandwich/crepe shop on the opposing corner. Her 2-(or 3?)cheese sandwich, hot and toasty and melted with gorgonzola, etc., was amaaaazing, and she then and there swore to come back for another later. Oh, the pleasure of it, to watch them munching down on delicious French street food, their backs to the base of the Sacre Coeur hill! I still feel a bit of a thrill thinking of that secret (unposted) picture of them, mouths full and eyes intent on their task, unmindful of anything else about them. Friends! In Paris (PARIS!) together!
After they had finished, we were ready to go up. I didn’t even notice, as I suppose I neatly sidestepped them without looking as was my custom, but Amy and Jordan had to push their way a bit more forcefully through the first of the African hawkers. Jordan found out later that these fellows had come up with a resourceful new scheme: pretend to need your hand for a “trick”, then, once they had it tied to some string or somesuch, refusing to let go until you had paid them some money. ?!!!?
In any case, I helped them figure out how to get tickets to the funicular, while I opted for the stairs. My mood and energy up, I made short matter of them and beat Amy and Jordan by a few minutes as they waited in line. In the short leisure time I had, I lost the advantage of saving funicular-money when I was accosted by a deaf girl to donate to UNICEF, or so her clipboard said. I didn’t even realize money was involved, at first, just assuming it was a petition until I came to the last “donation” slot. Durr! I rather resentfully gave up a euro, and the gal had the gall to try and beg a full 5 euro out of me (through writing). “No way!” was my probably very clear response. Does this make me a bad person? ::shrug::
A&J finally joined me at the top where we could enjoy the blue-white prospect of Paris stretching out before us. Marvelous, if somewhat smoggy. Photos dutifully taken, we went inside the basilica for the brief walk-through. Pretty gray and somber, not too much to write home about, but for the fact that there was a Vietnamese church service going on. The space rang with the odd sound of Catholic chanting in the contorted (to my ear) Asian tongue, its normally sharp tones rounded by the sing-song nature of its present duty.
The short daylight hours were ticking by, so we marched onwards to our next destination. Remembering my route from my previous visit, we followed an identical path, descending back down to the metro to get to the Arc de Triomph. There’s really nothing to figure out about their metro system, if you’ve ever taken a subway before. Color-coded lines, place-name direction with stops listed, and, as an added bonus, a lovely sign to tell you how many minutes (usually only a few) until the next train.
The one difficulty we did encounter, as I briefly mentioned above, was the pronunciation of the stops. When Amy would ask which stop we were waiting for, I would reply “The third to the left,” chin-gesturing to the posted map. If this didn’t suffice, Jordan or I would go and put a finger on it, rather than actually having to say the word(s) aloud. Luckily she seemed mostly content to wait for us to say when it was time.
Being on a subway with friends again…brought back memories of Korea, three or more of us clustered around and chatting engrossedly for the 40-minute ride, relying on either our internal alarm clocks or, in some cases, completely ignoring the stops as we knew one-or-other person was more reliable in keeping track of when to get off. Not that THAT never ended badly, on very rare occasion.
Arc de Triomphe was promptly checked off the list, and from here I directed our feet to a walk down quiet, somberly elegant streets to the famous Trocadero Square (where one traditionally takes “me-with-Eiffel-Tower” pictures). It was tranquil indeed on this walk, as most tourists opted for the metro or bus, I’m sure. These buildings, near the Champs-Elysees, were more formal than in our hostel’s Montmartre district. Last time I remember being awed by them: this time they seemed a bit cold without the cheer of autumn colors to light the way, and only an iron-grey sky to reflect their own monotony back at them.
At last, my somewhat mistaken route brought us to the square we sought, crowded as usual with tourists and African vendors with their blankets of winter hats, mini-Eiffels, etc. Here Amy and I had to flee from one of said vendors who pursued us to get Amy to buy the rather unflattering toque she had tried on.
The park below Trocadero was cheerfully wintered-out with an ice skating rink and Christmas market. We took some refreshment here, Amy with a hot nutella waffle, Jordan a hot orange juice spiked with cinnamon and vodka. With my minimal knowledge of French, but plentiful knowledge of Latin-based cognates, I assisted them in ordering. I was a bit suspicious, however, that when Jordan asked for the orange juice, gesturing at the rather large sign posted for it, the vendor persisted in his “what-are-you-talking-about?” expression until I attempted to clarify with my best “Djoo d’oraaahhnj” [jus d’orange]. And then it all became clear. Sure, dude. Jordan, however, harbored no suspicions of this sort, so maybe I was mistaken.
For my own treat, I got a mediocre hot chocolate and enjoyed my first bag of roasted chestnuts: warning to those uninitiated, do NOT expect nuttiness, as their meat is more fleshy than crunchy. The first time I had had them in Italy, boiled by my host mom, I had been unable to make myself eat more than a couple: they grossed me out, but she rapturously consumed them. Expectations, I suppose. This time, I quite enjoyed them, and Jordan was disgusted.
Darkness had fully descended by the time we finished our treats and crossed the Seine to examine the tower at closer range. Being underneath the bronze-lit pillars is far cooler than examining them from afar. The vendors here sent lit-up whirligig fliers sailing 20+ feet in the air everywhere, adding to the already brilliant spectacle.
Most everything we had seen so far was old news to me, so J&A good-naturedly agreed to stand in line in the frigid cold to get to the top (as I didn’t have the chance last time). After waiting 20 minutes or so, however, we discovered that the top was closed. Drat! We made our escape from the line just as the tower lit up with its hourly after dark sparkle-show, and hauled it to get as far back as possible for a good picture. This ended too soon, and now we were all unanimous in our desire to get back to Montmartre to recoup at the hostel and find a place for dinner.
After an unnecessarily long walk due to some poor navigation skills on my part, we finally rediscovered the metro and rode back in seated comfort. Our hostel had a helpful neighborhood map pinpointing all useful spots, including descriptions of restaurants. I spent at least 5 minutes awkwardly peering between a seated dude and the wall to figure out the best spot, only to have J&A negate most all of my recommendations, though I guess they were mostly more exotic. “FINE,” I decided aloud, “I know where we can go,” relocating the good-quality but cheap French restaurant listed. Naturally, this place was closed and graffitied over. Thank god it was only a few blocks away!
As much as I HATE spontaneous restaurant-finding, we ended up settling on a decent spot with traditional French fare. Most everything on the menu sounded quite delicious and how I loooonged to be able to afford the set meal!!! (over 30 euro, I think it was). I still quite overspent, but didn’t really mind, as it was our first meal TOGETHER in PARIS!
Jordan and I chose a martini from the drink menu. “Red, or white?” the waiter asked. We both looked blankly at one another, and then reflected that blank look up at the him. I don’t suppose we were the first foreigners at this establishment ignorant that “Martini” refers to the brand name of the spirit (vermouth, is it?), and NOT the cocktail, as he didn’t press the question. I hadn’t figured that out yet, however, and rather dubiously sipped at the mysterious sweet-for-my-preference beverage presented. Jordan, fortunately, enjoyed his so much that he ordered it the next day, at which point it clicked for me.
It was frustratingly difficult deciding, but I finally went with French onion soup and ratatouille (enclosed in a whole-wheat crepe and covered in cheese); for Jordan fish in champagne sauce with rice and haricots verts; for Amy some sort of pizza. While my soup, with its soggy, cheese-melty bread, was OH so welcome to my belly, Jordan’s dish far outstripped my overly cheesy/tomatoey main dish. Amy’s was…well, pizza, thin-crusted, just the way I normally like it, sans the meat. Jordan and I finished by sharing a creme brulee (too thin and crust a bit too grainy), and Amy shared her ice creamy dessert (banana split?) with us as well. All in all, a satisfying meal!
Back at the hostel I helped Jordan finish some large canned beers he bought, though the high-alcohol one was far too sweet and malty for my taste. I’m not sure what else we did that night, but I don’t think it was anything special. Tired as we were, I think we all hit the hay by 11 pm or earlier, ready to be up bright and early the next morn. First destination: the Louvre, and oh, what adventure awaited us there!
Pictures can be seen HERE. Forgive any spelling errors: Czech Word has a tendency to change words to, well, Czech words, and no spell checker to catch my usual stupid mistakes.
As I mentioned, my flight into London arrived early. From there it was a simple matter of getting a bus to my hostel, luckily a direct one with an hour-long ride (Luton airport is 40 km outside of London). I was probably over-delighted to speak to the guy selling the bus tickets. Not that I acted excited (I hope), but hearing his British accent, even with his rather blasé attitude, gave me such a thrill (as did handing over money with a queen on it)! That, and being called “lovey” by the bus driver.
Unfortunately I couldn’t check into my hostel until after 2 pm, and it was just barely 8 am. I was given permission to get the free breakfast and use whatever amenities I wanted. And so, after stowing away my bags in a shed, I sat down for an orange and a cup of coffee in the small restaurant/cafeteria, watching the BBC top news story about a 40-something woman who was killed by a dog that morning. The reporter was going into excessive detail about the breed and history of the dog; So, I thought, local news here can be just as boring and frivolous. But of course!
After being restored a bit by the caffeine and sugar, I bought a day pass and boarded a bus for downtown. I had no idea what to do with my pass, seeing no swipey area, so I just ascended straight to the top deck, where Japanese tourists were already hogging the front seats, video camera at the ready. I tried to absorb the British-ness of the city but really, the most British thing was the bus stop names: “Lord’s Cricket Ground,” “Queen’s Grove,” etc.
I couldn’t really decide where to stop, and ended up randomly disembarking on Oxford Street. It was an absolutely gorgeous day, as I have mentioned, and it felt so energizing just to be on the street, wandering a new city under a parched blue sky. Oxford Street, if you didn’t know, is a shopping area, and so I meandered with the crowds (last-minute shoppers and tourists), popping here and there into Zara, H&M, etc., and enviously fingering clothes and accessories.
I took the direction to Hyde Park: how could I not, with its familiar Austin connotation? It’s a big area, however, and I only peeped in at the corner: it appeared a rather boring, flat expanse of greenery. It was almost noon by now, and time for a bathroom break and refreshment. Where do you find a clean, free bathroom in a foreign city? McDonalds, naturally, if a Starbucks doesn’t happen to be about. And folks, I’ll admit, I did it. I shouldn’t have, I know, but it was SO satisfying, my lovely double cheeseburger, and, I believe, my first fast food in…well, since Southeast Texas! I’ve noticed, as you might have, that every different country (and sometimes even different states) have unique menu items. Interesting to me was that the UK “festive” menu items were a Terry’s chocolate orange Mcflurry (mmm!) and a mincemeat fried pie.
And now, once again refreshed, it was time to make my way to the London Eye, where I had made my online reservation for 1 o’clock. To which end I journeyed into the depths of the tube system: again, here I have mentioned the subway cars that, while claustrophobic-ly small, were very comfortable in the seat department.
After emerging back aboveground at Westminster stop, I thought, oh, what a pretty clock tower! And began to take photos. I would say it took me a good 5 minutes to realize that this clock tower was actually Big Ben. I’m sure I know what you must be thinking, but really, it seemed smaller and (as mentioned), quite more beautiful than the pictures had ever led me to believe!
After taking my fill of photos, I crossed Westminster Bridge towards the Eye. By now it was about noon, and I tried to slow myself down (mentally, of course, as touristy crowds don’t generally allow for trudgers) to absorb this: I was in LONDON, staring at Big Ben, the London Eye, scenes so familiar from a hundred movies and TV shows. Some time to kill, I sat myself down on a bench adjacent to the Eye, overlooking the Thames and Big Ben. An angry seagull chased away would-be interlopers on the banister before me; tourists of all tongues walked behind me; the day remained sunny and blue; and I mentally repeated the mantra “I am in LONDON!” This is the part I usually find the most trying during travel: realizing that your feet don’t float above the ground, that the air you breathe is the same, that everything is just as mundane, if more exotic, as walking down your home street.
After a quarter of an hour or so of meditation thus, I arose to get my ticket. Oh, the loveliness of knowing that whomever I spoke to would be sure to understand! And thank goodness I did make my reservation online, looking at the people queuing to buy tickets.
Even having my ticket in hand, however, I had to wait in the normal line to board (not too bad, really). Aaaand, of course, I ended up in the capsule with the Spanish group including 2 wheelchair people who got to skip the line, then bogart the front of our capsule pretty much the entire trip. Still, the 15-minute ride was worth it, though I wished I knew what landmarks to look for besides Big Ben. With the lovely colors of a descending sun beginning to paint the sky, I was at least able to take a few good shots through the streaky windows.
From here I lost my way a bit trying to find the tube stop, ended up going in a bit of a circle, but had an easy enough time from there making it back to the hostel to check in. Then back to the tube to get to St. Paul’s Cathedral where I needed to be by 3 pm to get in line for the Christmas carol service at 4 pm.
I’d say I got there a few minutes past 3, but the line was already wrapped pretty much COMPLETELY around the building. As we joined the line, we were told by the counting attendant that we were part of the “maybe” group. I began to anxiously text Justine, with my cell phone dying as often as it could. She would just barely make it there by 4, from the sounds of it…not good! But time passed quickly enough, listening to the amiable couple of British gents behind me talking to a family from Wisconsin. I won’t even get into the queue-jumper/line budger bit of the story: just unnecessarily brings up those frustrating feelings. But really, cutting in line for a CHURCH service???
As we ever-so-slowly advanced closer and closer to the front, we all got more and more anxious: when finally I was 5 people from the front, I realized Justine wouldn’t make it. What to do? Jump out of line now? And then they called the number: 6 more people, and that’s it. Well, who would make the 6th if I cut out? Surely the nice gentleman and the family behind me wouldn’t split up…ah well, fate, I suppose? And in I went.
I found a seat pretty easily, on the edge of the outer aisle towards the back. Not a small place this church, but hard to figure out just how big, being unable to really wander. In a short time the service began, though I was unable to fully attend, still anxiously and subtley checking my phone to hear from Justine. Finally, I texted her I would meet in a half hour at the Starbucks in front of the Cathedral, and let myself relax into enjoyment.
The songs were not any Christmas carols you or I would know, being traditional British songs, some even in the basically incomprehensible Old English of the 14th and 15th centuries. And their tones drifted but softly to us in the back. Between songs would be a short homily, usually some scripture about Christ’s birth. This was something I never usually associated with Christmas, religion. My family never did, certainly. Sitting there I tried to imagine believing as (surely) most of these people did: being uplifted by feelings of spirituality, eyes turned upwards to the grand and ornate ceiling rising over us, the ethereal chorus of voices drifting all around…. A unique sensation indeed! Feeling guilty to stay, guilty to go, I abruptly jetted out at the first “stand to sing” opportunity after 4:30. Into the glasses-fogging warmth of the crowded Starbucks (filled, I’m sure, with many other people unable to get in to see the service), I spotted Justine just finishing her order at the counter. Huzzah! We had a happy-to-see-you embrace and sat to catch up on our recent days. She had just come in on a train from Paris that day, and ended up being an hour delayed due to the weather. But here in London it was not so bad, with the temperature just at freezing.
And so, we set out on a ramble, deciding to wander the streets a bit before heading back to the flat where she was staying. The streets were by now dark and mostly empty, making it all the easier to imagine Dickens, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, etc., walking about in great overcoats and top hats, swinging canes and hailing horse-drawn cabs. As we walked, we playfully argued over British vs. American spellings, lamented not being able to make a currently-playing show of “An Ideal Husband,” wondered what “The King’s Speech” was about, etc. Up to the madness of Piccadilly Circus (even on Christmas Eve!), down gorgeously-decorated sidestreets, and over Oxford Street again until we finally hit our tube stop.
We were luckily able to get some comfy seats on the train, and the conversation segued to me whining about my students. After a couple of minutes of this, a guy across from us sat forward and, lo and behold, it was an American on vacation from his job teaching public school in a small town in Korea. Small world! He even ended up getting off at the same stop as us, and wishing each other a merry Christmas, we then departed to the grocery store. I say grocery store: really, I mean a little food market, quite packed with other foreigners getting their last-minute Christmas meals. Arms now loaded with bounty, we made the short walk through the residential area to a typical brick-fronted house.
The flat we had all to ourselves, as the residents had gone off to Leeds to visit family, taking Justine’s friend with them. And so we started our cooking in the tiny kitchen, singing merrily to some Lady Gaga; then our appetizer course of stilton, brie, crackers, and some random red wine from Paris, gorging and chatting while my ground beef overcooked in the kitchen. Oops…but still, the dirty rice turned out well enough to impress Justine, as was I by her tasty lemon chicken and (wonder of wonders!) salad, dressed to perfection in some balsamic vinegar, JUST the way I like it! And it might be getting a bit boring now, I fear, so I’ll just say, as I did before, we chatted away the night and, while not particularly Christmas-feeling, we were merry enough in our own way.
Though we were both up quite early in the morning, about 9 am, we just lounged around lazily and downed medicine for our vague headaches. Finally I made the last of my Kerbey Lane gingerbread pancake mix, adding too much water, but still turning out to be a lovely Christmas morning treat. Thanks again, Moms!
Here I will not repeat the disastrous “getting lost in London borough” adventure previously told, nor the journey to our afternoon tea. What details to add about the tea, though…well, my favorite was for sure the finger sandwich and champagne cocktail course. The cucumber-cream cheese, the egg salad and watercress, the smoked salmon and arugula, etc., beat out dessert any day! I did quite enjoy the scones as well, though clotted cream was not what I expected, having imagined something more like, I don’t know, really thick cream. With some nice old school vocal-jazzy tunes, a second round of tea, and almost constant nibbling, the 3 hours there passed…well, timelessly! If you know what I mean.
We stole some miniature bottles of mouthwash and extra tissues (for both of our colds) from the fancy-schmancy bathroom and headed back out into the chill Christmas night. Quietly singing “Baby, It’s Cold Outside” to ourselves, we rounded Buckingham Palace, back to Trafalgar Square, and round again to a now-desolate Piccadilly Square, up alongside Regent’s Park, dah dah dah, and, though we had discussed taking a taxi, we found ourselves back at my hostel at the previously mentioned 11:30 pm. I spent until almost 1 am updating the blog and internetting, then headed upstairs for my repacking. Not the easiest feat to do sitting on a ladder on the top of a three-bed bunk, but really not so bad.
Once that was settled it was after 2 am, and I had to set my alarm for 4:30 am to get up for my flight. Bah. For some reason I was unable to really sleep at all. This being completely uncharacteristic of me, I gave up at 4 and got up, double-checked the bus times, and hauled my bags to the bus stop. The street was cold, empty, and dark except for the occasional creepy pedestrian, and so I huddled as inconspicuously as possible for the 15 minutes I had to wait. Luckily I was joined by a young German lady, and we had a short but cheering chat until our bus arrived.
What’s to say about the flight? It was quite madness at the airport, a crush of people in line for the budget EasyJet airlines. As this airline is first-come-first-served seating, you can imagine the impetus to haul butt through everything as quickly as possibly. Having arrived 2.5 hours early I luckily managed to get a window seat when we were fiiiinally allowed to board. And, at last, I slept some on the short hour trip to Paris.
Looking back on London, I actually like it more than I realized at the time. Maybe it was just the magic of walking the Christmas-lit city with a good friend, maybe just the whirlwind of activity. Whatever it was, its streets hold a charm to which I hope to return soon!
Sooo, 15 days after the holiday and I’m finally feeling more human again! My first week back suffered from a cold, second week was vertigo, which came back a bit this Sunday, and remained in headache-form through Monday. But today. Yes today, I feel…well, almost brilliant!
I love Tuesdays, my light day at work: wake up late, by like 10 am, get ready at a leisurely pace, have lunch, come and chill at work for a bit, and finally my 1.5 hour class at 1:20. Usually after this I would have my “adult class” from 4:00-5:30, but since I only had one student, they cancelled it and I will now be doing just a private with her. I like Hana: she is only a couple of years younger than me (although I could’ve sworn she was almost 30 - something, she says, she’s been told all of her life), and lived in England as an au pair for a year until this summer. So, except for Jarmila C., she’s one of the only people I have to more fluently talk with, and we end up chatting on a range of subjects.
Wednesday I used to look forward to more, my day teaching in Nechanice (town smaller than Novy Bydzov). Now, however, my inspiration for lesson plans has fallen flat and I dread having to think of something to fill those 5 classes. I really need to revamp my conversation classes, as well. I’m determined, late as it is, to try and come up with some solid, consistent structure by which I can measure my students’ progress.
But that’s neither here nor there. What I need to do is provide an improved London post, and update to my holiday doings. Nothing greatly adventurous, really, but good times!!!
And so that will, hopefully, be my task this week. Whew!
May your eyes be wide and seeing;
…
though the fear of the world that you’re feeling
is the fear of a slave
May you know how the fight was started,
…
…
May your mouth betray your wisdom;
May you get what they fail to mention;
May your love be your only religion, and preach it to a soul.
…
and may you worship the time and its passing:
the stars won’t ever wait for you to watch ‘em fall.
We’re the smoke on a burned horizon,
We’re the boat on a tide that is rising,
both the post and the pig you’re untying,
the butcher gone for the blade.
Someday we may all be happy,
someday all make a face worth slapping,
someday we may be shocked to be laughing
at the way we behaved.
May your tongue be something wicked,
and know your part in the calf and the killin’,
and see straight through the captain you’re kissin’,
the helm loose in his hand.
May your words be well worth stealing
and put your hand on your heart when you’re singing,
the choir sick of the song but they still gotta stand.
— Roughly transcribed from “Biting Your Tail”, a new Iron and Wine song. Album out Jan. 25, woot!
There is NO way I can post all that has happened now. It is 5 till midnight on Christmas day, and I am a little woozy from exhaustion. I’ll try.
All my worries about my flight were, of course for naught. Not only was the flight fine, we ended up landed 20 minutes early! I don’t know that that has ever happened before. Finding hostel was easy, even had the free breakfast, and headed out to explore before meeting Justine.
I took the bus (double-decker of course, sitting on the top deck) to Oxford St., shopping district of course bustling with last-minute shoppers. It was a gorgeous day, the first all-blue-sky sunny day I can remember in quite awhile, but I’m sure it stayed just at freezing, perhaps a bit below. Walked about, glanced at Hyde Park, then headed to the tube station to make my way to the London Eye.
I did very appreciate the underground here: the cars were almost claustrophobic-ly small, but if you were lucky enough to get a seat, sooo comfortable! And they had these lovely armrests so, unlike any other subway I’ve been in, you never have to brush legs with your neighbor! Quite British, I thought.
Anywho, I got out at Westminster and there was Big Ben, although it took me awhile to realize it was the ACTUAL Big Ben as it was…well, more beautiful than I thought it actually was! Walked across Westminster Bridge, and found a bench to chill and try to soak in the “I’m-in-London” feeling, more difficult than you would think, even staring at Big Ben. I couldn’t help but remember the Doctor Who episode where the alien spaceship crashes into it, heh. And isn’t there one, one of the first ones, where the London Eye is a spaceship as well? I’ll have to rewatch!
So yes, up the London Eye, which was cool but also a bit underwhelming because the city wasn’t much from above when I didn’t really know how to recognize any landmarks. Then tube back to the hostel to check in (which didn’t start until 2 pm). I grabbed the top bunk of a TRIPLE bunk bed, and ran back out to catch another tube back to St. Paul’s. At this point my phone decided it was dying, so I waited anxiously to hear when Justine would arrive. The line to get into St. Paul’s was almost ENTIRELY around the building, and we were told our section was “reserves” in case they had room. After waiting almost an hour (though it really didn’t feel like it) I ended up being the last, yes, the LAST person they let in!!!
The service was something else, although from where I was the choir wasn’t super-loud. Definitely worthwhile, though not intimate. I can’t really explain much better…just like any live music, it just, I don’t know, resonates more to actually hear it in person! But I cut out early to meet Justine. Not having anything else to do, we just went for a wander. It was at this point that I finally began to feel the magic of being in London…the Christmas lights, the old buildings, so easy to imagine Dickens, etc., walking these very streets, as he probably did, as well as scores of others.
After our wander we headed to the flat where she was house-sitting, about 4 stops down from mine, and just at the edge of Zone 2 (Zone 1 central London, etc.) We bought our groceries at a crowded little shop, though I was unable to find canned corn, of all things, to make cream corn. Still, we had a nice little feast: started with a bottle of wine she had brought from Paris that day, some Stilton and Brie (mmm), dirty rice (my dish of course) for seconds, and she made lemon chicken, roasted potatoes, and balsamic salad for our mains. All in all, a wonderful homemade feast I could not finish! Although as much could not be said for the wine. We forgot to pick up a dessert so just had ice cream and the homemade gingerbread cookies I brought. And though somehow the Slivovice got lost, we also shared the Becharovka, which turned out to be quite Christmasy, an anise and cinnamon infusion. Quite nice! We sang Lady Gaga, chatted, laughed, and had an all-in-all pleasant evening. I ended up crashing there, sleep at about 1 am (2 am Czech time).
In the morning we both woke up way too early (8 am-ish) with an odd vague headache that can only be attributed to the wine, though neither of us had even felt buzzed. Oddness. I made my Kerbey Lane gingerbread pancakes, and our host’s kitchen had actual maple syrup!
Then, as no public transportation was running, we headed out for the 2-mile walk to my hostel. Since we had no map and only written directions, my plan to have a Charles Dickens walking tour turned into a “getting lost in London borough” adventure, as we made at the very least large 3 circles: neither of us could seem to remember any directions we were told. Travel lesson: never go anywhere in a new city without having a map that includes all the parts of it! FINALLY, we were triumphant, but too late to be in time to make the walking tour of course, sans tube/bus. So instead I had a leisurely shower, we snacked on ramen, and headed the 4 miles into central London for our tea reservation.
AND, oh happiness!, after leaving Regent Park we just happened to walk past 221B Baker Street! And I rang the bell!!! (I have been a bit Holmes-obsessed lately, as I am 800 pages into Volume I of the compiled Holmes edition, and I also continually rewatch the new BBC Sherlock series. LOVE IT!)
We made it to our hotel about 50 minutes early, and luckily found what appeared to be the only open coffee shop in all of central London, a Starbucks of course (though all the others we had passed were closed). We shared a chai and then moved on to our hotel. A bit early, we waited in the fancy-schmancy lounge, and then were show to our cozy, if inappropriately low, table for our tea. First our champagne cocktail (YUM!), finger sandwiches, tea, I learned the art of scone-building…and we ended up somehow spending 3 hours there!!! What better thing to be doing, than sitting inside a ritzy cozy hotel, hiding from the cold on Christmas Day. I mean, really.
From there we went for another wander: we quite literally had Buckingham Palace ALL TO OURSELVES, no guards even apparent! At this point camera died, so Justine was kind enough to take one for me. Drat. Then we walked, walked, walked, and ended up back at my hostel at 11:30. And I have a bus to catch at 5 am, it’s 12:30 now, I have to repack, and…::sigh::
So, impressions of London. I did not fall in love with it as I was expecting. I like it, no doubt, and will most certainly come back to see everything I missed. It has charm, and I don’t think it’s really been enough time to really sink into my brain all that I have seen…walking in typical London ‘hood, seeing Big Ben, taking the underground…it’s a normal part of traveling for me, the inability to realize “I am here, and I am seeing this in person FOR REAL.” You know? I’ll probably have more thoughts on this when I have time for reflection. Which I don’t yet. And I prob. won’t for awhile.
I know Jordan and Amy are already on their plane on their way to Paris. Wild! I still have all this stuff to do, and…man, I’m exhausted just thinking of this all. Off to bed now, to finish what I must do.
Good night, Merry/Happy Christmas, and to all a good night!!!
Not a lot today - just spent the morning in a tizzy, doing my last-minute cleaning and packing. I caught the afternoon train to Prague, and upon arriving got a tram across town to my hostel by the castle. Ugh, I so do regret not bringing my little wheelie bag! Instead I have to haul my duffle and backpack, and no matter how lightly I TRY to pack, I still end up with a sore back and angry shoulders.
My hostel is quite nice, but not much to say about it. I have the 6-bed dorm all to myself…not really a good thing in a hostel when you want to meet people, but since I’m just here tonight it’s okay. I will have to be up at 3:30ish to be ready to catch my taxi at 4 am. Still nervous about flight, but I’ve decided at worst it might be delayed by a bit. Weather is good here, quite warm at 36 F / 4 C, and the snow has been melting, so certainly there shouldn’t be many problems on this end.
I did my wander about town in quest of Justine’s Christmas present: to start, a tiny bottle of Becherovka (Czech herbal liquor said to have healing properties) and a tiny bottle of Slivovice (Czech plum brandy), easily discovered at one of the hundred little kitschy shops sellling cheap knick-knacks. From here I crossed town to the big shopping mall, intending to find someting cheap at Lush. Alas, as much as I love it even their cheapest prices were too much for my budget, so resorted to the more affordable Body Shop instead. I spent some time just wandering there, and discovered an amazing “food court” on the top floor, with all sorts of international food, and some surprisingly schnazzy bars. It really is good for me that I don’t live in this city, I’d probably have no money to travel! I was SUPER delighted to find an actual Deli Manjoo stand - the most wonderful subway-food in Korea, these sweet little corn-shaped cakes filled with yellow custard. Oooooh, so good when hot! Mine were a bit cold, but still a lovely gustatory flashback.
After awhile I wandered back into the cold, revisiting the Christmas Market in Old Town Square, coming upon a lovely pair of violin street musicians, having a cup of really horrid hot wine…and finally, back here to the hostel to chill for the remainder of the evening. I dutifully ate my bread and cheese (no more spending!!! already spent too much today!), and gave my poor legs a rest. They hate me already. Sorry legs, you will have a lot more work to do in the next 11 days!
And so I shall retire to my bedchamber and hopefully will be able to hit the sack early. Luckily I already feel mentally and physically exhausted. Whew.
tumblrbot asked: WHAT IS YOUR EARLIEST HUMAN MEMORY?
Dunno, but I remember my first most exciting memory: reading my first word outside of school - “PEPSI” on a sign.
Most of you have seen these photos already, I’m sure. I do miss the opportunity of saying what it was like, however.
I got a call from Helena (the teacher who is my main crutch when I need absolutely anything here) asking if I would like to join her and her husband for a day in Dresden, for about 200 Kc ($10) with a tour group. I readily gave my assent, and we arranged that I would meet at their house at 5:15 a.m. on Saturday morning, where the bus would pick us up.
And so, dark and early, I hit the empty road on my bike, head ducked to avoid getting wafting snowflakes in my eyes. Imagine blackness all about, the snow-covered town cast in a lurid orange glow from the streetlights, and absolute stillness: I waited for about 5 minutes in this before Helena appeared and our bus arrived. This was my first time meeting her husband, a cheerful fellow who didn’t say much, due largely to the fact that we wouldn’t have been able to understand each other.
Helena is the perfect example of a motherly figure: petite with short auburn hair (most older ladies here seem to prefer shorter ‘dos), warm sparkling eyes, a ready smile, and a British lilt to her English. I imagine she’s in her 50s, as she has 2 grown children. She has been absolutely invaluable to me, and demonstrates a thoughtfulness that makes my mostly lonely life here that much better.
This was our first time to “hang out” outside of work. After mostly sleeping away the 3-hour bus ride, I was grateful to find her a ready interpreter for the interesting bits our tour guide began to recite. Once we disembarked, however, I pulled out my camera and didn’t really pay any more heed to hovering around to catch any further translated bits.
The city, so utterly destroyed in World War II, had been rebuilt pretty magnificently. There was barely a sign there had ever been any devastation, aside from some blackened bricks in reconstructed buildings and still-apparent construction.
The sky mostly retained its gray winter hue, but it was a good deal warmer, just over freezing, so snow was quickly turning to slush and sliding off buildings in heavy sprays that warranted caution. Luckily rain was limited to slight showers, and never a drenching downpour.
I do regret that, as we tromped/slushed our way through the Old Town, I didn’t catch much more info from our tour guide. I most admired the rebuilt Church of Our Lady, in which had been used thousands of the bricks that had lain in rubble as a war memorial until the early 90’s.
After a refreshing break having a coffee in a beautifully decorated shopping mall (oh, the American nostalgia!), we looked around the biggest Christmas market in town (of which there were many). It definitely put Czech markets in the dust: way more kitschy and original! Instead of having each stall sell the same stuff, each usually had its own unique offerings: wooden toys, ornaments, pottery, candies, etc., etc.. Sure, there was some repeat, but not as much mass-production feel as the Prague market had felt. And each stall was topped with its own unique decorations to indicate what kind of goods were sold there, as in olden days before people could read. And so, despite the light rain, it wasn’t so bad.
We headed back to the church to have a look inside, and ended up huddling in the cold drizzle for about 20 long minutes before we were finally allowed in. It was pretty nice inside…not the nicest, but certainly unique among European churches I’ve visited. Instead of a long rectangular nave leading to the apse, this place was instead circular as I’d seen some American churchs, with extra available seating going upwards in the 2nd and 3rd stories instead.
From here we finally headed to the place I wanted to be, the Dresden art museum. I hadn’t expected much, and was extremely pleasantly surprised to find the selection not only wide, but encompassing such great works as Van Eyck, Raphael, Correggio, Vermeer, and more I can’t remember at the moment.
Without a doubt, Christmas is the best, most wonderful, awesomest time of year for me. This, however, is my first holiday season spent “alone”, unable to really share the cheer of the season with my friends/family.
I realized that I wasn’t really feeling the normal Christmas spirit, then I realized, hur-dur, my favorite of all the parts of the holiday season has been skipped this year. No buying of presents, no distributing of Secret Santa/White Elephant gifts. Ah, well. I still tried to bring myself some extra cheer with baking and watching my favorite holiday movies. In fact, this was my first year to ever see the entirety of “It’s a Wonderful Life.” I had never realized how little of it I had actually seen. The cheer! The humor! The wildness of Jimmy Stewart in a passion! Good stuff.
This week at school will be an easy one: I only had 1 class this morning, none tomorrow, 1 or 2 on Wednesday, then FREEDOM! And the stress of travel.
I’ve started to shift into the travel mentality, preparing lists and budgets, printing maps and info, doing a mini-fashion show to decide which will be the best outfits for certain planned occasions.
This is certain to be a legendary Christmas for me, and will WELL make up for the lack of holiday cheer I’ve been feeling.
On Thursday (Dec. 23) I will head to Prague. I plan to do a little bit of shopping to see if I can’t find my Christmas-pal a little something to open…perhaps some Czech plum brandy, or something else small and easily consumed. Justine, my new Korean-Aussie friend, is about halfway through her year-long backpacking tour of the world, and it wouldn’t do to weigh her down with more stuff!
As a side note, we met at the end of October during my fall break adventure. I was lucky enough to catch her in our hostel room when I checked in at the small, beautiful town of Český Krumlov (pron. Chess-kee Kroom-lov), and after the usual amiable introductions, we arranged to meet for dinner that evening. After that we spent pretty much the remainder of my vacation, 3 days, in each other’s company. The likeness of our rather laid-back personalities is what really clinched it, as we were both perfectly content to wander, chat, and just in general chill. By the end of this, it was settled that I would join her in London to share our solo Christmas plans, and we have been keeping up an email correspondence as she continues her adventures, and I continue to settle in here.
So. Friday morning 6 a.m. my flight will (hopefully!) leave the airport, and I with it, to land in London at about 8 a.m.. From here I must find my way to my hostel, do a bit of a wander, and be at the London Eye at 13:00 (1 pm) for my reservation. Expensive, but I’m sure worth it! After which more wandering, until I will go at about 15:00 or so to St. Paul’s Cathedral to queue up for the free Christmas Carol service at 16:00. Justine will (hopefully) meet me there. When that is over I imagine we will head back to the flat where she is staying and make dinner - there are no specific plans, though I’m thinking some Cajun dirty rice, cream corn, and salad will have to be the least of it.
Christmas morning we’ll join again for breakfast (I saved some Kerbey Lane gingerbread pancake mix, huzzah!), and it will be a loooong day of walking as all public transportation will be closed. At 14:00 there is a Charles Dickens-themed walking tour I want to join, then at 17:30 we both splurged beyond what our budgets would allow, and reserved a fancy-schmancy English afternoon tea at a ritzy hotel. Oooooooh I can’t wait!!!
At 8:30 a.m. on Sunday (Dec. 26) I’ll be sadly departing and joyfully arriving in Paris to meet Amy and Jordan on their first-ever European tour…or anywhere outside the States, for that matter. This part is unreal to me: I’m so used to traveling alone abroad, the idea of having the company of people I know is…well, I can’t quite wrap my head around it! Suffice it to say I’m beyond excited to meet them at the airport, where we will begin our whirlwind tour through Paris-Amsterdam-Berlin(for New Years)-Prague in only 8 days!
I’d like to back up a bit and cover the topic of London. Previously, all my thoughts on visiting that city were: “Meh.” I thought, why visit a place where they speak my language, that’s not really exotic enough for me. But now…oh, now, my expectations have been built to an unforeseen pinnacle, from which they must either tumble miserably, or soar grandly. All my mini-obsessing with British TV programmes (hah! Mac spellchecker does not recognize British English spelling), all the books I have read…I am currently most of the way through a 1000-page compilation of Sherlock Holmes stories, and have rewatched so many shows…::deep sigh::, I really truly expect to fall in love with the place and want to go back for more! We’ll see, I suppose.
Until then, I need to head back home and get some more fluids to try and beat this miserable cold that’s trying to bring me down. You shall not! No, you shall not!
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Trouble getting it up.
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I’m a joy to be around lately.
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At least I know myself.
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