My last two days in Reykjavik involved drinking way too much beer (trying to keep up with Frenchmen), finding a whole brand new still sealed 1 litre bottle of vodka in my room (nobody knew where it came from so it´s mine now! that´s worth about 70 bucks in iceland), and not sleeping at all the last night.
I also got to sample the delights of the Nordica Hotel, courtesy of Monique, which after the Salvation Army dive was like nirvana....spas and massages and big clean bathrooms.
Then Monique and I flew to Copenhagen and into yet another fabulous hotel, the Hotel Skt. Petri which has the BEST beds and extra-nabbable products. Monique was here for about five days during which we changed hotels a couple times (including the D'Angleterre which has a sort of faded grandeur thing going on), drank a lot of beer, were treated to Mexican food by some random guys (just when I was craving Mexican too), did a tour of various castles, walked past Pink on the street (I swear it was her, she was playing a show here that night) and saw Sweden. We didn´t go to Sweden but we saw it from across the water at the castle at Helsingør (aka Shakespeare´s Elsinore from Hamlet).
Now she's gone and I'm back at a youth hostel where I belong...sleeping in and walking around this gorgeous city and buying hot new Camper boots because my running shoes were so busted they were making one of my toes go numb. It would be stupid to let one of my toes fall off just for the sake of economy.
Copenhagen is not really what I expected...I am not sure what I expected but it's much more beautiful; filled with spires and canals and bridges.
I have to say I am not as enamored of Christiania as I had thought I would be. I went there twice - once in the evening with Monique and once during the day by myself. In the evening it was fine and we hung out and had a beer and wandered around. That is it was fine till it got dark. We were mostly on and around Pusher Street where there were no streetlights and a lot of dudes hanging around fires in barrels. At one point we just both looked at each other and said "I think we should leave now."
I went back a few days later in the middle of the afternoon. Again I was mostly on Pusher Street so maybe other areas are less creepy but I have a serious problem with any place that has a 30:1 male to female ratio. I especially hate looking around and realizing I am the only female person in eyeshot. There was a big squad of police roaming around but that really didn't help the atmosphere. Lots of dogs too. Big aggressive dogs off leash.
I don´t know - maybe if I knew my way around a bit more I would like the place better, but it all just felt really furtive and sad, for all the bright paintings and murals. It's no Kensington Market.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Sunday, October 22, 2006
"oh my god. oh my god!"
that is what you would have heard me screaming last night (this morning?) at approx 2:30 when I ran into Monique, my roomate from french school in Villefranche, in the middle of Laugavegar street in Reykjavik. I had no idea she was there, she had no idea I was there, yet there we were. I had already found and been separated from several groups of "instant friends" that night so why not one more? So off we went to some extra swank bar (a far cry from the dives I have been frequenting of late!) till about 3:30 and then Monique and co. went to bed and Jose (another instant hostel friend) and I went off and found some other friends in the lineup for a much smaller sweatier dingier place. Dancing till 6 a.m. - it's even crazier than Barcelona!
Even more amazing - we're on the same flight Tuesday morning to Copenhagen and since Monique is there for work, I get to crash in a sweet sweet hotel room and tag along as she investigates the best food, clubs, and activites that Copenhagen has to offer. I have a lot to learn from this woman.
Airwaves has been freaking incredible...I've seen 30 shows in 4 days and there are a few more tonight yet..including Patrick Watson who is playing his ass off at this festival. Highlights were We Are Scientists, Datarock, The Whitest Boy Alive, Islands (I only saw their in-store performance and decided to see another band, 120 Days instead of their full show at the Art Museum...a decision I have come to regret since even though 120 Days was pretty good, I suspect that Islands show was transcendental. It was later described to me as "the best thing I have ever seen in my life". damn), Brazilian Girls...the list goes on and on and on.
God I've missed music.
Even more amazing - we're on the same flight Tuesday morning to Copenhagen and since Monique is there for work, I get to crash in a sweet sweet hotel room and tag along as she investigates the best food, clubs, and activites that Copenhagen has to offer. I have a lot to learn from this woman.
Airwaves has been freaking incredible...I've seen 30 shows in 4 days and there are a few more tonight yet..including Patrick Watson who is playing his ass off at this festival. Highlights were We Are Scientists, Datarock, The Whitest Boy Alive, Islands (I only saw their in-store performance and decided to see another band, 120 Days instead of their full show at the Art Museum...a decision I have come to regret since even though 120 Days was pretty good, I suspect that Islands show was transcendental. It was later described to me as "the best thing I have ever seen in my life". damn), Brazilian Girls...the list goes on and on and on.
God I've missed music.
Monday, October 09, 2006
James and Robyn, this is for you.
In honour of Robyn's upcoming birthday (and for James just because he mentioned it earlier)...I ate it. I ate Hakarl.
I ate putrid rotting shark meat. Actually it wasn't as bad as I had feared. Although it was pretty damn bad.
Evidence, and dozens of newly uploaded Iceland photos, can be found here on Flickr.
I ate putrid rotting shark meat. Actually it wasn't as bad as I had feared. Although it was pretty damn bad.
Evidence, and dozens of newly uploaded Iceland photos, can be found here on Flickr.
rock in reykjavik
i don't think I have seen a real concert since I left home (aside from some dubious performances in Barcelona...), so it´s pretty exciting that I will be attending this:
Iceland Airwaves from Oct 18 to 22nd. Well, exciting for me anyway.
This means I get a week or so to relax and chill and then about 5 days of unapologetic rocking out, $10 beers be damned.
I have been taking a rather 'what happens in iceland, stays in iceland' approach to food and vegetarianism. sort of like my previous 'what happens in france/spain/morocco...' experiences. I'm pleased to report that Icelandic hot dogs are freaking delicious. Apparently they are made with lamb.
They are even better when rolled in bacon, deep fried, and then covered in cheese and crispy fried onions.
Iceland Airwaves from Oct 18 to 22nd. Well, exciting for me anyway.
This means I get a week or so to relax and chill and then about 5 days of unapologetic rocking out, $10 beers be damned.
I have been taking a rather 'what happens in iceland, stays in iceland' approach to food and vegetarianism. sort of like my previous 'what happens in france/spain/morocco...' experiences. I'm pleased to report that Icelandic hot dogs are freaking delicious. Apparently they are made with lamb.
They are even better when rolled in bacon, deep fried, and then covered in cheese and crispy fried onions.
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
iceland: fog, skyr, and amorous horses
we have been driving around iceland for about 11 days...for six of them there was no sunlight at all, only fog. also, a horse tried to have sex with our car (while three others tried to eat the paint off it).
we left Reykjavik on Friday with our little green car, Thor (or þor, if you want to get technical about it) and started around the island clockwise.
Two days on the Snaefellsnes peninsula (home to the access point for the centre of the earth - read Jules Verne if you don´t believe me), then up through the Vatsnes peninsula and over to Sauðarkrokur, home of slightly creepy men, excellent farmstays well out of town and away from the crepy men, and exceptional librarians. When I logged in and found some information about my great-grandparents in an email from home, along with the name of the wife of a distant relative who lives nearby, the librarians got in gear, calling up people in the phone book ("we're not going to give up until we have his phone number!" she said to me), looking at the list of farms where my great and great-great grandparents were born and telling me which ones are abandoned, which are now inhabited by people she knows...apparently one, where my great-grandmother's mother was born, is now abandoned but was a location used in filming ain Icelandic crime movie last year, Kalda Sloð.
Then she called the Emigration Centre is Hofsos (Hot Sauce!) and got the guy to open up for us even though it is closed for the season.
He was nice and let us in for free even, looked through the database and told me that I could probably knock on doors throughout the country and announce myself as a relation. He even called a guy he knows, who is my...i don´t know, like eighth cousin 3 times removed...and jokingly told him that we were showing up on his doorstep to stay for a couple of weeks. Unfortunatly he lived in the opposite direction of the one we were going in and we didn´t have time to see him or the relations in Varmahlið either.
We spent a day in Akureyri and then two in Reykjalið at Lake Myvatn where we did driving lessons on top of volcanos, watched pools of boiling mud, and swam outside in a hot pool at night.
On the way to Kopasker we stopped in Husavik which we soon discovered is the new-ish home of the Icelandic Phallological Museum - actually it´s been there for a couple of years but our guide book is old. If you're on the verge of looking Phallological up in the dictionary, don't bother...yes it is indeed a Penis Museum.
The museum was closed for the season but as we could hear someone in the basement we knocked on the window and hoped for the best ("willy answer the door?" - credit has to go to Jessica for that one).
He let us in and we took in the sight of dozens of animal penises - whales (enormous and terrifying) to mice (hee!). Also displayed with pride and anticipation are agreements from four men who will donate their genitals to the museum upon passing (and possibly even before in one case!). Each contract is displayed alongside images and artifacts relating to the member in question, these range from photos to plaster casts to silicone. The silcone is ELMO, who is quite a specimen indeed. I took a photo (which I will not display here) and it makes us giggle every time we see it, like two old ladies at a Chippendales show. Apparently if you go to the right sort of store you can buy your very own silicone Elmo, he´s that famous.
Amusingly the Husavik church sports an extremely penis-like doorknob, however we were unable to determine whether the two institutions were in collaboration on that one.
We went to an amazing enormous horseshoe shaped canyon called Asbyrgi (legend has it that this is where Odin's horse accidentally touched ground once) and were the only people there, wandering around this gorgeous silent place filled with trees in full autumn colour. Legend also has it that this is a haven of the Hidden People as well but they were, well, hidden to us.
Beautiful waterfalls (the biggest have names like Dettifoss and Sellfoss and Hafragilsfoss...can you guess what FOSS means?) but we drive past dozens of smaller and maybe even more beautiful waterfalls every day, just spilling down over the mountains behind farms and in the middle of nowhere.
We drove around the northernmost point of Iceland, a couple of km from the arctic circle, went to the visitor's centre for an enormous dam that is being built and has just started to be filled a couple of days ago (there have been lots of ongoing protests but it looks like there's no going back now) - we couldn't get in to see the dam itself though as it's on a 4x4 track and our insurance won't cover it. All the good stuff is on 4x4 tracks. I must come back here in the summer time.
On the shores of the apparently monster infested Lögurinn lake we visited Iceland's cute little 'forest'...actually it´s quite nice. Nestled within is Iceland's oldest tree. It has been named GUTTORMSLUNDER. It was planted in.... 1938. It is about 20m high and when I saw it I accidentally yelled "you mean that's it?". Sorry Guttormslunder...
In Stöðvarfjördur we spent the night in the cutest little converted church imaginable, what a great place to stay. Visited one of the world's largest mineral collections and bought some shiny rocks to carry around with us.
Last night we stayed in Höfn and spent about 3 hours swimming outside again in the heated pool. Towns in Canada should do this too - even when it's 3 degrees outside, as long as the pool is warm it is very comfortable.
We have finally reached glacier country, I don´t know if we will actually go onto it today but we can see it which is pretty cool. This is the third biggest icecap in the world after Antarctica and Greenland.
Okay, I know, what you really want to know about is Þor and the horses right?
We stopped at the edge of a field one day to take some photos of some beautiful Icelandic Horses, not noticing that they were not fenced in...we rolled down the windows and the horses came right over and soon our car was surrounded - they must be used to tourists with free food.
Unfortunately we didn´t have any food so since the windows were still down the horses started trying to get IN the car. Then we noticed that all the horses were licking the windows and the trunk, a couple at the front were gnawing on the headlights, and one resourceful filly had located the rear door handle and was rubbing her backside against it. And she wasn´t scratching anything, folks. It took several beeps of the horn and finally just starting to move the car slowly to get free. We still haven´t washed the car and you can see horse tongue marks all over it.
Poor Þor, we haven´t been treating him that well...driving over a road that was only about halfway constructed we started to notice a scraping sound coming from the right wheel well. We had to stop at the nearest mechanics shop where Gunnar extracted a tiny stone and identified the source of our troubles.
We christened the stone Elmo.
It's strange but a lot of the people we've been meeting remind me a little of Grandpa - quiet men who have his voice and way of speaking. It makes me miss him and I wish I could send him a postcard and a bucket of fresh Skyr.
photos have been uploaded to flickr. see here for scotland photos. it´s too expensive right now to get the iceland ones posted.
we left Reykjavik on Friday with our little green car, Thor (or þor, if you want to get technical about it) and started around the island clockwise.
Two days on the Snaefellsnes peninsula (home to the access point for the centre of the earth - read Jules Verne if you don´t believe me), then up through the Vatsnes peninsula and over to Sauðarkrokur, home of slightly creepy men, excellent farmstays well out of town and away from the crepy men, and exceptional librarians. When I logged in and found some information about my great-grandparents in an email from home, along with the name of the wife of a distant relative who lives nearby, the librarians got in gear, calling up people in the phone book ("we're not going to give up until we have his phone number!" she said to me), looking at the list of farms where my great and great-great grandparents were born and telling me which ones are abandoned, which are now inhabited by people she knows...apparently one, where my great-grandmother's mother was born, is now abandoned but was a location used in filming ain Icelandic crime movie last year, Kalda Sloð.
Then she called the Emigration Centre is Hofsos (Hot Sauce!) and got the guy to open up for us even though it is closed for the season.
He was nice and let us in for free even, looked through the database and told me that I could probably knock on doors throughout the country and announce myself as a relation. He even called a guy he knows, who is my...i don´t know, like eighth cousin 3 times removed...and jokingly told him that we were showing up on his doorstep to stay for a couple of weeks. Unfortunatly he lived in the opposite direction of the one we were going in and we didn´t have time to see him or the relations in Varmahlið either.
We spent a day in Akureyri and then two in Reykjalið at Lake Myvatn where we did driving lessons on top of volcanos, watched pools of boiling mud, and swam outside in a hot pool at night.
On the way to Kopasker we stopped in Husavik which we soon discovered is the new-ish home of the Icelandic Phallological Museum - actually it´s been there for a couple of years but our guide book is old. If you're on the verge of looking Phallological up in the dictionary, don't bother...yes it is indeed a Penis Museum.
The museum was closed for the season but as we could hear someone in the basement we knocked on the window and hoped for the best ("willy answer the door?" - credit has to go to Jessica for that one).
He let us in and we took in the sight of dozens of animal penises - whales (enormous and terrifying) to mice (hee!). Also displayed with pride and anticipation are agreements from four men who will donate their genitals to the museum upon passing (and possibly even before in one case!). Each contract is displayed alongside images and artifacts relating to the member in question, these range from photos to plaster casts to silicone. The silcone is ELMO, who is quite a specimen indeed. I took a photo (which I will not display here) and it makes us giggle every time we see it, like two old ladies at a Chippendales show. Apparently if you go to the right sort of store you can buy your very own silicone Elmo, he´s that famous.
Amusingly the Husavik church sports an extremely penis-like doorknob, however we were unable to determine whether the two institutions were in collaboration on that one.
We went to an amazing enormous horseshoe shaped canyon called Asbyrgi (legend has it that this is where Odin's horse accidentally touched ground once) and were the only people there, wandering around this gorgeous silent place filled with trees in full autumn colour. Legend also has it that this is a haven of the Hidden People as well but they were, well, hidden to us.
Beautiful waterfalls (the biggest have names like Dettifoss and Sellfoss and Hafragilsfoss...can you guess what FOSS means?) but we drive past dozens of smaller and maybe even more beautiful waterfalls every day, just spilling down over the mountains behind farms and in the middle of nowhere.
We drove around the northernmost point of Iceland, a couple of km from the arctic circle, went to the visitor's centre for an enormous dam that is being built and has just started to be filled a couple of days ago (there have been lots of ongoing protests but it looks like there's no going back now) - we couldn't get in to see the dam itself though as it's on a 4x4 track and our insurance won't cover it. All the good stuff is on 4x4 tracks. I must come back here in the summer time.
On the shores of the apparently monster infested Lögurinn lake we visited Iceland's cute little 'forest'...actually it´s quite nice. Nestled within is Iceland's oldest tree. It has been named GUTTORMSLUNDER. It was planted in.... 1938. It is about 20m high and when I saw it I accidentally yelled "you mean that's it?". Sorry Guttormslunder...
In Stöðvarfjördur we spent the night in the cutest little converted church imaginable, what a great place to stay. Visited one of the world's largest mineral collections and bought some shiny rocks to carry around with us.
Last night we stayed in Höfn and spent about 3 hours swimming outside again in the heated pool. Towns in Canada should do this too - even when it's 3 degrees outside, as long as the pool is warm it is very comfortable.
We have finally reached glacier country, I don´t know if we will actually go onto it today but we can see it which is pretty cool. This is the third biggest icecap in the world after Antarctica and Greenland.
Okay, I know, what you really want to know about is Þor and the horses right?
We stopped at the edge of a field one day to take some photos of some beautiful Icelandic Horses, not noticing that they were not fenced in...we rolled down the windows and the horses came right over and soon our car was surrounded - they must be used to tourists with free food.
Unfortunately we didn´t have any food so since the windows were still down the horses started trying to get IN the car. Then we noticed that all the horses were licking the windows and the trunk, a couple at the front were gnawing on the headlights, and one resourceful filly had located the rear door handle and was rubbing her backside against it. And she wasn´t scratching anything, folks. It took several beeps of the horn and finally just starting to move the car slowly to get free. We still haven´t washed the car and you can see horse tongue marks all over it.
Poor Þor, we haven´t been treating him that well...driving over a road that was only about halfway constructed we started to notice a scraping sound coming from the right wheel well. We had to stop at the nearest mechanics shop where Gunnar extracted a tiny stone and identified the source of our troubles.
We christened the stone Elmo.
It's strange but a lot of the people we've been meeting remind me a little of Grandpa - quiet men who have his voice and way of speaking. It makes me miss him and I wish I could send him a postcard and a bucket of fresh Skyr.
photos have been uploaded to flickr. see here for scotland photos. it´s too expensive right now to get the iceland ones posted.
Saturday, September 30, 2006
congratulations!
so it took some clever sleuthing but I can finally say
congratulations neena and chad!
send me a picture! i want to see this beautiful new addition to the world.
love
a
congratulations neena and chad!
send me a picture! i want to see this beautiful new addition to the world.
love
a
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
london love
ahhhh...i am so rejuvenated.
Shabnam (from the famous Spain road trip adventure) just happens to be in London right now so when I arrived I found an email inviting me to come and hang out and stay at her cousin's place. just fabulous, after 6 weeks or so of wandering around it was so great to see someone I know and eat a delicious and incredibly well presented home cooked meal with warm and wonderful and welcoming people. thanks nanaz and eric and raphaelle!
plus Shabby and I have been going through some of the same things lately and it was really good to be able to talk to someone I can relate to on this. I feel much better now.
so we hung out for a couple of days and just wandered the city, slept late, had long discussions over beers in pubs, and then I got on a train and came out to Stowmarket to spend the day with Jane and her family. Also wonderful and warm and welcoming (her dad printed me out a map of Iceland!).
There are some strange things swirling around like how I was magically presented with 10 pounds by an Underground ticket machine (I tried to yell for the guy whose change it was to come back but he didn't hear so I just gave it to an attendant), and then how I missed my train today and had to sneak onto the next train which technically I wasn't allowed to be on with my 'cheap' ticket, but the ticket guy didn't even say a word, like how I accidentally came away from the chocolate shop with two bonus bags of chocolates instead of one...
Iceland is going to be expensive and the conversion from ISK to $ is going to be a tough one to do in my head (63 to 1) so I guess what it means is that I should just not bother with conversions at all.
Tomorrow Jane will drive me to the airport and then I'm off to (one of) the ancestral homeland. Jessica whom I met in Inverness might be renting a car so our tentative plan is to drive around the country.
Shabnam (from the famous Spain road trip adventure) just happens to be in London right now so when I arrived I found an email inviting me to come and hang out and stay at her cousin's place. just fabulous, after 6 weeks or so of wandering around it was so great to see someone I know and eat a delicious and incredibly well presented home cooked meal with warm and wonderful and welcoming people. thanks nanaz and eric and raphaelle!
plus Shabby and I have been going through some of the same things lately and it was really good to be able to talk to someone I can relate to on this. I feel much better now.
so we hung out for a couple of days and just wandered the city, slept late, had long discussions over beers in pubs, and then I got on a train and came out to Stowmarket to spend the day with Jane and her family. Also wonderful and warm and welcoming (her dad printed me out a map of Iceland!).
There are some strange things swirling around like how I was magically presented with 10 pounds by an Underground ticket machine (I tried to yell for the guy whose change it was to come back but he didn't hear so I just gave it to an attendant), and then how I missed my train today and had to sneak onto the next train which technically I wasn't allowed to be on with my 'cheap' ticket, but the ticket guy didn't even say a word, like how I accidentally came away from the chocolate shop with two bonus bags of chocolates instead of one...
Iceland is going to be expensive and the conversion from ISK to $ is going to be a tough one to do in my head (63 to 1) so I guess what it means is that I should just not bother with conversions at all.
Tomorrow Jane will drive me to the airport and then I'm off to (one of) the ancestral homeland. Jessica whom I met in Inverness might be renting a car so our tentative plan is to drive around the country.
Sunday, September 17, 2006
ouch (body and bank account)
Manchester is all a blur, as my night out with Joey involved several gin and tonics too many and the next day was spent on the hostel couch trying not to move. As a consequence I know nothing about Manchester other than where all the good gay bars are.
We were sitting in one place when we were approached by drunk Mancunian Martin.
"What's your name?"
"Maaaaaaa!"
"What?"
"Maaaaaaaa aaah!"
"What is he saying?"
"It's Maaarhaaan!"
It was sort of entertaining trying to figure out what he was saying all night. But not really.
Bizarrely I get hit on more (by men) at gay clubs than at ostensibly straight ones. I suppose it helps to be one of the only straight females in the place.
Then I came to Bath which I love, it's beautiful and loaded with things to do. Everything is very expensive. The Roman Baths are interesting and of course I had to have the traditional tea at the Pump Room, it's the aging bookish spinsterly thing to do. Pricey but tasty (clotted cream! Where have you been all my life!?!?), I couldn't eat again for the rest of the day. I also drank the water (the natural mineral hot spring water) which is served up by a strange man in period livery. He was impressed that I drank the whole glass, apparently nobody ever gets through it all. It is pretty vile but there are something like 43 minerals in that water. In retrospect it tasted a little like Leslie tap water.
Unfortunately I cannot recommend the Jane Austen Centre which doesn't have a lot going on other than an "exclusive" video featuring Amanda Root (from the movie version of Persuasion), which features Ms. Root wandering pensively around the Assembly Rooms. Because I'm a nerd I already knew everything they were talking about and at 6 quid to get in, it's too much.
Yesterday I did a tour of Stonehenge/Avebury/Silbury Hill/Lacock (where some Harry Potter and new Pride and Prejudice stuff was apparently filmed)/Castle Combe. I've never done a day tour like that before (a horror of those enormous coaches that pull up and disgorge a wave of tourists at the 'attractions') however this one was really good and I saw much more than I would have on my own in my limited time. It was a Mad Max tour if anyone is looking for something similar, only 16 people in the van too so you feel like less of a jerk.
At Avebury our guide Keith handed out a couple sets of dowsing rods, as Avebury seems to lie on a 'ley line' (invisible energy line). I was the recipient of the first set of rods, along with another man, and we were instructed to walk toward a large stone. Oh the pressure! We wandered around for a couple of minutes with nothing happening and then one of his rods swung off to the right. Nothing had happened with my rods yet and as I walked toward the other man a skeptical American woman jeered "You must have bad karma!" Oh shut up.
Anyway as soon as I passed over the same spot as the other man, sure enough my rods swung around. It was pretty cool, they just moved in my hands with no interference from me, and according to Keith there is no water or electricity line in that spot. We passed the rods on and it worked for most of the other people as well.
Somewhere between Manchester and Bath something happened to my left shoulder, something like a pinched nerve, I don't know, which means that when I breathe deeply or move in certain seemingly random ways or try to sleep I find myself in excruciating pain. This is very bad considering I live out of an enormous freaking backpack. I'm going to London this afternoon and hopefully will be able to find a doctor. Painkillers don't seem to be working (although I haven't tried the ones with codeine yet...).
We were sitting in one place when we were approached by drunk Mancunian Martin.
"What's your name?"
"Maaaaaaa!"
"What?"
"Maaaaaaaa aaah!"
"What is he saying?"
"It's Maaarhaaan!"
It was sort of entertaining trying to figure out what he was saying all night. But not really.
Bizarrely I get hit on more (by men) at gay clubs than at ostensibly straight ones. I suppose it helps to be one of the only straight females in the place.
Then I came to Bath which I love, it's beautiful and loaded with things to do. Everything is very expensive. The Roman Baths are interesting and of course I had to have the traditional tea at the Pump Room, it's the aging bookish spinsterly thing to do. Pricey but tasty (clotted cream! Where have you been all my life!?!?), I couldn't eat again for the rest of the day. I also drank the water (the natural mineral hot spring water) which is served up by a strange man in period livery. He was impressed that I drank the whole glass, apparently nobody ever gets through it all. It is pretty vile but there are something like 43 minerals in that water. In retrospect it tasted a little like Leslie tap water.
Unfortunately I cannot recommend the Jane Austen Centre which doesn't have a lot going on other than an "exclusive" video featuring Amanda Root (from the movie version of Persuasion), which features Ms. Root wandering pensively around the Assembly Rooms. Because I'm a nerd I already knew everything they were talking about and at 6 quid to get in, it's too much.
Yesterday I did a tour of Stonehenge/Avebury/Silbury Hill/Lacock (where some Harry Potter and new Pride and Prejudice stuff was apparently filmed)/Castle Combe. I've never done a day tour like that before (a horror of those enormous coaches that pull up and disgorge a wave of tourists at the 'attractions') however this one was really good and I saw much more than I would have on my own in my limited time. It was a Mad Max tour if anyone is looking for something similar, only 16 people in the van too so you feel like less of a jerk.
At Avebury our guide Keith handed out a couple sets of dowsing rods, as Avebury seems to lie on a 'ley line' (invisible energy line). I was the recipient of the first set of rods, along with another man, and we were instructed to walk toward a large stone. Oh the pressure! We wandered around for a couple of minutes with nothing happening and then one of his rods swung off to the right. Nothing had happened with my rods yet and as I walked toward the other man a skeptical American woman jeered "You must have bad karma!" Oh shut up.
Anyway as soon as I passed over the same spot as the other man, sure enough my rods swung around. It was pretty cool, they just moved in my hands with no interference from me, and according to Keith there is no water or electricity line in that spot. We passed the rods on and it worked for most of the other people as well.
Somewhere between Manchester and Bath something happened to my left shoulder, something like a pinched nerve, I don't know, which means that when I breathe deeply or move in certain seemingly random ways or try to sleep I find myself in excruciating pain. This is very bad considering I live out of an enormous freaking backpack. I'm going to London this afternoon and hopefully will be able to find a doctor. Painkillers don't seem to be working (although I haven't tried the ones with codeine yet...).
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
random bits
on Lewis I took the bus one day out to see various sights like Callanish and the blackhouses at Garenin and the broch at Dun Carloway. Sitting with an hour to kill in a very rural bus stop - I wasn't even sure the bus was going to pass by there, just living off hope really - a woman and her little boy wandered by.
"Hello hello!!" the boy shouted at me...I had passed them earlier and he had given me a dried up seedy flower so we were now on quite intimate terms. He ran into the shelter and jumped on my lap while I chatted to his mum. Boring boring for little boys so to get our attention he ran around the sides of the shelter, licking the windows. I didn't find out till later that "windowlicker" is a really really rude thing to say to someone in Scotland, so it'a a good thing I didn't say "Your son is a real windowlicker!" to this poor woman.
He wanted me to come home with them but when I said I had to wait for the bus he settled for making piles of earthworms on my shoes. After a few minutes a car pulled up, it was a woman who knew the woman I was talking to. A few minutes more and I had somehow been offered a ride back into Stornoway with this new woman and her very amusing boy, Alex aged 4. Alex didn't have any worms but we got along just fine anyway.
After the Callanish debacle I went down to Tarbert on the Isle of Harris (which is actually connected to the Isle of Lewis...shh...don't tell anyone, I'm not sure they know). If Harris sounds familiar to you, think tweed...Harris Tweed. Given my unholy lust for all things tweed it's quite lucky I managed to get away from there without buying a whole new outfit. However the stylings on offer in the shops ran more toward the Stout Matron side of the spectrum, while I was looking for Naughty Librarian clothes. I do however have a small new tweed wallet which I fondle with great happiness.
From Harris to Skye, two days in Portree which seem to have been completely uneventful because I can't remember anything about them. Then a day in Kyleakin and Kyle of Lochalsh, where I spent the evening trapped in conversation (only one small lounge and an Italian couple getting it on in my dorm) with the lamest Australian I have ever met. A homophobic jackass who looked like Benny Hill, he put that idiot Said to shame (see Said's story here). Within 45 minutes: "have you ever kissed a girl?" "have you ever had sex in a hostel?".
I even told him the Said story laced with all of the sarcasm and irony I could muster but he wasn't getting it. Poor stupid fool.
Next morning a bus to Inverness with the intention of going out to Speyside to check out the distilleries, however by the time I got there it was really too late, and there was no accommodation east of Inverness anyway. Snap decision time - get on the next train south and get the hell out of Scotland.
It wasn't till a couple days later that I slapped myself on the forehead...dammit! I went to Scotland and forgot to eat Haggis!? Even after I've been told that vegetarian Haggis is really really good? Grrrr. Add the fact that I didn't eat a deep fried Mars bar either. I am ashamed of myself. At least I drank a little scotch.
So I ended up in Penrith at the edge of the Lake District, in the fleabaggiest hotel room above a bar. At least there was a tv. And the shower was hot.
Then to Windermere and Ambleside in the midst of the best weather I've seen in weeks, clear and sunny and actually HOT. The scenery is spectacular as well, or at least it would be if the place weren't lousy with tourists (yeah I know I am one of them). Tourists tourists every where, roads filled with cars, lakesides covered with shops and marinas. The hostel in Ambleside was great though, a huge old place with giant lounge and dining room, and the nicest Melmac plates I have ever seen.
Today I arrived in Manchester where I met up with Joey from Valencia who is working here now. Tonight is going to be good.
"Hello hello!!" the boy shouted at me...I had passed them earlier and he had given me a dried up seedy flower so we were now on quite intimate terms. He ran into the shelter and jumped on my lap while I chatted to his mum. Boring boring for little boys so to get our attention he ran around the sides of the shelter, licking the windows. I didn't find out till later that "windowlicker" is a really really rude thing to say to someone in Scotland, so it'a a good thing I didn't say "Your son is a real windowlicker!" to this poor woman.
He wanted me to come home with them but when I said I had to wait for the bus he settled for making piles of earthworms on my shoes. After a few minutes a car pulled up, it was a woman who knew the woman I was talking to. A few minutes more and I had somehow been offered a ride back into Stornoway with this new woman and her very amusing boy, Alex aged 4. Alex didn't have any worms but we got along just fine anyway.
After the Callanish debacle I went down to Tarbert on the Isle of Harris (which is actually connected to the Isle of Lewis...shh...don't tell anyone, I'm not sure they know). If Harris sounds familiar to you, think tweed...Harris Tweed. Given my unholy lust for all things tweed it's quite lucky I managed to get away from there without buying a whole new outfit. However the stylings on offer in the shops ran more toward the Stout Matron side of the spectrum, while I was looking for Naughty Librarian clothes. I do however have a small new tweed wallet which I fondle with great happiness.
From Harris to Skye, two days in Portree which seem to have been completely uneventful because I can't remember anything about them. Then a day in Kyleakin and Kyle of Lochalsh, where I spent the evening trapped in conversation (only one small lounge and an Italian couple getting it on in my dorm) with the lamest Australian I have ever met. A homophobic jackass who looked like Benny Hill, he put that idiot Said to shame (see Said's story here). Within 45 minutes: "have you ever kissed a girl?" "have you ever had sex in a hostel?".
I even told him the Said story laced with all of the sarcasm and irony I could muster but he wasn't getting it. Poor stupid fool.
Next morning a bus to Inverness with the intention of going out to Speyside to check out the distilleries, however by the time I got there it was really too late, and there was no accommodation east of Inverness anyway. Snap decision time - get on the next train south and get the hell out of Scotland.
It wasn't till a couple days later that I slapped myself on the forehead...dammit! I went to Scotland and forgot to eat Haggis!? Even after I've been told that vegetarian Haggis is really really good? Grrrr. Add the fact that I didn't eat a deep fried Mars bar either. I am ashamed of myself. At least I drank a little scotch.
So I ended up in Penrith at the edge of the Lake District, in the fleabaggiest hotel room above a bar. At least there was a tv. And the shower was hot.
Then to Windermere and Ambleside in the midst of the best weather I've seen in weeks, clear and sunny and actually HOT. The scenery is spectacular as well, or at least it would be if the place weren't lousy with tourists (yeah I know I am one of them). Tourists tourists every where, roads filled with cars, lakesides covered with shops and marinas. The hostel in Ambleside was great though, a huge old place with giant lounge and dining room, and the nicest Melmac plates I have ever seen.
Today I arrived in Manchester where I met up with Joey from Valencia who is working here now. Tonight is going to be good.
Thursday, September 07, 2006
communing with the rain
I really went to the isle of Lewis to see this (photo borrowed from here:
)
The standing stones at Callanish / Calanais. I went out Thursday morning and was suitably impressed, wandered around...browsing some of the literature in the shop I learn that one of the theories as to its existence is that is was built to track various lunar phenomena, such as the 'lunar standstill' which occurs every 18.6 years.
Later that day I heard something about some 'lunar event' happening maybe next week at the stones, and resolved to find out what it was.
The tourist office gave me a number. On Saturday afternoon, as I was about to get on a bus to leave the area, I called the number. A sleepy sounding old man answered the phone...I had no idea what to ask for and he was not particularly forthcoming. "Is something happening at the stones with the moon next week? Is it the full moon?"
"Nothing happens with the full moon. "
long pause.
"But the standstill is tonight."
Okay! Getting more information was like pulling teeth however I was able to learn that
a) all B&Bs in the area were full for the weekend
b) there is no organized expedition from Stornoway to get there
c) the last bus on Saturday leaves around 6 p.m., and there are no more buses until Monday morning.
In that case the obvious solution is to buy a tent and camp out at the stones. I mean really, if I just happen to be in a place where something rare is happening it is my duty to go and check it out, right?
In retrospect this was a somewhat stupid idea though it seemed like a good one at the time.
On the bus on the way out there I had visions of a grand pagan gathering full of entertaining crystal people. What I found was one old gnarly guy in a tent, a couple of caravans, and a handful of people in rainproof clothes hanging about with cameras. Oh well.
I set up my tent and wandered over to the onlookers. It was about 6:45 and the sun was getting low. There were differing opinions on when the moonrise actually was. I started talking to Guy and Les from England who gave me chocolate and we shivered and stared off in a southerly direction. Pointless really as the horizon was completely obscured by clouds - the wind was blowing hard and although when I had arrived the weather had seemed promising it became pretty obvious that nobody was going to be seeing the moon. This was cemented with the arrival of rain, and I retreated to my tent to read a book and eat cake.
I tried to sleep after a while but rain (which sounded like hail) and wind and unbearable coldness of the ground make it all not so fun. I'm talking insane rain. Diluvian rain. This is the last time I go camping without a mat.
Everything became worthwhile however at around 4:30 a.m. when I crept outside to pee in the bushes - the rain had stopped, there was a big clear spot in the sky and every single star that there is was there to be looked at. The brightest sky I have seen in my life, with stars like chips of ice and close enough to touch.
The next night was a little more exciting...not as many people but Les and Guy came back, this time with a largeish bottle of Scotch! Clever boys. We stood around and drank (PURELY MEDICINAL) with a woman who had driven all the way from London the previous day. As the scotch took effect we sat at the base of one of the stones and willed the clouds to part. The weather was slightly better and we could actually see the glow of the moon behind the clouds. A couple of times a silvery edge was revealed and I must tell you, I have never seen people more excited about the moon in my life. It was like the dolphin sighting on the ferry from Ullapool to Stornoway - a cheer goes up, people scramble for cameras, grown men giggle and tear down the decks in order to see the school as it passes.
However those glimpses were brief and as fun as it was to stand around in the pitch dark drizzle staring at clouds, I went to bed.
Currently in Portree on the Isle of Skye, still trying to catch up on sleep (and having the weirdest dreams in the process) but happily I did not get a cold.
Other recent adventures involve falling in a bog, and a long philosophical discussion with a group of complete strangers in a hostel covering everything from serial killers to feminism to archaeology and the nature of the universe. I couldn't believe we weren't stoned.
)
The standing stones at Callanish / Calanais. I went out Thursday morning and was suitably impressed, wandered around...browsing some of the literature in the shop I learn that one of the theories as to its existence is that is was built to track various lunar phenomena, such as the 'lunar standstill' which occurs every 18.6 years.
Later that day I heard something about some 'lunar event' happening maybe next week at the stones, and resolved to find out what it was.
The tourist office gave me a number. On Saturday afternoon, as I was about to get on a bus to leave the area, I called the number. A sleepy sounding old man answered the phone...I had no idea what to ask for and he was not particularly forthcoming. "Is something happening at the stones with the moon next week? Is it the full moon?"
"Nothing happens with the full moon. "
long pause.
"But the standstill is tonight."
Okay! Getting more information was like pulling teeth however I was able to learn that
a) all B&Bs in the area were full for the weekend
b) there is no organized expedition from Stornoway to get there
c) the last bus on Saturday leaves around 6 p.m., and there are no more buses until Monday morning.
In that case the obvious solution is to buy a tent and camp out at the stones. I mean really, if I just happen to be in a place where something rare is happening it is my duty to go and check it out, right?
In retrospect this was a somewhat stupid idea though it seemed like a good one at the time.
On the bus on the way out there I had visions of a grand pagan gathering full of entertaining crystal people. What I found was one old gnarly guy in a tent, a couple of caravans, and a handful of people in rainproof clothes hanging about with cameras. Oh well.
I set up my tent and wandered over to the onlookers. It was about 6:45 and the sun was getting low. There were differing opinions on when the moonrise actually was. I started talking to Guy and Les from England who gave me chocolate and we shivered and stared off in a southerly direction. Pointless really as the horizon was completely obscured by clouds - the wind was blowing hard and although when I had arrived the weather had seemed promising it became pretty obvious that nobody was going to be seeing the moon. This was cemented with the arrival of rain, and I retreated to my tent to read a book and eat cake.
I tried to sleep after a while but rain (which sounded like hail) and wind and unbearable coldness of the ground make it all not so fun. I'm talking insane rain. Diluvian rain. This is the last time I go camping without a mat.
Everything became worthwhile however at around 4:30 a.m. when I crept outside to pee in the bushes - the rain had stopped, there was a big clear spot in the sky and every single star that there is was there to be looked at. The brightest sky I have seen in my life, with stars like chips of ice and close enough to touch.
The next night was a little more exciting...not as many people but Les and Guy came back, this time with a largeish bottle of Scotch! Clever boys. We stood around and drank (PURELY MEDICINAL) with a woman who had driven all the way from London the previous day. As the scotch took effect we sat at the base of one of the stones and willed the clouds to part. The weather was slightly better and we could actually see the glow of the moon behind the clouds. A couple of times a silvery edge was revealed and I must tell you, I have never seen people more excited about the moon in my life. It was like the dolphin sighting on the ferry from Ullapool to Stornoway - a cheer goes up, people scramble for cameras, grown men giggle and tear down the decks in order to see the school as it passes.
However those glimpses were brief and as fun as it was to stand around in the pitch dark drizzle staring at clouds, I went to bed.
Currently in Portree on the Isle of Skye, still trying to catch up on sleep (and having the weirdest dreams in the process) but happily I did not get a cold.
Other recent adventures involve falling in a bog, and a long philosophical discussion with a group of complete strangers in a hostel covering everything from serial killers to feminism to archaeology and the nature of the universe. I couldn't believe we weren't stoned.
Monday, August 28, 2006
ooh look! two posts in one day!
how terribly extravagant! the reason for this is that my new hostel in Ullapool (West House - go there) offers ONE HOUR OF INTERNET FOR ONE POUND. This is surely the best damn deal in the UK. I am way too excited.
Ullapool is possibly one of the best smelling places I have ever been to. It smells of fresh air and cut grass and the sea. There's not a whole lot going on here but it's enough just to walk around and smell things. The only place that might be on par is Soller on Mallorca, which smells like orange blossoms.
Ullapool is possibly one of the best smelling places I have ever been to. It smells of fresh air and cut grass and the sea. There's not a whole lot going on here but it's enough just to walk around and smell things. The only place that might be on par is Soller on Mallorca, which smells like orange blossoms.
8 free minutes
i have 8 free internet minutes left on this library computer. what can I write in 15 minutes.
i've been in the highlands for a week or two now, first Fort William where I climbed halfway up the highest mountain (in the UK?) Ben Nevis. Gorgeous, and I was impressed with myself since I really only set out for the base.
The hostel there was cool and I chatted with an amusingly flirtatious Texan. Imagine someone saying this to you in a heavy heavy Texas accent:
"hey...y'all are kinda cross-eyed....hey that's kind of cute..."
Awwww.
Then Loch Ness where I do have to admit I was hoping to yes, see the monster. Maybe I would be lucky! Happy that other people have since admitted the same ambition to me, I feel less stupid. Needless to say I did not see the Loch Ness Monster. There was a promising rise in the water at one point but it was just a wave.
Then up to Carbisdale Castle which is rumoured to be haunted and is now a giant youth hostel. I didn't see any ghosts though something or someone blew on my leg one night as I was trying to go to sleep. That couldn't have been a dream, could it?
The castle environment was strange...on my last night I walked up into the ballroom to see an old man squeezing out Auld Lang Syne on an accordian (which of course makes one think of Raju) and a couple of scottish girls teaching german teenagers how to highland dance. Imagine an enormous blond german boy wearing a kilt and spinning around and you'll get the idea.
3 minutes left.
currently in Inverness, been here for three days and it's nice but I'm headed for Ullapool and then the Outer Hebrides in about 2 hours.
Must go, sorry about the lack of photos (it is really stunning here too) but it is too too expensive to upload.
i've been in the highlands for a week or two now, first Fort William where I climbed halfway up the highest mountain (in the UK?) Ben Nevis. Gorgeous, and I was impressed with myself since I really only set out for the base.
The hostel there was cool and I chatted with an amusingly flirtatious Texan. Imagine someone saying this to you in a heavy heavy Texas accent:
"hey...y'all are kinda cross-eyed....hey that's kind of cute..."
Awwww.
Then Loch Ness where I do have to admit I was hoping to yes, see the monster. Maybe I would be lucky! Happy that other people have since admitted the same ambition to me, I feel less stupid. Needless to say I did not see the Loch Ness Monster. There was a promising rise in the water at one point but it was just a wave.
Then up to Carbisdale Castle which is rumoured to be haunted and is now a giant youth hostel. I didn't see any ghosts though something or someone blew on my leg one night as I was trying to go to sleep. That couldn't have been a dream, could it?
The castle environment was strange...on my last night I walked up into the ballroom to see an old man squeezing out Auld Lang Syne on an accordian (which of course makes one think of Raju) and a couple of scottish girls teaching german teenagers how to highland dance. Imagine an enormous blond german boy wearing a kilt and spinning around and you'll get the idea.
3 minutes left.
currently in Inverness, been here for three days and it's nice but I'm headed for Ullapool and then the Outer Hebrides in about 2 hours.
Must go, sorry about the lack of photos (it is really stunning here too) but it is too too expensive to upload.
Sunday, August 20, 2006
anybody wanna come to Reykjavik?
I just bought a ticket to fly from London to Reykjavik for £36. That's around 80 or 90 dollars. September 20....come on. You know you want to.
Thursday, August 17, 2006
feel your bat boy
I finally fulfilled a lifelong ambition and saw Bat Boy: The Musical which was highly entertaining (hold your bat boy! feel your bat boy!)...props to Bat Boy himself who was really cute in spite of the teeth and ears.
On the way to see the batshow I think I became part of some lame performance art or candid camera show...I was taking photos of a fire spinner when this lardy middle aged guy approached me and started talking about my camera, and then started fiddling with my camera, and then started talking about his admiration for George W., and sorrow that a ceasefire had been called in Lebanon because, after all "they're only Muslims" at which point I muttered "fuck off" involuntarily and left. He was talking like Sean Cullen which is why I think it was fake.
I went to see this Kurt Weill and Bertolt Brecht opera thing one night...an actor was playing Brecht. I was too cheap to shill out for a programme but as soon as he started talking I was like..."is that Don McKellar? that sounds like Don McKellar...that kind of looks like Don McKellar..." This bothered me throughout the performance until I was able to look over someone's shoulder and determine that yes indeed it was the star of Highway 61. Funny.
Walking through Edinburgh's High Street during the festival is all about pushing through an enormous crowd of tourists and performers, a sea of paper cuts from the endless flyers pushed in your face...a guy who looks like Cillian Murphy's ugly twin wanders along a queue asking, in the most exaggeratedly bored voice "would you like to hear about our play Bitches and Money? No? It's really rawther good...excuse me sir, would you like to hear about our play Bitches and Money? It's Reservoir Dogs set in the Victorian Era...No?".
One afternoon I got half price tickets to see Girl Blog from Iraq: Baghdad Burning which is a dramatization of the writing of Riverbend, a young woman writing from Baghdad. It covers from the early days of the occupation until right now (they update the play as she updates the blog) and it was incredibly affecting. Anyone who thinks the war was and continues to be a great idea should read her blog.
Speaking about the war, I also miraculously managed to get tickets to a forum called "Reporters in the Field" which was to feature Robert Fisk but who had to cancel his appearance because he's still in Lebanon, which is why I suspect I was able to get a ticket at the last minute. The other guests were Asne Seierstad who wrote The Bookseller of Kabul (which I read in french so I didn't quite get everything but regardless it was interesting), and George Packer who wrote The Assassin's Gate about his time in Iraq. He was asked about all this tiptoeing around the use of the phrase "civil war" in Iraq. He said that right now, in Iraq, it IS a civil war and any avoidance of the term is simply politicking and semantics. It was very interesting...in Iraq it seems a great deal of the 'reporting' is actually done by Iraqi stringers because western reporters are too afraid to go into many parts of Baghdad and the rest of the country to talk to people.
And then, because one cannot think about war all of the time, I went to watch other people dance.
One, called Knots is about marriage and ends with a stage covered in booze and fake blood.
The other, The Wild Party which was based on this poem and features a great live three piece jazz band...very very fun. Unfortunately the performance was at 12:30 in the afternoon. That's just wrong. You need time to get a little gin in you before you go see something like that. And irresponsible and frivolous as I may be, 12:30 is still too early for cocktails.
Finally, Jeanette Winterson was absolutely brilliant. I've never heard her read before and was amazed not only by the speed at which the words left her mouth but also the wide range of topics she was able to cover. It was like being inside someone's brain.
On the way to see the batshow I think I became part of some lame performance art or candid camera show...I was taking photos of a fire spinner when this lardy middle aged guy approached me and started talking about my camera, and then started fiddling with my camera, and then started talking about his admiration for George W., and sorrow that a ceasefire had been called in Lebanon because, after all "they're only Muslims" at which point I muttered "fuck off" involuntarily and left. He was talking like Sean Cullen which is why I think it was fake.
I went to see this Kurt Weill and Bertolt Brecht opera thing one night...an actor was playing Brecht. I was too cheap to shill out for a programme but as soon as he started talking I was like..."is that Don McKellar? that sounds like Don McKellar...that kind of looks like Don McKellar..." This bothered me throughout the performance until I was able to look over someone's shoulder and determine that yes indeed it was the star of Highway 61. Funny.
Walking through Edinburgh's High Street during the festival is all about pushing through an enormous crowd of tourists and performers, a sea of paper cuts from the endless flyers pushed in your face...a guy who looks like Cillian Murphy's ugly twin wanders along a queue asking, in the most exaggeratedly bored voice "would you like to hear about our play Bitches and Money? No? It's really rawther good...excuse me sir, would you like to hear about our play Bitches and Money? It's Reservoir Dogs set in the Victorian Era...No?".
One afternoon I got half price tickets to see Girl Blog from Iraq: Baghdad Burning which is a dramatization of the writing of Riverbend, a young woman writing from Baghdad. It covers from the early days of the occupation until right now (they update the play as she updates the blog) and it was incredibly affecting. Anyone who thinks the war was and continues to be a great idea should read her blog.
Speaking about the war, I also miraculously managed to get tickets to a forum called "Reporters in the Field" which was to feature Robert Fisk but who had to cancel his appearance because he's still in Lebanon, which is why I suspect I was able to get a ticket at the last minute. The other guests were Asne Seierstad who wrote The Bookseller of Kabul (which I read in french so I didn't quite get everything but regardless it was interesting), and George Packer who wrote The Assassin's Gate about his time in Iraq. He was asked about all this tiptoeing around the use of the phrase "civil war" in Iraq. He said that right now, in Iraq, it IS a civil war and any avoidance of the term is simply politicking and semantics. It was very interesting...in Iraq it seems a great deal of the 'reporting' is actually done by Iraqi stringers because western reporters are too afraid to go into many parts of Baghdad and the rest of the country to talk to people.
And then, because one cannot think about war all of the time, I went to watch other people dance.
One, called Knots is about marriage and ends with a stage covered in booze and fake blood.
The other, The Wild Party which was based on this poem and features a great live three piece jazz band...very very fun. Unfortunately the performance was at 12:30 in the afternoon. That's just wrong. You need time to get a little gin in you before you go see something like that. And irresponsible and frivolous as I may be, 12:30 is still too early for cocktails.
Finally, Jeanette Winterson was absolutely brilliant. I've never heard her read before and was amazed not only by the speed at which the words left her mouth but also the wide range of topics she was able to cover. It was like being inside someone's brain.
Monday, August 14, 2006
not a deep fried mars bar in sight
Sorry Gegtik... I really haven't seen one yet. Believe me I am looking.
Edinburgh is in the middle of festival season, there is an Arts Festival, Fringe Festival, Book Festival, Film Festival...and I'm sure a variety of other things I'm forgetting about.
I plan to cover it from all angles starting tonight with BAT BOY THE MUSICAL which I will be seeing in about an hour. Woo hoo! Then we move the brow up a little with a couple of Weill/Brecht operas and then on Friday I'm going to a Jeanette Winterson reading....very happy I was able to get tickets for that.
Internet access is obscenely expensive here. Send an email so that it's at least worthwhile for me to log on. Ciao!
Edinburgh is in the middle of festival season, there is an Arts Festival, Fringe Festival, Book Festival, Film Festival...and I'm sure a variety of other things I'm forgetting about.
I plan to cover it from all angles starting tonight with BAT BOY THE MUSICAL which I will be seeing in about an hour. Woo hoo! Then we move the brow up a little with a couple of Weill/Brecht operas and then on Friday I'm going to a Jeanette Winterson reading....very happy I was able to get tickets for that.
Internet access is obscenely expensive here. Send an email so that it's at least worthwhile for me to log on. Ciao!
Thursday, August 10, 2006
RED ALERT! RED ALERT! SITUATION CRITICAL! pffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffft.
be afraid! be very afraid!
so the 'terror threat level' in the UK has been raised to CRITICAL following the discovery of an AIRLINES TERROR PLOT against flights originating in the UK.
this news is BIG BIG, however not apparently big enough to disrupt coverage of the European Women's 100 metre Hurdles Competition. At least on the channel the hostel television was tuned to. This is probably for the best as coverage of the TERROR PLOT (BBC's words, not mine) didn't start until the hurdles were hurdled by which time most of the breakfast crowd had already left the dining room. Unfortunately the news did leave one poor Spanish girl crying into her cell phone trying to figure out how she was going to get home.
don't worry about me though. I ride the bus.
so the 'terror threat level' in the UK has been raised to CRITICAL following the discovery of an AIRLINES TERROR PLOT against flights originating in the UK.
this news is BIG BIG, however not apparently big enough to disrupt coverage of the European Women's 100 metre Hurdles Competition. At least on the channel the hostel television was tuned to. This is probably for the best as coverage of the TERROR PLOT (BBC's words, not mine) didn't start until the hurdles were hurdled by which time most of the breakfast crowd had already left the dining room. Unfortunately the news did leave one poor Spanish girl crying into her cell phone trying to figure out how she was going to get home.
don't worry about me though. I ride the bus.
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
glorious glasgow
the sheer abundance of toilet paper is blowing my mind. for the first few days I had to stop myself from stealing a roll every time I went into a public washroom.
it's green here, and there's rain and tea and streets filled with cute boys who don't catcall. paradise.
it's green here, and there's rain and tea and streets filled with cute boys who don't catcall. paradise.
Thursday, August 03, 2006
goodbye essaouira
so I'm flying tomorrow to London.
yesterday I said goodbye to Essaouira, where I've spent about 6 weeks and met a lot of people that I'm going to miss.
Originally I had planned to leave a couple of days ago, to go to Chefchaouen. Unfortunately I left all the planning to the last minute and then realized that Chefchaouen is at least 13 hours away from Essaouira, and I only had 4 days till my flight. So much for that.
In addition I met Sergio and Frederico, a couple of wicked Portuguese guys on the terrace of the hotel on what I THOUGHT was my second last night...we wound up partying our faces off for four nights in a row - in bars, in carpet shops, in tiny rooms above carpet shops (with Russians and mice), on the terrace - frequently losing the ability to speak properly somewhere along the way. I am going to miss them but my liver and lungs are probably better off.
That's the crappy thing about planning ahead though...here I was all pleased with myself for getting a cheap flight to london and arranging accommodations in Edinburgh during the festivals there. Then an opportunity presents itself to spontaneously ride off into the sunset (well, into Portugal anyway) with some cool people, and I can't take it!
So I had to say goodbye to them, and to the french girls, Lucie and Stephanie, who were always fun and improved my french a million times and made me laugh and showed me places in Essaouira I never knew about, and to Simo who invited me to the wedding and makes great kefta tagine.
And to Adil who works at the riad, my little Moroccan brother who taught me how to cook tagine and m'semmen (crepes) and zalouk, who gave me a surprise birthday present, and who never ever hit on me.
Also his brother Amine, the slightly older voice of reason in the more fucked up moments (such as the night we - Adil and Frederico and Sergio and I - realized we were out of booze but that some other guests had left a bottle of champagne in the fridge to cool...).
And finally to the craziest looking hotel I have ever seen, it was like living in Wonderland. I would show you a picture of the turtle but unfortunately he died. They buried him on the beach.
yesterday I said goodbye to Essaouira, where I've spent about 6 weeks and met a lot of people that I'm going to miss.
Originally I had planned to leave a couple of days ago, to go to Chefchaouen. Unfortunately I left all the planning to the last minute and then realized that Chefchaouen is at least 13 hours away from Essaouira, and I only had 4 days till my flight. So much for that.
In addition I met Sergio and Frederico, a couple of wicked Portuguese guys on the terrace of the hotel on what I THOUGHT was my second last night...we wound up partying our faces off for four nights in a row - in bars, in carpet shops, in tiny rooms above carpet shops (with Russians and mice), on the terrace - frequently losing the ability to speak properly somewhere along the way. I am going to miss them but my liver and lungs are probably better off.
That's the crappy thing about planning ahead though...here I was all pleased with myself for getting a cheap flight to london and arranging accommodations in Edinburgh during the festivals there. Then an opportunity presents itself to spontaneously ride off into the sunset (well, into Portugal anyway) with some cool people, and I can't take it!
So I had to say goodbye to them, and to the french girls, Lucie and Stephanie, who were always fun and improved my french a million times and made me laugh and showed me places in Essaouira I never knew about, and to Simo who invited me to the wedding and makes great kefta tagine.
And to Adil who works at the riad, my little Moroccan brother who taught me how to cook tagine and m'semmen (crepes) and zalouk, who gave me a surprise birthday present, and who never ever hit on me.
Also his brother Amine, the slightly older voice of reason in the more fucked up moments (such as the night we - Adil and Frederico and Sergio and I - realized we were out of booze but that some other guests had left a bottle of champagne in the fridge to cool...).
And finally to the craziest looking hotel I have ever seen, it was like living in Wonderland. I would show you a picture of the turtle but unfortunately he died. They buried him on the beach.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
marriage, moroccan style
so as mentioned I went to a wedding a few weeks ago...it was a fascinating if exhausting experience.
my friends Simo and Mohammed invited Lucie and Stephanie and I down to Agadir for their sister Fatima's wedding. Unfortunately Steph couldn't make it due to unforseen medical problems (i.e. morocco belly) but Lucie was able to come thank god.
Basically it was three solid days of eating, playing with children (who are fascinated by digital cameras), and having absolutely no clue as to what was going on.
My Arabic is limited to "hello, peace", "how are you", "eat", "delicious", "beautiful", "two", "okay", "bon appetit", "a little", "a lot", "thank you", "no", "yes", "what is your name", "bread", "water", "congratulations", "here, take this", and "thank you for the joint". i can also say "donkey" and "cow" in one of the Berber languages, which always gets a laugh.
It's amazing how well one can manage with this limited vocabulary, we spent the weekend in a house filled, no stuffed, with people who didn't speak french or english but who were extremely entertained by our proclamations of "yes! very delicious!" or "much beautiful!" etc etc. Actually the sisters did speak some french which made things much easier.
Friday: i am there with the family (lucie is coming up the next day) for a little party for the female family and friends. We all gather in the living room, someone taps out a rhythm with spoons on a tea tray, someone else plays a hand drum, several others sing and make a sound with their mouth and tongue whose name escapes me (I want to say ululate but maybe that is more of a grieving thing?). Anyway. You know. wah-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la! it's amazing.
The younger girls get up to dance, tying a scarf around their hips to emphasize the movements through their baggy clothes; as they dance some of the older women tuck 100 and 200 dirham bills into their collars or under the scarf. As they finish dancing and move to sit down they give the money back. Eventually the inevitable happens and I am pulled up to dance. Moroccan dancing involves a lot of complicated shoulder, foot, and booty moves in my eyes and I just know I wasn't pulling it off! However I found that as long as I moved my butt around fast enough everyone in the room would be hugely entertained and tell me I was a natural! The shoulder shimmy was a little tougher.
As it gets late and people start to leave I am shown to my sleeping space on the long end of the cushioned benches. It is incredibly hot and the room soon fills up with women and children sleeping on the floor or the cushions. People have a remarkable ability to fall asleep really almost anywhere.
Saturday: Lucie arrives and I am no longer the only person in the room without a clue. It's a great moment. In the afternoon, while Fatima is still at the beauty parlour having her hair and makeup done, the house starts to fill up.
The terrace has been covered for the occasion and will be the main room for all of the marriage festivities. Everyone sits on cushions on the floor and there seems to be a natural separation of men and women, men in the back hanging out and the women up front closer to the action.
Fatima arrives to great fanfare, looking beautiful in her crown and dress covered in gold. She sits in the front of the room, her bare feet are elevated and the henna artist starts to work.
As this goes on (it takes a while) more people arrive. More excitingly, the groom and his family and their gifts arrive. This includes a bunch of musicians and a live sheep that is destined to become tomorrow's feast (the sheep not the musicians). Everyone runs downstairs to greet the cart, to sing and dance and clap as the gifts are passed into the house.
We go back upstairs to drink tea and entertain small children with the digital camera until finally the henna is done.
While we wait for it to dry Lucie and I have our hands hennaed as well...it was several weeks ago but I still have very faint traces of colour on my palms.
Finally, the henna is washed off.
For a while now Lucie and I have been speculating as to the identity and location of the groom. There is a man seated beside Fatima but surely this guy, with his baseball cap and moustaches and dour expression cannot possibly be the groom. We decide he must be the groom's father. It's not until we see Fatima exchanging rings with the 'father' that we realize our mistake. Gaaa! But he looks so old and unhappy! Turns out he is really only a few years older than she is - younger than I am in fact - and seems to be a very nice guy.
After the rings are exchanged that's pretty much it for the day, the bride and groom have a little time together in private to talk, and then everyone goes home. Later that evening all the men come back and they have a big party upstairs for the guys.
Lucie and I hang out with the sheep.
Sunday: I wake up early in the morning to the brief bleat of a doomed sheep. Then I fall asleep again.
When we wake up for good we see the sheep's carcass lying on the stairs, waiting to be cooked.
In most homes here you wear your shoes only as far as the entrance to the first room, and then take them off and enter the room barefoot. There also seems to be a rather communal approach to shoes which meant that whenever I wanted to go anywhere I had to figure out who had taken my flip flops first (the problem with big feet is that everyone can wear your shoes but you can't wear anyone elses).
Once they are recovered, it's Kaftan Time! Adil from the hotel has lent me one of his sister's outfits but it turns out to be too heavy for the heat and the occasion. Loubna, one of the sisters, takes us to her aunt's place to find me a kaftan. This turns out to be quite possibly the loudest article of clothing I have ever worn, or will ever wear, in my life.
After several pots of tea and a hammam we rush back to the house in order to change and take our seats upstairs. The room is stifling and as we wait for things to start everyone is entertained by watching Lucie and I sit in the bride and groom's thrones with various family members.
It was funny because as the only non-Moroccans there we really stood out and were treated a little bit like special guests; sitting on the thrones, hanging out with Fatima while she waited for everyone to show up...earlier in the afternoon we sat in the darkened bedroom with all three sisters and some little cousins, watching as the guys set things up and as the band arrived. We sat in the dark so that we could watch and giggle over the arriving guys without being seen ourselves.
The evening went on as follows:
- the band starts playing, the younger girls start to dance in the middle of the room
- the bride and groom make their first entrance of the night
- we are brought downstairs to feast on roasted chicken and then on mutton tagine. I drop a prune on the kaftan (catastrophe!)
- we go back upstairs and Lucie and I find ourselves pulled up to dance, happily this is in a large group of people so our failings are hopefully disguised. I also find it difficult to dance while wearing a tent.
- the bride and groom make their second appearance, after a costume change
- more dancing. it becomes clear that several male guests have been nipping out for secret drinks. Mohammed is almost busted with a bottle of pastis but manages to hide it, and he and Lucie and I head out for the nearest dark alley to do some shots.
- the bride and groom make their third appearance...this time first one, and then the other, is hoisted into the air on a small decorated platform and moved around the room to cheering and applause. Fatima tosses out party favours and is nearly mobbed when the platform is set down.
- we get in a bunch of cars (and about 15 people pile into the back of a truck) to drive into Agadir and do a tour. As we attempt to leave the neighbourhood the bride and groom's decorated car is accosted by the local drunk and/or madman who blocks the road and shouts "i want to get married too!"
- as we drive around Agadire, Loubna (who is sitting beside me) throws up in her headscarf. another car overheats. The car bearing Mohammed seems to be lost.
- we head for a large parking lot where Fatima and Mohamed (her husband, not her brother) pose for more photos. We wait for Brother Mohammed to show up but he never does.
- we drive back to the groom's house where Fatima and her new husband sit on their bed in their bedroom (which has blue fun-fur wallpaper! I'm not kidding) while everyone comes in to say hello.
It's around this time that Simo explains to us the thing about the bedsheets. It's all in french but my understanding is that in a few hours the couple's bloodstained bedsheets will be displayed to us. I'm not sure how I feel about this...regardless Lucie and I spend the next day or so waiting to see this happen. It never does, and we're not sure whether we're relieved or disappointed.
- finally we drive back to the family home. On the way we pass the missing Mohammed heading off somewhere on a motorcycle. As he sees us pass he turns around and comes back to the house. Lucie and I are inside with about half of the family when all of a sudden all the people outside are screaming and yelling. My first thought is "oh god the very old grandmother has just died". I try to get out of the way as people stream outside to see what's going on. A woman thumps me on the chest with her hand and give me a look - I can't tell if it's saying "get the hell out of my way" or "what is going on?".
Lucie and I are still standing around as people start to come back in, girls and children are crying and looking frightened...then the father of the bride is carried in, unconscious but gasping for breath at the same time. He is laid down on a cushion while people attend to him...Lucie is a nurse so stands by to make sure everything is okay but I am useless and go outside to get out of the way while they bring him around.
We have no idea what is happening, everyone is crying or angry or yelling in Arabic. This is surely one of the more uncomfortable hours of my entire life. Lucie and I move into the empty living room (where one woman and one child have been sleeping on the floor throughout all of the excitement) and wait for what seems like forever for everything to die down so we can retrieve our bags and change into our sleeping clothes. Around 4 a.m. finally people start to go to sleep. Lucie ends up curled up on a piece of sheepskin on the floor. I am wedged into a corner with two pairs of feet in my face. It appears to me that we have worn out our welcome.
Monday: The instant we wake up Lucie and I plan to leave right away. We find out that the problem the night before had been a huge fight between the brothers.
Our escape is hampered by the disappearance, yet again, of my goddamn shoes.
Simo tells us to wait an hour or so for him and he will come with us.
One hour turns into seven as Lucie and I help clean up, then go to a cafe with Simo and one of the guys from the band - where the television is tuned to Al Jazeera's coverage of the Israeli bombings of Lebanon. The volume is high and everyone is watching. I feel very conspicuous and uncomfortable.
I am told, among other things, that September 11th was orchestrated by "The Jews" and the US Government - that there is documentary footage of all the Jews escaping from the World Trade Center shortly before the planes struck (although when pressed for specifics of this footage the topic quickly changes), that infact there were NO PLANES at all, blah blah blah. I try to refute this in french but cannot find the words.
We go back to the house where it is now time to deliver all of the gifts and Fatima's personal belongings over to her new home. Everyone gets dressed up again (except Lucie and I, who think we're going to be leaving town any minute), and the procession starts. Things are getting fun again and I'm glad to still be here.
All of the gifts and things have been arranged on the back of a couple of mule-drawn carts, everyone gets behind the carts with a couple of hand drums and some other percussion and we're off.
After a few minutes however we stop and a group of men build a small fire in the middle of the road. What? Turns out that their drum is not tight enough so they're just quickly using the heat from the fire to tighten it up.
Once the drum is deemed adequate we set off again and walk for about an hour and a half through the town to the house. Once again clapping and singing and chanting we we go. Lucie and I are getting good at clapping...it's a complicated beat that didn't seem natural to me at first.
When we arrive (and the bloodied bedsheets are NOT displayed to my simulateous delight and disappointment) everything is taken inside and we feast once more on chicken and mutton. Everyone is amused by my attempts to eat with my hands (cutlery is not used, everyone sits around a round table with a communal dish and dips into the food with bread held in the right hand). The dessert involves vermicelli noodles and I am having a lot of trouble actually getting it into my mouth.
Finally, FINALLY! Simo is really ready to leave for Essaouira. By the time we get back it's after 1 a.m. and I'm desperate for a bed. I'm so exhausted that for the next three days I barely speak to anyone.
It was a great experience but unbelievably intense. I would do it all over agin. How great for us, practically strangers, to be invited into the home during this crazy time for the family.
my friends Simo and Mohammed invited Lucie and Stephanie and I down to Agadir for their sister Fatima's wedding. Unfortunately Steph couldn't make it due to unforseen medical problems (i.e. morocco belly) but Lucie was able to come thank god.
Basically it was three solid days of eating, playing with children (who are fascinated by digital cameras), and having absolutely no clue as to what was going on.
My Arabic is limited to "hello, peace", "how are you", "eat", "delicious", "beautiful", "two", "okay", "bon appetit", "a little", "a lot", "thank you", "no", "yes", "what is your name", "bread", "water", "congratulations", "here, take this", and "thank you for the joint". i can also say "donkey" and "cow" in one of the Berber languages, which always gets a laugh.
It's amazing how well one can manage with this limited vocabulary, we spent the weekend in a house filled, no stuffed, with people who didn't speak french or english but who were extremely entertained by our proclamations of "yes! very delicious!" or "much beautiful!" etc etc. Actually the sisters did speak some french which made things much easier.
Friday: i am there with the family (lucie is coming up the next day) for a little party for the female family and friends. We all gather in the living room, someone taps out a rhythm with spoons on a tea tray, someone else plays a hand drum, several others sing and make a sound with their mouth and tongue whose name escapes me (I want to say ululate but maybe that is more of a grieving thing?). Anyway. You know. wah-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la! it's amazing.
The younger girls get up to dance, tying a scarf around their hips to emphasize the movements through their baggy clothes; as they dance some of the older women tuck 100 and 200 dirham bills into their collars or under the scarf. As they finish dancing and move to sit down they give the money back. Eventually the inevitable happens and I am pulled up to dance. Moroccan dancing involves a lot of complicated shoulder, foot, and booty moves in my eyes and I just know I wasn't pulling it off! However I found that as long as I moved my butt around fast enough everyone in the room would be hugely entertained and tell me I was a natural! The shoulder shimmy was a little tougher.
As it gets late and people start to leave I am shown to my sleeping space on the long end of the cushioned benches. It is incredibly hot and the room soon fills up with women and children sleeping on the floor or the cushions. People have a remarkable ability to fall asleep really almost anywhere.
Saturday: Lucie arrives and I am no longer the only person in the room without a clue. It's a great moment. In the afternoon, while Fatima is still at the beauty parlour having her hair and makeup done, the house starts to fill up.
The terrace has been covered for the occasion and will be the main room for all of the marriage festivities. Everyone sits on cushions on the floor and there seems to be a natural separation of men and women, men in the back hanging out and the women up front closer to the action.
Fatima arrives to great fanfare, looking beautiful in her crown and dress covered in gold. She sits in the front of the room, her bare feet are elevated and the henna artist starts to work.
As this goes on (it takes a while) more people arrive. More excitingly, the groom and his family and their gifts arrive. This includes a bunch of musicians and a live sheep that is destined to become tomorrow's feast (the sheep not the musicians). Everyone runs downstairs to greet the cart, to sing and dance and clap as the gifts are passed into the house.
We go back upstairs to drink tea and entertain small children with the digital camera until finally the henna is done.
While we wait for it to dry Lucie and I have our hands hennaed as well...it was several weeks ago but I still have very faint traces of colour on my palms.
Finally, the henna is washed off.
For a while now Lucie and I have been speculating as to the identity and location of the groom. There is a man seated beside Fatima but surely this guy, with his baseball cap and moustaches and dour expression cannot possibly be the groom. We decide he must be the groom's father. It's not until we see Fatima exchanging rings with the 'father' that we realize our mistake. Gaaa! But he looks so old and unhappy! Turns out he is really only a few years older than she is - younger than I am in fact - and seems to be a very nice guy.
After the rings are exchanged that's pretty much it for the day, the bride and groom have a little time together in private to talk, and then everyone goes home. Later that evening all the men come back and they have a big party upstairs for the guys.
Lucie and I hang out with the sheep.
Sunday: I wake up early in the morning to the brief bleat of a doomed sheep. Then I fall asleep again.
When we wake up for good we see the sheep's carcass lying on the stairs, waiting to be cooked.
In most homes here you wear your shoes only as far as the entrance to the first room, and then take them off and enter the room barefoot. There also seems to be a rather communal approach to shoes which meant that whenever I wanted to go anywhere I had to figure out who had taken my flip flops first (the problem with big feet is that everyone can wear your shoes but you can't wear anyone elses).
Once they are recovered, it's Kaftan Time! Adil from the hotel has lent me one of his sister's outfits but it turns out to be too heavy for the heat and the occasion. Loubna, one of the sisters, takes us to her aunt's place to find me a kaftan. This turns out to be quite possibly the loudest article of clothing I have ever worn, or will ever wear, in my life.
After several pots of tea and a hammam we rush back to the house in order to change and take our seats upstairs. The room is stifling and as we wait for things to start everyone is entertained by watching Lucie and I sit in the bride and groom's thrones with various family members.
It was funny because as the only non-Moroccans there we really stood out and were treated a little bit like special guests; sitting on the thrones, hanging out with Fatima while she waited for everyone to show up...earlier in the afternoon we sat in the darkened bedroom with all three sisters and some little cousins, watching as the guys set things up and as the band arrived. We sat in the dark so that we could watch and giggle over the arriving guys without being seen ourselves.
The evening went on as follows:
- the band starts playing, the younger girls start to dance in the middle of the room
- the bride and groom make their first entrance of the night
- we are brought downstairs to feast on roasted chicken and then on mutton tagine. I drop a prune on the kaftan (catastrophe!)
- we go back upstairs and Lucie and I find ourselves pulled up to dance, happily this is in a large group of people so our failings are hopefully disguised. I also find it difficult to dance while wearing a tent.
- the bride and groom make their second appearance, after a costume change
- more dancing. it becomes clear that several male guests have been nipping out for secret drinks. Mohammed is almost busted with a bottle of pastis but manages to hide it, and he and Lucie and I head out for the nearest dark alley to do some shots.
- the bride and groom make their third appearance...this time first one, and then the other, is hoisted into the air on a small decorated platform and moved around the room to cheering and applause. Fatima tosses out party favours and is nearly mobbed when the platform is set down.
- we get in a bunch of cars (and about 15 people pile into the back of a truck) to drive into Agadir and do a tour. As we attempt to leave the neighbourhood the bride and groom's decorated car is accosted by the local drunk and/or madman who blocks the road and shouts "i want to get married too!"
- as we drive around Agadire, Loubna (who is sitting beside me) throws up in her headscarf. another car overheats. The car bearing Mohammed seems to be lost.
- we head for a large parking lot where Fatima and Mohamed (her husband, not her brother) pose for more photos. We wait for Brother Mohammed to show up but he never does.
- we drive back to the groom's house where Fatima and her new husband sit on their bed in their bedroom (which has blue fun-fur wallpaper! I'm not kidding) while everyone comes in to say hello.
It's around this time that Simo explains to us the thing about the bedsheets. It's all in french but my understanding is that in a few hours the couple's bloodstained bedsheets will be displayed to us. I'm not sure how I feel about this...regardless Lucie and I spend the next day or so waiting to see this happen. It never does, and we're not sure whether we're relieved or disappointed.
- finally we drive back to the family home. On the way we pass the missing Mohammed heading off somewhere on a motorcycle. As he sees us pass he turns around and comes back to the house. Lucie and I are inside with about half of the family when all of a sudden all the people outside are screaming and yelling. My first thought is "oh god the very old grandmother has just died". I try to get out of the way as people stream outside to see what's going on. A woman thumps me on the chest with her hand and give me a look - I can't tell if it's saying "get the hell out of my way" or "what is going on?".
Lucie and I are still standing around as people start to come back in, girls and children are crying and looking frightened...then the father of the bride is carried in, unconscious but gasping for breath at the same time. He is laid down on a cushion while people attend to him...Lucie is a nurse so stands by to make sure everything is okay but I am useless and go outside to get out of the way while they bring him around.
We have no idea what is happening, everyone is crying or angry or yelling in Arabic. This is surely one of the more uncomfortable hours of my entire life. Lucie and I move into the empty living room (where one woman and one child have been sleeping on the floor throughout all of the excitement) and wait for what seems like forever for everything to die down so we can retrieve our bags and change into our sleeping clothes. Around 4 a.m. finally people start to go to sleep. Lucie ends up curled up on a piece of sheepskin on the floor. I am wedged into a corner with two pairs of feet in my face. It appears to me that we have worn out our welcome.
Monday: The instant we wake up Lucie and I plan to leave right away. We find out that the problem the night before had been a huge fight between the brothers.
Our escape is hampered by the disappearance, yet again, of my goddamn shoes.
Simo tells us to wait an hour or so for him and he will come with us.
One hour turns into seven as Lucie and I help clean up, then go to a cafe with Simo and one of the guys from the band - where the television is tuned to Al Jazeera's coverage of the Israeli bombings of Lebanon. The volume is high and everyone is watching. I feel very conspicuous and uncomfortable.
I am told, among other things, that September 11th was orchestrated by "The Jews" and the US Government - that there is documentary footage of all the Jews escaping from the World Trade Center shortly before the planes struck (although when pressed for specifics of this footage the topic quickly changes), that infact there were NO PLANES at all, blah blah blah. I try to refute this in french but cannot find the words.
We go back to the house where it is now time to deliver all of the gifts and Fatima's personal belongings over to her new home. Everyone gets dressed up again (except Lucie and I, who think we're going to be leaving town any minute), and the procession starts. Things are getting fun again and I'm glad to still be here.
All of the gifts and things have been arranged on the back of a couple of mule-drawn carts, everyone gets behind the carts with a couple of hand drums and some other percussion and we're off.
After a few minutes however we stop and a group of men build a small fire in the middle of the road. What? Turns out that their drum is not tight enough so they're just quickly using the heat from the fire to tighten it up.
Once the drum is deemed adequate we set off again and walk for about an hour and a half through the town to the house. Once again clapping and singing and chanting we we go. Lucie and I are getting good at clapping...it's a complicated beat that didn't seem natural to me at first.
When we arrive (and the bloodied bedsheets are NOT displayed to my simulateous delight and disappointment) everything is taken inside and we feast once more on chicken and mutton. Everyone is amused by my attempts to eat with my hands (cutlery is not used, everyone sits around a round table with a communal dish and dips into the food with bread held in the right hand). The dessert involves vermicelli noodles and I am having a lot of trouble actually getting it into my mouth.
Finally, FINALLY! Simo is really ready to leave for Essaouira. By the time we get back it's after 1 a.m. and I'm desperate for a bed. I'm so exhausted that for the next three days I barely speak to anyone.
It was a great experience but unbelievably intense. I would do it all over agin. How great for us, practically strangers, to be invited into the home during this crazy time for the family.
Thursday, July 27, 2006
edinburgh, here I come
anybody know anybody with couchspace in Edinburgh?
Just in case...I'm flying to London Aug 4, and then probably heading up to Scotland almost right away. I want to check out at least some of the Edinburgh Fringe festival which runs through August although I don't know exactly when I'll get there.
Updates on the crazy wedding I went to a couple of weeks ago will have to wait as I am suffering from the wickedest hangover this side of Spain. That's what you get for drinking Pernod all night with crazy French girls.
Just in case...I'm flying to London Aug 4, and then probably heading up to Scotland almost right away. I want to check out at least some of the Edinburgh Fringe festival which runs through August although I don't know exactly when I'll get there.
Updates on the crazy wedding I went to a couple of weeks ago will have to wait as I am suffering from the wickedest hangover this side of Spain. That's what you get for drinking Pernod all night with crazy French girls.
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