No pictures for this leg of the trip unfortunately, as we had only one camera and Paul still has it.
Stayed with my great Aunt Anne (Iain's Mum) in the wops of Surrey for what was supposed to be one day, but turned into two due to trains and accomodation failing us. Aunty Anne was generally lovely and she filled me in about the side of the family that I didn't know much about. Although there was one occasion that frustrated me - when she wondered how women could play rugby, since they wouldn't be nearly as good at it as men:
How could they kick the ball over the goal?
Grrr...feminist rage.
Found a coach to Newcastle for £31.20 - great because the trains would have cost at least £118. Each. It only took two hours longer as well. Grabbed a cab out to a church in Fenham, where we were to meet our new host - one of Mum's friends from work, Helen - and I had one of my first experiences of listening to someone speaking English but not understanding what they were saying due to their accent. Helen is Scottish and she tried to direct me to:
St. James' and St. Basil's Church, Fenham
Which I heard as:
St. James' and St. Bethel's Church, Senham
Not too bad, but still.
We (Paul, Helen, Helen's two girls Holly and Megan, and myself) went out to a section of Hadrian's wall. The weather was appropriately fierce - cold and windy - and naturally I felt quite at home. Wellington, I miss you! We scaled a rocky crag that overlooked a small lake, atop which we cold see right to the horizon on all sides. The wind made the experience all the more exciting - standing atop a cliff with nothing to stop you from falling, and a wind that tries to be doing just that! We visited the remains of a roman fort - which some guys were still digging up. They said we could ask them questions and Holy asked, quite cheerfully, "Found anything yet?" The workers looked at each other, shrugged and said quietly, "Not today." That must be frustrating work.
Went to York on a day trip from Newcastle - home of my father and his family. Paul told me a story about him, that says that he was so much of a Yorkshire man that he refused to wear a red rose in his suit at his wedding to my mum because red roses were the colour of the House of Lancaster during the War of the Roses. He wore a white rose instead.
York is lovely. You can follow the old city walls right around the city. There is a minster dominating the skyline in the centre of the old town, complete with elderly gentleman playing harmonious, gentle music outside. Further on, one finds oneself in "The Shambles", a series of interconnected, winding roads that are still cobbled. They have the typical English sweet shops here too, the kinds with sweets in jars which you buy by weight. The weather is fine, with a crisp breeze and only a bit of cloud, but warm in general. I quite like it here. It is peaceful and perhaps even familiar. I may even pick up a Beano.
I didn't get a Beano, but I did come away with ginger fudge (woot)! The day continued with a viking museum and a trip up to Clifford's Tower. We also had English curry (so good) and home baked fish and chips. Staying with Helen was wonderful and leaving was such a pity. But off to bigger and better things.
Next stop: Scotland!
27 September 2010
20 September 2010
What's Wrong with Rubbish Bins?
Something I've noticed in Europe (this excludes the UK and Italy) that makes no sense:
In takeaway places, e.g. MacDonald's, they do not use rubbish bins. You don't take your tray up to the receptacle, dump your rubbish in the bin and then leave your empty tray on top.
No, here you simply slide your tray, rubbish and all, into a small cart with shelves. When the cart is full of trays it gets taken out the back and emptied.
In theory. What actually happens is the carts fill up too quickly and the mess spills over onto the floor. Then you can't put your own tray into the cart and there is nowhere to put it on top without stacking it awkwardly and running away before the avalanche begins.
It bothers me. It doesn't make sense. They're just making more work for themselves. Also, a "combo" in Europe is called a "menu". Or "menü". Which is like saying "men-eww" in english.
In takeaway places, e.g. MacDonald's, they do not use rubbish bins. You don't take your tray up to the receptacle, dump your rubbish in the bin and then leave your empty tray on top.
No, here you simply slide your tray, rubbish and all, into a small cart with shelves. When the cart is full of trays it gets taken out the back and emptied.
In theory. What actually happens is the carts fill up too quickly and the mess spills over onto the floor. Then you can't put your own tray into the cart and there is nowhere to put it on top without stacking it awkwardly and running away before the avalanche begins.
It bothers me. It doesn't make sense. They're just making more work for themselves. Also, a "combo" in Europe is called a "menu". Or "menü". Which is like saying "men-eww" in english.
19 September 2010
The One in Which I Miss Some Things
In summer, we know that 26 degrees Celsius is a scorcher, but the rest of the season probably won't tip 20.
We drive on the left hand side of the road, with speed limits.
Traffic jams are minimal and temporary.
Beaches. Real ones.
Lolly mixtures.
Everything is the price it says it is - no more converting currency to see how much this is actually going to set you back.
No tipping.
People don't cut in line - people who cut in line annoy the hell out of me.
You can get a quarter pounder again.
Outrageous Fortune is the best show on tv (still not watching it, don't tell me anything).
You can understand the television and the shows aren't being dubbed by the same four guys every time.
Cricket - people know what you're talking about.
You get jokes - and find them funny.
Cafes make proper hot chocolates which don't burn your tongue and they come with marshmallows.
You can walk through the city centre without people trying to sell you crap or steal from you.
John Key is a spazz, but at least you're home in time to get rid of him.
John Campbell's thinly veiled dislike of John Key.
Everyone knows where you are geographically. Not in the British Isles, not in the Caribbean and not in tropical Polynesia.
Public transport is terrible, expensive and unforgivable but your mum will drive you places for free.
Your house is warm and rent free - and if it isn't, then just remember that Wellington is way cooler than Auckland.
In-jokes.
Slang.
Less risk of imminent death by bicycles.
Less people = more room.
Colourful houses.
Normal keyboards, where the 'Z' and the 'Y' haven't swapped places and there aren't a whole lot of extra things on the side.
Sushi.
Indian food.
Proper sunsets - none of this instantaneous darkness rubbish.
Friendly strangers.
We drive on the left hand side of the road, with speed limits.
Traffic jams are minimal and temporary.
Beaches. Real ones.
Lolly mixtures.
Everything is the price it says it is - no more converting currency to see how much this is actually going to set you back.
No tipping.
People don't cut in line - people who cut in line annoy the hell out of me.
You can get a quarter pounder again.
Outrageous Fortune is the best show on tv (still not watching it, don't tell me anything).
You can understand the television and the shows aren't being dubbed by the same four guys every time.
Cricket - people know what you're talking about.
You get jokes - and find them funny.
Cafes make proper hot chocolates which don't burn your tongue and they come with marshmallows.
You can walk through the city centre without people trying to sell you crap or steal from you.
John Key is a spazz, but at least you're home in time to get rid of him.
John Campbell's thinly veiled dislike of John Key.
Everyone knows where you are geographically. Not in the British Isles, not in the Caribbean and not in tropical Polynesia.
Public transport is terrible, expensive and unforgivable but your mum will drive you places for free.
Your house is warm and rent free - and if it isn't, then just remember that Wellington is way cooler than Auckland.
In-jokes.
Slang.
Less risk of imminent death by bicycles.
Less people = more room.
Colourful houses.
Normal keyboards, where the 'Z' and the 'Y' haven't swapped places and there aren't a whole lot of extra things on the side.
Sushi.
Indian food.
Proper sunsets - none of this instantaneous darkness rubbish.
Friendly strangers.
In Which I go to Meet Someone who I only Know Vaguely and then Proceed to Get Drunk with Her.
I took an excursion to Bamberg - I imagine you have all seen the photos already, if not follow the link in the title.
It is the home of Rauchbier - a dark malty beer that tastes like bacon. No but really, it tastes like smoked meat. I am told by a certain knowledgeable someone that Bamberg is the original home of rauchbier, though I am yet to find anywhere selling it. I must look strange, walking into supermarkets, heading directly towards the beer section (which is always immense), looking around, looking confused and then leaving again. I'm sure somebody somewhere wants to teach me how to shop. Probably Tops.
There's a huge festival happening tonight so I appear to have arrived at the best time. My host used to teach at one of the schools that Paul taught at, and I have met her all of once. For about five minutes. In the supermarket. And then I was supposed to meet her at the train station. Surprisingly though, this wasn't that hard. Perhaps because Germany isn't that full of blondes as it was back in the forties.
Important interjection - asians speaking German is weird.
Moving right along, Bamberg lacks for shade. It's bloody hot and I could really do with a tall tree to lie under. And yet, and yet, and yet...
I devoured some watermelon I bought from a street market. It was bigger than my head but I figured I could pretty soon make it smaller. I must have looked rabid, plunging my face into this piece of watermelon, in the middle of a grassy patch all by myself. Om nom nom!
I love buying food in Germany when at festivals. Their idea of good food is fried onions shaped like a rose with garlic sauce on top (and hopefully a mint or two on the side) or meat in bread. You can get any kind of meat in bread. Most common are sausages or steaks, but you can have an entire chicken breast if you want. Or tongue, still shaped like tongue. Or meatballs which refuse to stay in the bread. You can always tell how drunk someone is when they order these by the amount that remains in the bread when they go to take a bite. I saw someone begin with five and end up with none before he even had a bite. At which point his beer was going to be particularly meat-flavoured.
And the Germans being Germans, you can also buy bratwurst that has been marinated in.....
BEER!
I had a pretty good time out with Yvonne (my host) and her friends - more fun than I thought I'd have. Speaking a foreign language whilst intoxicated is always best because grammar can go out the window and you only worry about getting the words out. They'll figure it out and if they don't, then we can all put it down to the beer. I didn't throw up, though Yvonne placed a bucket insultingly in front of the couch upon which I was sleeping.
Aside from Rauchbier and drinking, Bamberg seems kinda boring. I've wandered around the entire place already and it's hot and I'm bored, but my train doesn't leave for ages. So I'm writing. I'm composing a list of things that I miss (to follow).
It is the home of Rauchbier - a dark malty beer that tastes like bacon. No but really, it tastes like smoked meat. I am told by a certain knowledgeable someone that Bamberg is the original home of rauchbier, though I am yet to find anywhere selling it. I must look strange, walking into supermarkets, heading directly towards the beer section (which is always immense), looking around, looking confused and then leaving again. I'm sure somebody somewhere wants to teach me how to shop. Probably Tops.
There's a huge festival happening tonight so I appear to have arrived at the best time. My host used to teach at one of the schools that Paul taught at, and I have met her all of once. For about five minutes. In the supermarket. And then I was supposed to meet her at the train station. Surprisingly though, this wasn't that hard. Perhaps because Germany isn't that full of blondes as it was back in the forties.
Important interjection - asians speaking German is weird.
Moving right along, Bamberg lacks for shade. It's bloody hot and I could really do with a tall tree to lie under. And yet, and yet, and yet...
I devoured some watermelon I bought from a street market. It was bigger than my head but I figured I could pretty soon make it smaller. I must have looked rabid, plunging my face into this piece of watermelon, in the middle of a grassy patch all by myself. Om nom nom!
I love buying food in Germany when at festivals. Their idea of good food is fried onions shaped like a rose with garlic sauce on top (and hopefully a mint or two on the side) or meat in bread. You can get any kind of meat in bread. Most common are sausages or steaks, but you can have an entire chicken breast if you want. Or tongue, still shaped like tongue. Or meatballs which refuse to stay in the bread. You can always tell how drunk someone is when they order these by the amount that remains in the bread when they go to take a bite. I saw someone begin with five and end up with none before he even had a bite. At which point his beer was going to be particularly meat-flavoured.
And the Germans being Germans, you can also buy bratwurst that has been marinated in.....
BEER!
I had a pretty good time out with Yvonne (my host) and her friends - more fun than I thought I'd have. Speaking a foreign language whilst intoxicated is always best because grammar can go out the window and you only worry about getting the words out. They'll figure it out and if they don't, then we can all put it down to the beer. I didn't throw up, though Yvonne placed a bucket insultingly in front of the couch upon which I was sleeping.
Aside from Rauchbier and drinking, Bamberg seems kinda boring. I've wandered around the entire place already and it's hot and I'm bored, but my train doesn't leave for ages. So I'm writing. I'm composing a list of things that I miss (to follow).
In Which I Arrive Somewhere and Regret it Immediately
SO we’ve arrived in Milan. I can’t believe that students can live here – everything is so expensive. One of the “tourist traps” near the Duomo wants to charge customers 5 Euros for a 330ml can of Coke. That’s about $10 NZ!
At dinner, my cutlery came in a plastic bag, like the kind you get on aeroplanes. Strange. They were metal utensils as well, so they’d still have to be cleaned. Not helping the environment.
On the train to Florence, Paul and I were sitting by the door as we didn’t have seats. We were sharing the space with one of the train conductors and a female passenger. The conductor asked where we were from and (in a mixture of English and Italian) we said New Zealand, and that it is near Australia. The conductor nodded but the woman looked confused. He repeated that it was near Australia and she said, “Ah, Australia. Kangarini!” She mimed boxing as she said it. Paul’s obsessed with the word.
Everything on this trip has scaffolding on it. Everything.
In the big famous shopping centre beside the cathedral, there is a Prada and a Louis Vuitton right next door to each other. This place is obviously for the upper class, not the riff raff. So what’s next door to Louis Vuitton? MacDonald’s. Real class.
And then we were leaving Milan - with help from the good people at Deutsche Bahn. You can always trust the Germans to be good with trains - no wonder Hitler said that the Japanese were fellows way back when. They're both freakishly efficient, albeit the Germans could learn from the Japanese politeness.
At dinner, my cutlery came in a plastic bag, like the kind you get on aeroplanes. Strange. They were metal utensils as well, so they’d still have to be cleaned. Not helping the environment.
On the train to Florence, Paul and I were sitting by the door as we didn’t have seats. We were sharing the space with one of the train conductors and a female passenger. The conductor asked where we were from and (in a mixture of English and Italian) we said New Zealand, and that it is near Australia. The conductor nodded but the woman looked confused. He repeated that it was near Australia and she said, “Ah, Australia. Kangarini!” She mimed boxing as she said it. Paul’s obsessed with the word.
Everything on this trip has scaffolding on it. Everything.
In the big famous shopping centre beside the cathedral, there is a Prada and a Louis Vuitton right next door to each other. This place is obviously for the upper class, not the riff raff. So what’s next door to Louis Vuitton? MacDonald’s. Real class.
And then we were leaving Milan - with help from the good people at Deutsche Bahn. You can always trust the Germans to be good with trains - no wonder Hitler said that the Japanese were fellows way back when. They're both freakishly efficient, albeit the Germans could learn from the Japanese politeness.
16 September 2010
Naples, You Dirty Beast.
Oh Naples, if you didn't have Pompeii, I so wouldn't be here. You are dirty, noisy, rude and dangerous. And you have pre-packaged toast.
Though you sure do have good pizza. Paul and I went out with some hostel friends (Blake the American, Toby the Australian, Daisy and Claire the Brits, and Martin (?) the Argentinian). We went in search of this pizza place, which is apparently the best pizza in Naples. We got a little lost, so we asked directions from a man who turned out to be the godfather, or close to. He had the voice, the smart clothes, the hand gestures, and he even did the kissing thing with his hand (you know the one). He told us to go somewhere else, somewhere called Il Presidente. So we did. It was cheap, 3 or 4 Euros a pizza, and very good. The wine too was quite nice. The company was excellent, lots of talking and laughing - instant camaraderie. Limoncello finished the meal.
We wandered down to the waterfront, stepping over the KO-ed dogs in the middle of the street and the cats that live under the rocks by the sea. There was a festival thing on, with live Christian rock. Woo. The Argentinian shot fluffy animals with a BB gun and gave me a kangaroo-chihuahua thing, who unfortunately remains in Naples. Moseyed back to our hostel around 1am and it was still 27 degrees Celsius. Cripes.
Pompeii was cool and a lot larger than I had imagined. The brothel was cool, especially the little pictures on the walls about offered services. We walked past a guide, fervently advising the children to check ot the beds (not the walls, don't look up) and called it the home of the oldest profession in the world. We walked around for five and a half hours and still had some to see.
Sweltering. Mid thirties to forty degrees Celsius (95 - 104 Fahrenheit) all day. After a while, it's just too hot. I wanted to keeping exploring and appreciating things, but it was too hot to do so. I was just melting. My sweat could have rehydrated the Sahara. Back to Naples for beers with hostel friends.
Couldn't find a ride/plane/train out of Naples for less than 170 Euros. Screw it. We'll make it up as we go - Gods know it's hot enough to sleep outside.
Though you sure do have good pizza. Paul and I went out with some hostel friends (Blake the American, Toby the Australian, Daisy and Claire the Brits, and Martin (?) the Argentinian). We went in search of this pizza place, which is apparently the best pizza in Naples. We got a little lost, so we asked directions from a man who turned out to be the godfather, or close to. He had the voice, the smart clothes, the hand gestures, and he even did the kissing thing with his hand (you know the one). He told us to go somewhere else, somewhere called Il Presidente. So we did. It was cheap, 3 or 4 Euros a pizza, and very good. The wine too was quite nice. The company was excellent, lots of talking and laughing - instant camaraderie. Limoncello finished the meal.
We wandered down to the waterfront, stepping over the KO-ed dogs in the middle of the street and the cats that live under the rocks by the sea. There was a festival thing on, with live Christian rock. Woo. The Argentinian shot fluffy animals with a BB gun and gave me a kangaroo-chihuahua thing, who unfortunately remains in Naples. Moseyed back to our hostel around 1am and it was still 27 degrees Celsius. Cripes.
Pompeii was cool and a lot larger than I had imagined. The brothel was cool, especially the little pictures on the walls about offered services. We walked past a guide, fervently advising the children to check ot the beds (not the walls, don't look up) and called it the home of the oldest profession in the world. We walked around for five and a half hours and still had some to see.
Sweltering. Mid thirties to forty degrees Celsius (95 - 104 Fahrenheit) all day. After a while, it's just too hot. I wanted to keeping exploring and appreciating things, but it was too hot to do so. I was just melting. My sweat could have rehydrated the Sahara. Back to Naples for beers with hostel friends.
Couldn't find a ride/plane/train out of Naples for less than 170 Euros. Screw it. We'll make it up as we go - Gods know it's hot enough to sleep outside.
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