Like sands through the hourglass, these are the days of our lives.
Madrid is a funny city. Indeed, I have a feeling that it is not just Madrid, but all of Spain that I would feel this way about, if only I had seen all of Spain. As it is, I have explored a fair amount of Madrid city, and some of the surrounding cities and towns when A and I take to the car for a weekend adventure.
There are things you just simply must, or cannot, do here in Madrid. The Ten Commandments of Madrid, if you will. Ahh to hell, I'll just say 'Spain' until I am proven otherwise.
For example. A food related example, of course.
One must not eat a meal without a glass of wine, or beer (weather permitting). I swear every time I eat out and order an agua con gas I get the strangest looks from waitstaff, and the occasional "vino? cereveza?" and when I say "no, gracias" they shake their heads slightly and walk off muttering to themselves. I get a similar response at the end of the meal, which leads me into my next Commandment...
One cannot possibly finish a meal without dessert, or at the very least, coffee. For real. More head shaking, more confusion, and most often - arguing with me that I should have dessert. Explaining the dessert menu to me again, as if this will somehow change my mind and entice me to the dark, sugary side. I understand lunch is the biggest meal of the day. I also understand it is breaking their brains for me to pay for something I am not consuming (a typical menú del día is a set price for 3 courses plus drinks) but I am OK with that. It is still a bargain, as far as I'm concerned, to have two courses plus drinks for around €10.
More examples...
One must not ever be overly polite and/or outwardly enthusiastic or joyful about life. Seriously. Don't smile too much at people or you'll be treated like a leper with women pulling their small children out of your reach and others blatantly giving you the suspicious stink-eye. Similarly, using phrases such as 'thank you very much' or 'please' or hell even too many words will garner you suspicious looks from waitstaff, in particular. The Spanish tend to bark their orders as opposed to convey them. In Australia: "I'll have a glass of the Printhe Riesling, please". In Spain: "vino blanco". I say to hell with that, and usually add "por favour", because, well, I wasn't raised in a fucking barn. It does, however, make it fairly easy for non-Spanish speakers to be able to effectively communicate their needs without learning too many words.
I really have warmed to my new home though, despite the weather doing the opposite, and find I don't really miss Brisbane that much. I miss some things of course, the convenience of having several brands of an item available without any real searching; my parents, my cat, my mates. But A and I have created a new life together, a new family, and I have started making new friends and enjoying Madrid for all its quirks and hidden secrets. It is humbling and fascinating to be living in a city that is practically ancient by Australian standards; brimming with history - testaments to which can be seen in nearly every village you drive through (or visit!) in the form of 800 year old churches, thousand year old stone walls.. Europe is so old it can make your teeth hurt when you think about it long enough. I feel I will never discover enough of her secrets, but I am content at the pace in which A and I explore the countryside, gently getting to know small village after small village. It is a very different life to the one I left behind, but not at all one I'm unhappy about. I do love my new life, my new home, my new family.
Till next time,
M x
Wednesday, October 21, 2015
A weekend in Paris
Wow I have been a slack tart. So we went to Paris end of May (whoops, it's October..) and had an absolutely delightful three day getaway together. I booked a bed & breakfast in Bastille, and every morning at 8am we were treated to a gorgeous picnic basket full of freshly baked bread, croissants, jam, butter (OH HOW I HAVE MISSED THEE), yoghurt and fruit, ham, boiled eggs and cheese. What a fantastic way to start the day.
It was a lot colder in Paris than I had anticipated - so take note dear reader: if you wish to visit Paris in May you'll need something a lot warmer than a cotton skirt and linen jacket. Or, you could just do what we did, and go shopping. Gloves, scarf and trench coat later, and I wasn't shivering and shaking uncontrollably and could actually appreciate the beauty of the city.
Day one, we thought we'd walk down to Notre Dame and view the cathedral in all her splendour; I had read about her and also wanted to visit the catacombs and see the historical artefacts on display. We quickly discovered that 10am is far too late to start heading to the cathedral, as the lines were wrapped around the whole building and then across one of the bridges. I'm sure most of you who know me know this: I don't do queues. Unless it's Disneyland in which case bring on the hour long line to the Indian Jones ride! So we circled around the cathedral and gardens, taking photos, absorbing the atmosphere, and then traversed one of the quaint stone bridges to the other side of the river again, and walked for hours along the riverbank, quietly holding hands and just simply enjoying the atmosphere.
One of the many things I love about A is that he's about as interested in art museums/galleries as I am, so we skipped that option and took to roaming the narrow cobblestone streets, poking our noses into little shops and getting a feel for the city outside of the tourist hotspots. We did of course go and see the Eiffel Tower and Arc de Triomphe and many other items on the usual 'must do' list of Paris, but the moments I remember most fondly are the simple ones; the incredibly stylish Parisian woman walking past with her tiny little dog (also stylishly dressed); the girl on the bike lazily cycling past with a baguette under her arm (for real); and countless other "you're not in Kansas anymore" moments.
From the whole three days in Paris, the one thing I remember most fondly is - surprise - the food. I had done some solid research before we left, and booked us into two highly recommended restaurants close to our hotel. They were exceptional. One was a degustation-only menu that I will remember to the day I die I'm sure, it was that good; and the other was an intimate dining experience where your Chef is also your waiter and he is incredibly passionate about his business which of course leads to an excellent dining experience. We ate our way around Paris, basing our daytime meals on mother's recommendations, and for the most part, she was spot-on. We did stop off at Angelina for their infamous hot chocolate and dessert - it was a disappointment of epic proportions. The hot chocolate had that weird not-quite-chocolate taste and the dessert was mostly whipped cream, but I suppose the thing that made us gasp the most was the price tag. €30-something for a coffee, a hot chocolate, a water and this tiny dessert. GOOD LORD.
Paris is an interesting city. I believe we barely scratched the surface of what makes her tick, but I think we did get a good taste (literally and metaphorically) of her essence. If opportunity arises in the future for us to go back and spend some more time in Paris, or broader France - I wouldn't hesitate to say yes.
Blessed Be
M x
It was a lot colder in Paris than I had anticipated - so take note dear reader: if you wish to visit Paris in May you'll need something a lot warmer than a cotton skirt and linen jacket. Or, you could just do what we did, and go shopping. Gloves, scarf and trench coat later, and I wasn't shivering and shaking uncontrollably and could actually appreciate the beauty of the city.
Day one, we thought we'd walk down to Notre Dame and view the cathedral in all her splendour; I had read about her and also wanted to visit the catacombs and see the historical artefacts on display. We quickly discovered that 10am is far too late to start heading to the cathedral, as the lines were wrapped around the whole building and then across one of the bridges. I'm sure most of you who know me know this: I don't do queues. Unless it's Disneyland in which case bring on the hour long line to the Indian Jones ride! So we circled around the cathedral and gardens, taking photos, absorbing the atmosphere, and then traversed one of the quaint stone bridges to the other side of the river again, and walked for hours along the riverbank, quietly holding hands and just simply enjoying the atmosphere.
One of the many things I love about A is that he's about as interested in art museums/galleries as I am, so we skipped that option and took to roaming the narrow cobblestone streets, poking our noses into little shops and getting a feel for the city outside of the tourist hotspots. We did of course go and see the Eiffel Tower and Arc de Triomphe and many other items on the usual 'must do' list of Paris, but the moments I remember most fondly are the simple ones; the incredibly stylish Parisian woman walking past with her tiny little dog (also stylishly dressed); the girl on the bike lazily cycling past with a baguette under her arm (for real); and countless other "you're not in Kansas anymore" moments.
From the whole three days in Paris, the one thing I remember most fondly is - surprise - the food. I had done some solid research before we left, and booked us into two highly recommended restaurants close to our hotel. They were exceptional. One was a degustation-only menu that I will remember to the day I die I'm sure, it was that good; and the other was an intimate dining experience where your Chef is also your waiter and he is incredibly passionate about his business which of course leads to an excellent dining experience. We ate our way around Paris, basing our daytime meals on mother's recommendations, and for the most part, she was spot-on. We did stop off at Angelina for their infamous hot chocolate and dessert - it was a disappointment of epic proportions. The hot chocolate had that weird not-quite-chocolate taste and the dessert was mostly whipped cream, but I suppose the thing that made us gasp the most was the price tag. €30-something for a coffee, a hot chocolate, a water and this tiny dessert. GOOD LORD.
Paris is an interesting city. I believe we barely scratched the surface of what makes her tick, but I think we did get a good taste (literally and metaphorically) of her essence. If opportunity arises in the future for us to go back and spend some more time in Paris, or broader France - I wouldn't hesitate to say yes.
Blessed Be
M x
Tuesday, May 12, 2015
Gym musings
I realise this is probably not a Madrid, or even Spain-specific post.. but... here goes.
I really like my gym, for the most part. It's an easy walk from home through pretty gardens and our generally lovely neighbourhood, and it has a lot of machines and free weights and barbells, dumbbells so you never really have to wait for anything for too long. The staff are pleasant and smiley and know I don't speak Spanish so make an effort to say 'hello' to me which I think is sweet. I usually get there early, and it still smells of the vacuuming and sanitiser that's been liberally applied to every (I hope) surface - because towels are not compulsory. WHAT THE HELL!? How are towels not compulsory? They're not even suggested! So many sweaty dudes are dripping all over every surface and some days I feel like slapping a dude upside the head and pointing to all the man funk he's left behind. Unless I am sleeping with you, I really do not want your sweat on my body. I thought this was a fairly universal concept; apparently I can be wrong on such things. Yesterday, I had to go ask the front desk for some sanitiser and wipes so I could clean up a puddle - I kid not, dear reader - a puddle of sweat that some inconsiderate mid-20s wannabe lothario had left behind. It took a lot of gesticulating and using broken Spanglish to get my message across, but eventually the tiniest gym bunny you'll ever see (really, she's delightful, I'd put her at around 5ft tall, a size 0 and most of it muscle, she's worked hard for every gram of it too, I'd bet on it) followed me with more paper towel that I thought was necessary and even she, who works around sweat all day looked disgusted. She thoroughly wiped down the bench for me and smiled, and I went to work doing my rows. This brings me to the topic of today's rant (yes, I actually have one):
People Who Need A Smack At the Gym
1. The sweaty dude who shuns towels
You know this guy I'm sure. He's sweating it up all over the place, dripping like he's a goddamn water fountain, spraying sweat all over the cardio machines and leaving pools of it on the benches and weight machines. Apparently towels are bad for his health, because he never even has one with him, let alone uses one. Or possibly worse - I'm not sure which is worse, to be honest - he has a towel, and it lays neatly folded at his feet, which creates this urge within you to yell USE IT! IT IS NOT DECORATIVE! ARRRGHHHH!! We have a couple of these that I've noticed at my gym, and they are driving me crazy. If I could somehow pre-empt their movements, I would make sure I was always a machine ahead. Sadly, I seem to arrive thirty minutes after them, and they've already slicked up all the surfaces I wish to touch with their man funk. Perhaps they think it's a statement of how hard they've worked? Or their virility? Or perhaps their mothers need a kick too because they're completely bloody oblivious.
2. The guy who thinks the gym is a pickup zone
I can honestly say, I have never ever gone to the gym with any intention or desire to be hit on. I really just want to get in there, work as hard as I can motivate myself to do, burn as much as I can muster, lift as heavy as I can manage, hit fatigue and go home. Most days I don't even brush my hair before I go (but I always brush my teeth before I go! Shout out to Jayvan Ruddick-Collins who knows my minty-fresh breath on gym mornings!), my clothes *barely* match and the latest ovulation pimple is on full display for the world to see. I don't even make eye contact with other gym-goers most days, because I'm really not that fucking interested in what Muscles McGee over here slamming weights is doing. If I look in the mirrors, it's not so I can flip my hair over my shoulder and smile brilliantly at any nearby males, it so I can make sure my dodgy shoulder isn't rotating forward, or my back is straight, or I'm squatting deep enough. Some mornings I see myself for the first time that day when I'm correcting my form and I think "geez what the hell is going on with your hair this morning?!" - but then I get back to working out, because that is what I'm here for. So it irritates to me to no end, that the last week I have had to deal with a couple of numpties who somehow believe my mere presence at the gym means I'm interested in them.
Guy A: So I'm running flat out on the treadmill (current cardio is High Intensity Interval Training, so when I say flat out, I mean FLAT OUT), my earbuds jammed firmly in my skull, listening to Galvanize (omg how good is that song!), and this dude who honestly looks like I could be his mother, is working on the machines behind me. Groovy. I've got big mirrors in front of me, so I'm checking my form and trying to breath properly and hit the treadmill lightly and make sure my knees aren't all wonky, and next thing I know, Chuckles here is coming over because APPARENTLY if you look in his direction (e.g. behind myself) it's an invitation. Then he's on the treadmill next to me, I see him check my speed so of course he has to match it, despite being pint-sized and having no hope in hell of hitting the speed I can with my long legs (thank you genetics) - he's one of those guys, who just has to be bigger, better. Can't let "a girl" be better than him. Eesh. Anyway, next thing he's grinning at me in the mirrors, trying to get my attention. Naturally, I turned up the volume on Galvanize and continued doing what I was doing, paying him no attention. He damn nearly killed himself trying to keep up the speed and eventually had to give up and get off the treadmill and slink to the back of the room. Really?! REALLY?! WHILE I'M RUNNING?! You think now is a good time?!
Guy B: This one just blew my mind. Again, on the treadmill, doing my HIIT, and this idiot actually came up to the mirrors next to me, did that head-raise nod "how you doin'?" thing and then lifted his shirt and pointed to his abs. I just.. I can't.. I don't even have words enough in Spanglish to tell him what a fucking idiot he made of himself. I actually snort-laughed (which screwed up my breathing for my running - so thank you for that, asshole) and almost missed a step I thought it was so ludicrous. You know how you sometimes meet someone and think "I wonder why they're single?" - I will never wonder why this idgit is single. Good Lord.
Guy C: The follower. He actually followed me around the gym. Stopped what he was doing when he saw me come in, and followed me from machine to machine. When I left, I checked over my shoulder to make sure he wasn't going to continue the trend, and follow me home. Creepy. *shiver*
3. The girl who thinks the gym is a pickup zone
HER. I HATE HER. She's making life difficult for the rest of us who are just trying to bloody well work-out and not have to deal with idiots as mentioned above. She's got her perfectly coiffed, long hair (as long as mine, the one I'm thinking of in particular) out. I mean.. not tied back/up/away. It's all flowing tresses beautifully manicured that if we were out on the street I'd think pleasant thoughts about, but in here, with her flicking it over her shoulder and smiling hopefully at the wannabe lotharios, I just want to witness it catch in the treadmill belt. Ok ok ok maybe I don't have quite so violent thoughts all the time, but really. How is that even remotely comfortable? I can barely deal with my hair out and flowing around my like some goddamn watery veil with its own life force when I am out in public and trying to look pretty for A. She's wearing makeup, and totally cute matching outfits, from her shoelaces to her earrings (yes people - earrings at the gym), and I swear to god she's walking at a speed my grandmother would snort at. She is the reason why the rest of us honest-to-god-I'm-just-here-to-exercise people are getting annoyed. Although - can't the dudes see the difference between my sweaty-plastered-to-my-head (yet somehow, magically, with tufty peaks & horns sticking out the side of my head) hair, and her just-been-blowdried hair? And our outfits? I look like I'm wearing my big sister's hand-me-down clothes half the time - she looks like she's just bought the latest outfits as seen on the cover of a glossy Nike magazine. EESH.
4. The inconsiderates - all lumped together
I'm talking about the weight slammers who make you jump every 10 reps because the weights are too damn heavy for them to adequately handle (but don't tell their fragile masculinity that); or the dudes who somehow manage to take over all three benches when there's only two of them (!!); or the guy this morning who, when I was attempting a PB at deadlifts, came over and got up in my face and asked if I was using the bench (YES - THAT IS WHY MY STUFF IS ON IT), causing me to stop mid-set and thus not really know if I achieved my PB or not, so I could move my stuff off the bench because I thought he had some desperate time-sensitive need to use it.. only to watch him put his towel on it and then walk away to use the tricep pull-down machine ten metres away.
I tell you folks, I just shake my head. We do have some interesting and amusing characters at my gym though, people who routinely make me smile and appreciate the variety of life. There's a couple of guys who work out very seriously and who do it together, encouraging and supporting and spotting for each other, pushing each other to achieve heavier, faster, better. I love those guys, I love watching them egg each other on, cheer each other. Makes me yearn for some of my friends back home. There's the dude who is seriously in his late 70s, who wears the most obscenely short-shorts but who has the most killer legs and thus can wear them without ridicule. There's the girl who seems quite sweet and normal, asking me for advice on how to execute various exercises, who I wish I could see again because I think I've finally mustered up the courage to ask her out (on a friend date - settle down people..); the girl who makes these cute little snorting noises when she's doing her workout; the guy who works so damn hard at bulking up and has the most serious look of concentration on his face when he's doing his shoulder routine. Then of course, the guy who looks like the Dude's landlord (The Big Lebowsky) including his clothing, who does his chest press with his legs crossed in the air.
All things considered, it is still a consistent highlight of my day. Got any gym stories you'd like to share?
Lemme know!
M x
I really like my gym, for the most part. It's an easy walk from home through pretty gardens and our generally lovely neighbourhood, and it has a lot of machines and free weights and barbells, dumbbells so you never really have to wait for anything for too long. The staff are pleasant and smiley and know I don't speak Spanish so make an effort to say 'hello' to me which I think is sweet. I usually get there early, and it still smells of the vacuuming and sanitiser that's been liberally applied to every (I hope) surface - because towels are not compulsory. WHAT THE HELL!? How are towels not compulsory? They're not even suggested! So many sweaty dudes are dripping all over every surface and some days I feel like slapping a dude upside the head and pointing to all the man funk he's left behind. Unless I am sleeping with you, I really do not want your sweat on my body. I thought this was a fairly universal concept; apparently I can be wrong on such things. Yesterday, I had to go ask the front desk for some sanitiser and wipes so I could clean up a puddle - I kid not, dear reader - a puddle of sweat that some inconsiderate mid-20s wannabe lothario had left behind. It took a lot of gesticulating and using broken Spanglish to get my message across, but eventually the tiniest gym bunny you'll ever see (really, she's delightful, I'd put her at around 5ft tall, a size 0 and most of it muscle, she's worked hard for every gram of it too, I'd bet on it) followed me with more paper towel that I thought was necessary and even she, who works around sweat all day looked disgusted. She thoroughly wiped down the bench for me and smiled, and I went to work doing my rows. This brings me to the topic of today's rant (yes, I actually have one):
People Who Need A Smack At the Gym
1. The sweaty dude who shuns towels
You know this guy I'm sure. He's sweating it up all over the place, dripping like he's a goddamn water fountain, spraying sweat all over the cardio machines and leaving pools of it on the benches and weight machines. Apparently towels are bad for his health, because he never even has one with him, let alone uses one. Or possibly worse - I'm not sure which is worse, to be honest - he has a towel, and it lays neatly folded at his feet, which creates this urge within you to yell USE IT! IT IS NOT DECORATIVE! ARRRGHHHH!! We have a couple of these that I've noticed at my gym, and they are driving me crazy. If I could somehow pre-empt their movements, I would make sure I was always a machine ahead. Sadly, I seem to arrive thirty minutes after them, and they've already slicked up all the surfaces I wish to touch with their man funk. Perhaps they think it's a statement of how hard they've worked? Or their virility? Or perhaps their mothers need a kick too because they're completely bloody oblivious.
2. The guy who thinks the gym is a pickup zone
I can honestly say, I have never ever gone to the gym with any intention or desire to be hit on. I really just want to get in there, work as hard as I can motivate myself to do, burn as much as I can muster, lift as heavy as I can manage, hit fatigue and go home. Most days I don't even brush my hair before I go (but I always brush my teeth before I go! Shout out to Jayvan Ruddick-Collins who knows my minty-fresh breath on gym mornings!), my clothes *barely* match and the latest ovulation pimple is on full display for the world to see. I don't even make eye contact with other gym-goers most days, because I'm really not that fucking interested in what Muscles McGee over here slamming weights is doing. If I look in the mirrors, it's not so I can flip my hair over my shoulder and smile brilliantly at any nearby males, it so I can make sure my dodgy shoulder isn't rotating forward, or my back is straight, or I'm squatting deep enough. Some mornings I see myself for the first time that day when I'm correcting my form and I think "geez what the hell is going on with your hair this morning?!" - but then I get back to working out, because that is what I'm here for. So it irritates to me to no end, that the last week I have had to deal with a couple of numpties who somehow believe my mere presence at the gym means I'm interested in them.
Guy A: So I'm running flat out on the treadmill (current cardio is High Intensity Interval Training, so when I say flat out, I mean FLAT OUT), my earbuds jammed firmly in my skull, listening to Galvanize (omg how good is that song!), and this dude who honestly looks like I could be his mother, is working on the machines behind me. Groovy. I've got big mirrors in front of me, so I'm checking my form and trying to breath properly and hit the treadmill lightly and make sure my knees aren't all wonky, and next thing I know, Chuckles here is coming over because APPARENTLY if you look in his direction (e.g. behind myself) it's an invitation. Then he's on the treadmill next to me, I see him check my speed so of course he has to match it, despite being pint-sized and having no hope in hell of hitting the speed I can with my long legs (thank you genetics) - he's one of those guys, who just has to be bigger, better. Can't let "a girl" be better than him. Eesh. Anyway, next thing he's grinning at me in the mirrors, trying to get my attention. Naturally, I turned up the volume on Galvanize and continued doing what I was doing, paying him no attention. He damn nearly killed himself trying to keep up the speed and eventually had to give up and get off the treadmill and slink to the back of the room. Really?! REALLY?! WHILE I'M RUNNING?! You think now is a good time?!
Guy B: This one just blew my mind. Again, on the treadmill, doing my HIIT, and this idiot actually came up to the mirrors next to me, did that head-raise nod "how you doin'?" thing and then lifted his shirt and pointed to his abs. I just.. I can't.. I don't even have words enough in Spanglish to tell him what a fucking idiot he made of himself. I actually snort-laughed (which screwed up my breathing for my running - so thank you for that, asshole) and almost missed a step I thought it was so ludicrous. You know how you sometimes meet someone and think "I wonder why they're single?" - I will never wonder why this idgit is single. Good Lord.
Guy C: The follower. He actually followed me around the gym. Stopped what he was doing when he saw me come in, and followed me from machine to machine. When I left, I checked over my shoulder to make sure he wasn't going to continue the trend, and follow me home. Creepy. *shiver*
3. The girl who thinks the gym is a pickup zone
HER. I HATE HER. She's making life difficult for the rest of us who are just trying to bloody well work-out and not have to deal with idiots as mentioned above. She's got her perfectly coiffed, long hair (as long as mine, the one I'm thinking of in particular) out. I mean.. not tied back/up/away. It's all flowing tresses beautifully manicured that if we were out on the street I'd think pleasant thoughts about, but in here, with her flicking it over her shoulder and smiling hopefully at the wannabe lotharios, I just want to witness it catch in the treadmill belt. Ok ok ok maybe I don't have quite so violent thoughts all the time, but really. How is that even remotely comfortable? I can barely deal with my hair out and flowing around my like some goddamn watery veil with its own life force when I am out in public and trying to look pretty for A. She's wearing makeup, and totally cute matching outfits, from her shoelaces to her earrings (yes people - earrings at the gym), and I swear to god she's walking at a speed my grandmother would snort at. She is the reason why the rest of us honest-to-god-I'm-just-here-to-exercise people are getting annoyed. Although - can't the dudes see the difference between my sweaty-plastered-to-my-head (yet somehow, magically, with tufty peaks & horns sticking out the side of my head) hair, and her just-been-blowdried hair? And our outfits? I look like I'm wearing my big sister's hand-me-down clothes half the time - she looks like she's just bought the latest outfits as seen on the cover of a glossy Nike magazine. EESH.
4. The inconsiderates - all lumped together
I'm talking about the weight slammers who make you jump every 10 reps because the weights are too damn heavy for them to adequately handle (but don't tell their fragile masculinity that); or the dudes who somehow manage to take over all three benches when there's only two of them (!!); or the guy this morning who, when I was attempting a PB at deadlifts, came over and got up in my face and asked if I was using the bench (YES - THAT IS WHY MY STUFF IS ON IT), causing me to stop mid-set and thus not really know if I achieved my PB or not, so I could move my stuff off the bench because I thought he had some desperate time-sensitive need to use it.. only to watch him put his towel on it and then walk away to use the tricep pull-down machine ten metres away.
I tell you folks, I just shake my head. We do have some interesting and amusing characters at my gym though, people who routinely make me smile and appreciate the variety of life. There's a couple of guys who work out very seriously and who do it together, encouraging and supporting and spotting for each other, pushing each other to achieve heavier, faster, better. I love those guys, I love watching them egg each other on, cheer each other. Makes me yearn for some of my friends back home. There's the dude who is seriously in his late 70s, who wears the most obscenely short-shorts but who has the most killer legs and thus can wear them without ridicule. There's the girl who seems quite sweet and normal, asking me for advice on how to execute various exercises, who I wish I could see again because I think I've finally mustered up the courage to ask her out (on a friend date - settle down people..); the girl who makes these cute little snorting noises when she's doing her workout; the guy who works so damn hard at bulking up and has the most serious look of concentration on his face when he's doing his shoulder routine. Then of course, the guy who looks like the Dude's landlord (The Big Lebowsky) including his clothing, who does his chest press with his legs crossed in the air.
All things considered, it is still a consistent highlight of my day. Got any gym stories you'd like to share?
Lemme know!
M x
Monday, May 11, 2015
Road Trippin' - Monasterio de Piedra
The whole past week, A has been like a toddler with a secret. His enthusiasm is absolutely gorgeous, and has made me smile almost daily when we talk about the "mystery place" he's taking me to on the weekend. I had absolutely no idea where we'd be going, other than I needed to wear comfortable walking shoes, because we would be doing a lot of walking, and it involved going somewhere in his car (YAY). Friday night I found out that we would have to leave the house around 9am to embark upon our journey, which really piqued my interest, because we never get out of bed at 9am on a Saturday, let alone leave the house at that time.
Having learnt my lesson from our trip to Avila and my level of personal cold going from 'geezuz' to 'omg I think I might actually be getting hypothermia', I packed my big warm parker, gloves, and a scarf, just in case. Grabbing my camera bag I had a little frisson of excitement spiral through my chest, and as he bundled me out the front door I was practically bursting with curiosity.
We drove straight out of Madrid on the highway, no messing around with trying to find the right road, no circling the city's ring road looking for our exit.. A drove with a sense of purpose, and before I had really realised it, we were out of the city, stopping at a gas station somewhere rural. Fields of poppies lay to the side of the gas station, and remembering how much my sister loves them, I felt compelled to get out of the car and take photos. I was rewarded with not just the poppies, but Scottish thistle and a myriad of other beautiful wildflowers foreign to me.. but the piece d'resistance? Flashes of wild rabbits, hopping rapidly away from me, their fluffy white tails bouncing in and out of the bushes. They were far too quick for me to get a photo, but I did manage to get a good look at what appeared to be mum, dad and baby rabbit. This makes me happy.
We met back at the car, and piled in ready for the long drive ahead. I didn't realise (of course! I had no idea of our destination) how far we were going - we drove for two hours before A pulled off the highway. The road took us through a quaint little village, then through farmland rich with green crops shivering in the breeze, then past orchards of fruit trees, and finally up into the hills. We turned a few curves, entered one of those very European-looking tunnels in the rock of the cliff, and came out the other side to the most amazing view of a sea-green lake, the sun shimmering on the flat surface, hills dipping down as if drinking from the inviting water. It was so absolutely perfect, that moment of discovery, the hills parting and yielding the spectacular vista, that I think I actually gasped out loud and startled A a little.
Up, up, up we drove, into the hills, climbing giving us a greater view of the lake and the village of Piedra at its shores. After a few minutes we reached the car park of the monastery and it became clear to us that we weren't the only ones who had thought it was a nice day for a walk through history. There were thousands of tourists but remarkably it was reasonably well organised, with car park assistants guiding traffic and only a few idiots trying to cut the queue.
Top tip - if you want to visit the monastery, book your tickets online, before you go - do not attempt to do it in the massive queue like we did - there is no phone reception there. The line was long, and we did wait about an hour, but it was well worth it. The gardens are impressive, beautiful and filled with waterfalls everywhere you look. There are charming little streams connecting the falls together, and they pool into a beautiful lake on the other side of the walk. Be prepared for stairs though - a LOT of stairs that were carved into the rock of the cliffs by the monks hundreds of years ago, with rickety rails put in as an afterthought in more recent years. If you don't like crowds, you don't like walking, you don't like stairs and you aren't that fussed on waterfalls and a pretty park, my recommendation would be to skip the walk, visit the monastery itself and then sit under the big beautiful trees and picnic on your lunch from a lazy position on the grass - you'll still see the biggest waterfall and you won't have to shuffle along like cattle with everyone else.
The monastery is half in (very romantic) ruins, half in good order, and well worth an hour to walk around and fully appreciate the beauty and history of the building and monks who lived there. I've posted numerous photos so have a look at those if you're interested. I love that through the ruins you can see the green of the grass, dotted with the beautiful short white wild daises that are so prolific in this part of the world. There's something terribly romantic about it all.
We headed home after spending the day walking around, poking our heads in and out of alcoves, and as we were hurtling down the highway, tired but happy, A says to me "I think I know where we're going next".
Chat soon,
M x
Tuesday, May 5, 2015
Road trippin' - Avila: The Town of Stones and Saints
Those of you who have read my American adventure blogs, will understand this about me: I love road tripping. I love nothing more than to get into a comfortable vehicle ("comfortable" for me equals: power steering, power windows, a functional digital radio, a reliable engine, good suspension, ABS brakes and dual airbags. I am otherwise not particularly concerned about type or size of car, or engine capacity) and hit the road. First stop - gas station for gas, water, road snacks. There's something very inviting about the open road.. some kind of sense of throwing convention out the window, embracing the freedom a motor vehicle offers, the independence of choosing your own path (literally and figuratively) to where you want to go. So it will come as no surprise to you, dear reader, when I tell you that I have expressed this love of road tripping to A, who like the lovely gentleman he is, has indulged my bitumen-traveling desires not once, but twice in the past two weeks.
The last weekend in April, we drove (yay! I was happy just climbing in his gorgeous car) to Avila, the Town of Stones and Saints; a medieval walled city built in Romanesque style, rich in history and beauty. I was completely unaware that Avila is at higher altitude than Madrid, so after sticking my arm out our bedroom window decided that a light jacket and jeans would be fine.. boy was I wrong. I stepped out of the comfort of A's car and straight into a blast of icy wind that had me tugging my scarf (thank god for bringing a scarf) around my nose and mouth and thinking to myself "shit". It was a slightly overcast morning, which made it worse of course, and as we made our way up the hill from the parking garage towards the true centre of town (and our lunch reservation) I did genuinely wonder if I would be able to actually see the city, or if I would snarf-and-run after lunch. Thankfully, three courses and half a bottle of wine later, and I was practically merry with warmth.
The history of Avila goes back as far as the 1st Century (say WHAT?! Yes, first century..) but it didn't get its impressive walls until Raymond of Burgundy commissioned them in 1088. The gothic cathedral inside the city walls began construction in 1107, and took two centuries to fully build. It really is breathtaking. Incredibly high, arched ceilings; ornate woodwork and stained glass; bronze and gold metal work inlaid into the highest points of the ceilings. We spent a fair amount of time walking through the halls and corridors of the cathedral, marvelling at the beauty and craftsmanship that had gone into building it. I had another deeply moving spiritual experience in one of the alcoves, and took many photos to try to capture the atmosphere inside.
Other than the cathedral, there are other churches to admire, and plenty of cobblestoned, winding streets begging you to get lost in. You can climb up some very steep stairs and walk along the fortified wall - which I highly recommend, as not only does it offer spectacular views of the valleys across to the snow-capped mountains in the distance, it also gives you a good angle at which to see the storks nesting on the rooftops, and a view back into the city, to see things you hadn't noticed at ground level.
We spent the afternoon wandering the walls, finding our way back to our car (thank goodness one of us has a good sense of direction..) and buckling up for the drive home. A was kind enough to show me the button for the butt-warmer in my seat (I love his car..) and after my butt had thawed to a reasonable degree, he piped up with "I think I know where I'm going to take you next weekend".
Did I mention I love this man? Dreamy.
Till 'next weekend',
M x
Monday, April 20, 2015
Why are there potato chips in shop windows?
You know what's weird? Well.. a lot of things are. But.. this.. this is particularly odd. Potato chips (crisps, for those playing in the UK) in shop windows. I mean... up against the storefront window, in some kind of glass or perspex giant box. I'm assuming the shopkeep scoops them out and puts them in little baggies for customers who say "I'll have a bag of chips please".. or "Tiene patatas fritos por favor" (check my broken Spanish!). I just find this seriously odd. I mean.. seriously odd. It seems very unhygienic, for one.. also - don't chips go kinda soft and icky when exposed to air and moisture for long periods? Isn't that why they come in those sealed bags? And.. I mean... who wants someone touching their chips? Or sneezing on them? And why chips? SO MANY QUESTIONS!
It's been a good week. I've done a fair amount of walking around our lovely neighbourhood, and the surrounding barrios. We live in Estrella, which translates to 'star', and our street name translates to 'southern cross'. I think that has a lovely bit of kismet to it, a feeling of fated paths crossing, that my home in Spain shares the name of a much loved emblem for my birth home. I've joined a gym at long last - it is a cheerful 5 minute walk across two streets and through a lovely neighbourhood garden. The staff there speak a little English, which is nice. I decided I would tackle going back to my workouts in a very typical 'me' manner, and went all in from day one. By day three I was somewhat crippled, as I'd hit my back and my legs hard on days one and two. I decided a sensible approach would be to rest on Wednesday, and resume my efforts again on Thursday. It was a good strategy, and my body is responding well to the much-needed kick.
Skyped with mum again this morning, got to see my gorgeous little furchild on camera - poor little man looked so confused as to where mummy's voice was coming from. He settled on mum's lap and gave her hand a wash, which was heartwarming to see. Apparently he'd been happily curved up on dad's lap "helping" him read a book (I can picture it right now.. LB shoving his face repeatedly in front of the book to garner more attention from Dad). Mum and I talked about various subjects.. what I've been up to, when am I going to fly to France (she's obsessed, I tell you), when am I going to fly to London to visit my little sister, Amber.. and somehow we got onto the topic of Jill's house in Ipswich. Memory is a funny thing. I remember being 4 years old - I clearly remember the toilet in Jilly's house in Ipswich.. I remember it having a floor to ceiling bookshelf, stuffed full of interesting books and comics.. I remember the pool at that house, with the palm fronds lazily skimming the surface of the water as they danced in the wind to an unheard rhythm. I remember the funny noise her cat, Shimmy, used to make, and how the sunlight would reflect off his impressively glossy coat, his perfectly triangular little Siamese face with its all-knowing eyes. I remember being so small, and watching Jill's kids Sarah and Ben, jumping into the pool sending water splashing everywhere. But I do not remember a conversation I have had with you last week, or this morning. I do not remember if I have taken my daily vitamins. I do not remember sometimes, how I got here (wherever "here" may be at the time). Sometimes I don't remember something you said to me three seconds ago. And yet.. I remember being three, sleepy in my pram as mum and Jill walked around our western suburbs neighbourhood, the sun dappling through the tree leaves overhead, the slightly bumpy feeling of the uneven footpath. I remember the phone number of the house we lived in when I was six years old - the name of the street - the way my sister used to push me down the laundry shute and sometimes I'd get lucky and land on a pile of laundry.. sometimes I wouldn't. I remember tormenting that poor male pheasant coucal with my Fisher Price kazoo - it must've sounded like a mating call from a female because he would go nuts trying to find the phantom bird. But I don't remember friends I made in my twenties, I don't remember people I knew from University (unless of course, we've kept in touch). I'm grateful for the memories I have of my young life. Not that my adult years have been something I wish to forget, but my childhood.. oh my idyllic childhood. The simplicity of being young and taken care of by good, loving parents. When I leave this mortal world, if I have nothing else I wish to remember, this is what I want to think of when I'm drawing my last breath. The warmth of the sun, the sound of my mother's laughter, my father's voice, our dog's bark; the feeling of being small and protected and loved.
Well. I got way off track there.
Surprise surprise - cooking is a big part of my life here. A is a fantastic cook, but I have such joy for it, and I thoroughly enjoy spending a day dreamily leafing through cookbooks, imagining the way things taste, putting together meals in my mind. I found a fantastic kitchenware shop in barrio Centro - as far West as I have been in Madrid of my own accord - and I spent an afternoon in there, going through every item on the overstuffed shelves until I had found the pieces I needed. A flan tin, with removable base - so I can make quiches, flans, cheesecakes. Ceramic baking beads, so I can blind-bake the pastry and avoid disaster. Measuring cups, and spoons, so my cakes don't rise too little, or too much. The kitchenware shop, Alambique, is the culinary equivalent of a well stocked, charismatic old bookstore. I could've curled up and had a nap, blissfully surrounded by my favourite things. They also have a culinary school there, so I think we both know I will be enrolling in one of their courses fairly soon. They do a traditional tapas in Ingles afternoon periodically - that sounds like an excellent idea to me. I believe they're held on Fridays, which means I can then spend the weekend stuffing A full of all the (hopefully) tasty things I've learnt to cook. It is a beautiful part of the city, so I will take a backpack and my D-SLR, and make a day of it.
The weather is supposed to be warming up, but I find myself still in yoga pants and a hoodie at the warmest part of the day. It was positively coldlast night when we left the restaurant to embark upon the journey home. As I huddled against A's lovely broad warm chest for shelter, he assured me that it was indeed a "weird spring". I wonder if this means summer will be mild? We can all live in hope.
Adios, mi amigos.
M x
Spring has sprung, the grass has ris, but you're not allowed to touch it.
Spring has sprung! The grass has ris - I wonder where the birdies is? Outside my kitchen window, as it so turns out, sitting in the tall trees directly in front of our Northern wall (kitchen area), chirping and singing and showing off their glorious feathers to me. I love the views we have from our apartment - views to the North, South and West (East is an internal wall we share with next door - two apartments per floor) are filled with trees and birds and spring loveliness.
What a lovely week I've had. Two weeks into being in Madrid, and I'm starting to get a sense of just how completely different our cultures are. For example. No, you cannot order a beer and a water at the same time, that's just bizarre. BUT you can totally order a wine and a water together, that's acceptable. It's impolite to refuse the 'free-but-not-free' bread. You can sit outside alfresco style if you want to have a drink and maybe a tapa, but it's weird to sit outside if you want to eat. 2:30pm is no man's land between appertivo and lunch. Yes, they have pre-lunch. They also have pre-dinner. It's not just drinks, it's drinks and tapa. I get accused of eating a lot you know, but when a country actively makes you eat twice for each meal - who's really to blame?
We've done several lovely walks around our neighbourhood this past week - it was Easter of course, so A had Thursday and Friday off work, giving us a four day mini holiday together. We spent it mostly at home playing our game side by side (yes yes I know), but we did get out and about each day as well. Friday we went for a glorious three (or so) hour walk, heading South in our neighbourhood so A could show me the best pastry shop our side of town.. then West up the big hill to Retiro, where we meandered for a good hour, watching families, listening to the birdies, talking to the feral cats I found. It was very pleasant, the sun gently warming our faces, the brilliant blue sky framed by semi-naked spring branches scratching young green leaves across the azure heavens. We did a loop and ended up outside Trenque Lauquen (possibly misspelling that horribly) which is the Argentinian restaurant A took me to during my visit last September. They love him there - big warm greetings and lots of smiles and affection.. I met the owner, Sonia, who reminds me of someone I can't quite place. Some spectacular empanadas later and we were refuelled and ready for the twenty minute walk back home. For such a big city, it really is nice to be able to walk the streets at night without fear sinking cold into your bones; I get no spidey sense nearly everywhere I've been. I did stumble upon an alleyway last week when I was trying to short-cut home after doing an extensive amount of shopping (read: it was bloody heavy and I wanted to get home before my arms fell off) and felt those tiny little hairs raise up, so I did a 180 and marched right back up to the main road where I immediately felt safe again. But that's been the only occasion.. for the most part Madrid feels safe, open, no danger lurking in corners, no fear of street harassment (which frankly surprises the hell out of me) or pickpockets. I know we don't live in the "gypsy district" but it has a whole different flavour to other European cities I have visited.
Speaking of beauty.. I'm sure some of you have seen the photo I posted of our garden? Our apartment complex is actually two apartment buildings, and each one has its own big beautiful garden - the exterior hedged and the interior a beautiful lawn complete with big trees and lovely flowers including roses and margaritas (daisies!).. they're idyllic to look at, and that's all you're allowed to do. Look. Each garden is fenced and has a gate that is padlocked. No, residents do not have keys to this padlock (which would make sense to me). It is literally a look-but-don't-touch garden. You're not allowed to sit in there and read a book, or kick a ball with your child, or walk your dog. These are big gardens I'm talking about - half a block each. Beautifully taken care of - but again, you're not allowed to actively enjoy/use them. Does anyone other than me find this terribly strange? Yet another Spanish oddity.
I must move, as I have goals to achieve today, and that won't happen sitting around my living room writing blogs and zoning out remembering all the good times I've had the past week. Goal #1 - find a gym I like. Until then, I'm going to continue to get to know every street, every laneway, every hill, until they're written in my memory like fine threads winding into the overall tapestry that will be my mental Madrid map. And if I happen to see some interesting shoe stores on the way, so be it.
Till next time!
M x
What a lovely week I've had. Two weeks into being in Madrid, and I'm starting to get a sense of just how completely different our cultures are. For example. No, you cannot order a beer and a water at the same time, that's just bizarre. BUT you can totally order a wine and a water together, that's acceptable. It's impolite to refuse the 'free-but-not-free' bread. You can sit outside alfresco style if you want to have a drink and maybe a tapa, but it's weird to sit outside if you want to eat. 2:30pm is no man's land between appertivo and lunch. Yes, they have pre-lunch. They also have pre-dinner. It's not just drinks, it's drinks and tapa. I get accused of eating a lot you know, but when a country actively makes you eat twice for each meal - who's really to blame?
We've done several lovely walks around our neighbourhood this past week - it was Easter of course, so A had Thursday and Friday off work, giving us a four day mini holiday together. We spent it mostly at home playing our game side by side (yes yes I know), but we did get out and about each day as well. Friday we went for a glorious three (or so) hour walk, heading South in our neighbourhood so A could show me the best pastry shop our side of town.. then West up the big hill to Retiro, where we meandered for a good hour, watching families, listening to the birdies, talking to the feral cats I found. It was very pleasant, the sun gently warming our faces, the brilliant blue sky framed by semi-naked spring branches scratching young green leaves across the azure heavens. We did a loop and ended up outside Trenque Lauquen (possibly misspelling that horribly) which is the Argentinian restaurant A took me to during my visit last September. They love him there - big warm greetings and lots of smiles and affection.. I met the owner, Sonia, who reminds me of someone I can't quite place. Some spectacular empanadas later and we were refuelled and ready for the twenty minute walk back home. For such a big city, it really is nice to be able to walk the streets at night without fear sinking cold into your bones; I get no spidey sense nearly everywhere I've been. I did stumble upon an alleyway last week when I was trying to short-cut home after doing an extensive amount of shopping (read: it was bloody heavy and I wanted to get home before my arms fell off) and felt those tiny little hairs raise up, so I did a 180 and marched right back up to the main road where I immediately felt safe again. But that's been the only occasion.. for the most part Madrid feels safe, open, no danger lurking in corners, no fear of street harassment (which frankly surprises the hell out of me) or pickpockets. I know we don't live in the "gypsy district" but it has a whole different flavour to other European cities I have visited.
Speaking of beauty.. I'm sure some of you have seen the photo I posted of our garden? Our apartment complex is actually two apartment buildings, and each one has its own big beautiful garden - the exterior hedged and the interior a beautiful lawn complete with big trees and lovely flowers including roses and margaritas (daisies!).. they're idyllic to look at, and that's all you're allowed to do. Look. Each garden is fenced and has a gate that is padlocked. No, residents do not have keys to this padlock (which would make sense to me). It is literally a look-but-don't-touch garden. You're not allowed to sit in there and read a book, or kick a ball with your child, or walk your dog. These are big gardens I'm talking about - half a block each. Beautifully taken care of - but again, you're not allowed to actively enjoy/use them. Does anyone other than me find this terribly strange? Yet another Spanish oddity.
I must move, as I have goals to achieve today, and that won't happen sitting around my living room writing blogs and zoning out remembering all the good times I've had the past week. Goal #1 - find a gym I like. Until then, I'm going to continue to get to know every street, every laneway, every hill, until they're written in my memory like fine threads winding into the overall tapestry that will be my mental Madrid map. And if I happen to see some interesting shoe stores on the way, so be it.
Till next time!
M x
Segovia.. an expedition back in time
Friday night BF was all excited smiles, telling me we had to go to bed at a reasonable hour so we could get up early as he had plans for us the next day. My clues? "A lot of walking, and a lot of stairs." Uh-huh. I do love a good surprise though, and I have utter and complete trust in this man (there's a first..) so I just smiled back at his gorgeous face and said "sure, let me know if what I'm wearing is OK".
I'm not entirely sure why, but I had assumed we were walking - from the house. We were in fact, not. As he opened my car door for me, I had a small thrill of anticipation, I had absolutely no idea where we were going, but I hoped it had something to do with the mountains I had seen from the highway last week. As it so turns out, he can read minds, because soon we started heading for the mountains, and I relaxed into the very comfortable leather of the passenger seat, and took in the beautiful countryside beginning to unfold itself to us as we zipped out of Madrid's city limits.
Segovia is about 90 mins out of Madrid, nestled in the hills, frozen in time with stunning sandstone buildings, cobblestone streets, and of course, the ancient Roman aqueduct. We parked in the more modern part of the town, and walked our way up steep narrow streets, winding, winding, winding until eventually we were right in front of some of the arches of the aqueduct itself. We did a lot of walking, and then proceeded to climb a lot of stairs. The view from the top was absolutely breathtaking. It is unimaginable - the sheer volume of rock that was chiselled and carved and moved, lifted, to form this masterpiece of engineering. The city itself is such a quaint and picturesque little town, and it captured my heart entirely.
After walking the length of the "ruins" (I use inverted commas because it is in impeccable condition, given it's a couple of thousand of years old), BF wanted to show me an equally ancient cathedral. I've seen a lot of churches, cathedrals and other religious constructs in my time but this was something truly special. I took so many photos I nearly ran out of battery. Gold plated designs in the interior.. stained glass that would rival the beauty of those found in the Catholic churches in Italy.. it is something truly special. I had a spiritual moment inside that caught me very off-guard, and I found I needed to sit and breathe and just let it wash over me. Something spoke to me while I was inside that church, and I heard its message very clearly. As we left I felt so overwhelmed, and wanting to share what I had just experienced, but I couldn't do it justice walking, so we walked to a closeby bar and sat to enjoy appertivo (pre-lunch drink and tapa). After soaking in a villager wedding right next to our table, and then watching a demonstration about something-or-another (loud, annoying, protest elsewhere please..), we made our way through the winding cobblestone streets to the restaurant BF had booked for our lunch.
Boy was it a treat. The local dish is suckling piglet - roasted whole, served with something delicious. BF ordered our food, and I was in heaven. It was complimented beautifully by the vintage red he ordered, and we ate and ate and drank until I thought my pants might burst. It was such a perfect day, and the drive home was filled with views of the gorgeous Spanish countryside.
Segovia is a little slice of heaven. I would happily go there again some day.
Till next time,
M x
I'm not entirely sure why, but I had assumed we were walking - from the house. We were in fact, not. As he opened my car door for me, I had a small thrill of anticipation, I had absolutely no idea where we were going, but I hoped it had something to do with the mountains I had seen from the highway last week. As it so turns out, he can read minds, because soon we started heading for the mountains, and I relaxed into the very comfortable leather of the passenger seat, and took in the beautiful countryside beginning to unfold itself to us as we zipped out of Madrid's city limits.
Segovia is about 90 mins out of Madrid, nestled in the hills, frozen in time with stunning sandstone buildings, cobblestone streets, and of course, the ancient Roman aqueduct. We parked in the more modern part of the town, and walked our way up steep narrow streets, winding, winding, winding until eventually we were right in front of some of the arches of the aqueduct itself. We did a lot of walking, and then proceeded to climb a lot of stairs. The view from the top was absolutely breathtaking. It is unimaginable - the sheer volume of rock that was chiselled and carved and moved, lifted, to form this masterpiece of engineering. The city itself is such a quaint and picturesque little town, and it captured my heart entirely.
After walking the length of the "ruins" (I use inverted commas because it is in impeccable condition, given it's a couple of thousand of years old), BF wanted to show me an equally ancient cathedral. I've seen a lot of churches, cathedrals and other religious constructs in my time but this was something truly special. I took so many photos I nearly ran out of battery. Gold plated designs in the interior.. stained glass that would rival the beauty of those found in the Catholic churches in Italy.. it is something truly special. I had a spiritual moment inside that caught me very off-guard, and I found I needed to sit and breathe and just let it wash over me. Something spoke to me while I was inside that church, and I heard its message very clearly. As we left I felt so overwhelmed, and wanting to share what I had just experienced, but I couldn't do it justice walking, so we walked to a closeby bar and sat to enjoy appertivo (pre-lunch drink and tapa). After soaking in a villager wedding right next to our table, and then watching a demonstration about something-or-another (loud, annoying, protest elsewhere please..), we made our way through the winding cobblestone streets to the restaurant BF had booked for our lunch.
Boy was it a treat. The local dish is suckling piglet - roasted whole, served with something delicious. BF ordered our food, and I was in heaven. It was complimented beautifully by the vintage red he ordered, and we ate and ate and drank until I thought my pants might burst. It was such a perfect day, and the drive home was filled with views of the gorgeous Spanish countryside.
Segovia is a little slice of heaven. I would happily go there again some day.
Till next time,
M x
Adventures in Spanglish: Part 2 (ha! knew it!)
Goodness me. This really was an adventure in Spanglish today. It started off well; I considered where I had walked the past six days, and thought that instead of heading West/North or some combination thereof, I would head West/South. Gasp! Rebellious little me.
Madrid is divided up into neighbourhoods, or barrios, and some are more desirable than others, as is usually the case in large cities. Up to this point, I had been spending my time exploring the salubrious neighbourhoods to the North and West of our neighbourhood (Estrella). Today, I decided I would just wander in a different direction, still in the larger barrio of Retiro, but just go a little further South than I had before. This turned out to be a really, really great idea. Not only did I get to wander through the quaint, cosy and simply beautiful streets of Nino Jesus, I ended up in Pacifico, a cultural melting pot full of immigrants and interesting shops galore. I came because Trip Advisor told my hungry stomach that there was a high rated but low priced restaurant about a mile from where I was standing, and at this point, my phone's internet was working, so I walked south/west/south/west until eventually I came upon the right Calle, and fronted up to the famous restaurant. Which was closed. Bloody hell Madrid, it's 11am! I'm hungry here! So I found a bench, and I sat, and people watched for a good hour. Texted BF to ask if I could expect the restaurant to be open at 12pm.. his response was something like "maybe". Then another text, asking where I was. To which I responded, "I think I'm in Pacifico?". This did not go down well; apparently my now much-liked Pacifico is a somewhat dodgy neighbourhood. Wanting to stay and eat at the restaurant, but also wanting to heed BF's advice, I was torn only briefly, before I reluctantly left my happy spot on the bench, and meandered back to the safer, prettier Nino Jesus instead.
All this walking will make a girl hungry (hey! it'd been a good three hours!), so I decided to try a bar in our local Estrella instead. Boy oh boy, was this a lesson in Spanglish. Naturally, my phone's internet had died again at this point (it hates me, truly), so I was left with literally only the Spanish I could remember, which is insufficient when faced with a waitress who was determined to be stubborn as hell (yes, stubborn. No, not unable to understand English, actually stubborn. Because I found out later she spoke English reasonably well), and a brain that is tired from too much sun & walking and not enough water. I pointed to a few items on the menu, and before I knew it, I was enjoying a beer and boquerones fritos - flash fried boquerones (white anchovies). Delicious! I could get used to all the gorgeous different raciones here - I'm beginning to recognise some of the names which is helpful.
Must run - things to see!
M x
Madrid is divided up into neighbourhoods, or barrios, and some are more desirable than others, as is usually the case in large cities. Up to this point, I had been spending my time exploring the salubrious neighbourhoods to the North and West of our neighbourhood (Estrella). Today, I decided I would just wander in a different direction, still in the larger barrio of Retiro, but just go a little further South than I had before. This turned out to be a really, really great idea. Not only did I get to wander through the quaint, cosy and simply beautiful streets of Nino Jesus, I ended up in Pacifico, a cultural melting pot full of immigrants and interesting shops galore. I came because Trip Advisor told my hungry stomach that there was a high rated but low priced restaurant about a mile from where I was standing, and at this point, my phone's internet was working, so I walked south/west/south/west until eventually I came upon the right Calle, and fronted up to the famous restaurant. Which was closed. Bloody hell Madrid, it's 11am! I'm hungry here! So I found a bench, and I sat, and people watched for a good hour. Texted BF to ask if I could expect the restaurant to be open at 12pm.. his response was something like "maybe". Then another text, asking where I was. To which I responded, "I think I'm in Pacifico?". This did not go down well; apparently my now much-liked Pacifico is a somewhat dodgy neighbourhood. Wanting to stay and eat at the restaurant, but also wanting to heed BF's advice, I was torn only briefly, before I reluctantly left my happy spot on the bench, and meandered back to the safer, prettier Nino Jesus instead.
All this walking will make a girl hungry (hey! it'd been a good three hours!), so I decided to try a bar in our local Estrella instead. Boy oh boy, was this a lesson in Spanglish. Naturally, my phone's internet had died again at this point (it hates me, truly), so I was left with literally only the Spanish I could remember, which is insufficient when faced with a waitress who was determined to be stubborn as hell (yes, stubborn. No, not unable to understand English, actually stubborn. Because I found out later she spoke English reasonably well), and a brain that is tired from too much sun & walking and not enough water. I pointed to a few items on the menu, and before I knew it, I was enjoying a beer and boquerones fritos - flash fried boquerones (white anchovies). Delicious! I could get used to all the gorgeous different raciones here - I'm beginning to recognise some of the names which is helpful.
Must run - things to see!
M x
Friday, September 19, 2014
Adventures in Spanglish: Part 1
I've titled this "Part 1" because I just know that there will be many adventures in Spanglish for this intrepid explorer.. I am learning quickly, very quickly, and am able to understand an awful lot of Spanish which is encouraging, but sadly, unable to communicate back in Spanish, so am having these mildly frustrating but otherwise entertaining psuedo-conversations with the natives. Absolutely undeterred, I head out each day into the wide world and choose a completely different path out of our neighbourhood, seeing if I can expand my mental map of Madrid, and colour it in glorious detail now that I seem to have the bones laid down. By "colour it" I mean "choose a different road and hope to hell I still have good bird-brain because I have no bloody gps on my phone here and I still cannot read road signs or ask for directions from the locals". It appears to be working. Four blocks East, then two blocks North, there is an absolutely divine smelling bread shop, that I have been resisting for two weeks. Opposite it, half a block further North, is a greengrocer, who closes for siesta (will NOT be caught out by that again..). Keep going another two blocks, and you hit Parque del Retiro - or simply "El Retiro". So I did just that - winded my way East/North/East until eventually I saw the Eastern gates marking the entrance to El Retiro.. and I knew from our walk on the weekend, that the Argentinian restaurant boyfriend had taken me to was close-by.
My first lesson in Spanglish, was ordering lunch at the delightful Trenque-Lauquen. After assuring the waiter that it was indeed just me eating (why is this Universally such a hard concept to grasp??), and no, boyfriend was not joining us (he really is loved there), I somehow managed to order a still mineral water instead of a sparkling one - but hey, who cares, it was bloody hot - and three empanadas. Empanadas here are large, very large, and three is a meal. The espinaca (spinach, for those of you playing at home) emmanada was simply a culinary relevation. Very simple ingredients combined to make something that I cannot do justice with words.. but allow me to attempt to convey the experience.
Hot, buttery pastry held between two fingers (only heathens eat empanadas with cutlery BF assures me) that is heavier than it looks, for its size. I blow softly on the first bite, trying to release some of the heat trapped inside this pillow of pastry perfection; crisp, soft, slightly crumbling, leaving small wet marks of grease on my fingertips. The first bite is mostly the twisted, bunched ends of pastry, but even that elicits a small satisfied sigh from my lips. The next bite is more serious; I can see the deep, dark green of the spinach now not so much as hiding inside the pillow, but inviting me to get to know it better. A hit of nutmeg surprises me; the soft, yielding and almost reminiscent of rubber texture of the feta-esque cheese inside adds a layer of textural contrast, and when I find the sweetness of golden raisins married with the gentle bitterness of the spinach, I am officially in heaven. Soon, I discover it really is too hot to eat like this, so I reluctantly put this marvel of food back on my plate, and resort to the very uncouth use of a knife and fork. I make short work of the rest of my espinaca empanada, and its two friends: carne & aceitunas, and queso & cebolla. Very happy, slightly full but not uncomfortably so, I embark upon the Spanglish dance of requesting the bill, and assuring my eager-to-please waiter that I do not need dessert. It is at this point he gives me a message for BF in Spanish which I quickly text across to him before I forget. Apparently it was something lovely, because I get an enthusiastic "thanks to the waiter!" back. Sadly, I cannot remember what was said, and after prompting my beloved, neither can he. Some things will remain a mystery I suppose.
Another walk through El Retiro; grass and leaves alike dappled with the energising afternoon sun, a bird dancing on the almond-coloured sand pathway, daring me to take its photo. I happily oblige, fairly confident the photo will not turn out at all, as I haven't brought my DSL, but am rather using my iPhone which is not so great for action shots. I do love this bird though, and he has become my Tennessee cardinal; my elusive colourful bird who taunts me every other day, flaunting his bright sapphire feathers at me, teasing me with flitting close and then far, never stopping long enough for me to get a decent shot. I haven't seen this bird outside of Madrid and I am quite curious as to what he is, so I will perhaps do some research, squinting at the shoddy photos I have, and come up with a species to satisfy my avian curiosity.
The mission for today, however, is Museo del Prado; one of Europe's premier and oldest art museums. There are two collections on display today - the permanent collection, featuring artists such as Rembrandt, Poussin, Goya; and the temporary exhibitions, one of which is a tribute to El Greco, and includes his works but also works of other artists inspired by him. Picasso, for example.
I do love a good art gallery. I spent hours walking the quiet halls, climbing the old winding staircases and discovering what felt like hidden chambers tucked away inside bigger rooms. The El Greco exhibition was spectacular, his work made my heart fill with feelings of awe, joy, sadness and amazement. If you are unfamiliar with The Adoration of the Name of Jesus, or An Old Gentleman, or Lady in a Fur Wrap; I suggest you make yourself familiar, if and when possible. The talent, the precision, the passion, the ability to tell as story through brushstroke and manipulation of colour and texture is amazing. I don't normally wax lyrical about art, I think a great deal of it is a great deal of wankery.. but some art is just so captivating it truly deserves a mention. At any rate, after I had spent a good hour in the El Greco exhibition alone, absorbing all the works inspired by Jesus Christ and the events surrounding his life, I was probably full-up on what I have dubbed "Jesus art". Sadly, the Prado had different ideas for me. Full you say? Oh no! You can see more! More! MORE! MOOORRREE!!
I ended up leaving the Prado after another hour, because I simply could not survive any more paintings of Jesus on the cross, Jesus' ascension, Jesus being received by God and cherubs and angels and other creepy child-like entities. It seemed everywhere I turned there was JC, looking mournfully at me with bloody wounds to his scrawny pasty body. It began to completely overshadow the experience of the art for me, so I stepped out into the stunning gardens outside, took a few deep breaths of fresh late-summer air, and began the long walk home.
More sunshine, more small children smiling up at me, more little dogs trotting along the footpath, more fast-spoken Spanish, a left, a few rights, and I was home again.
M x
My first lesson in Spanglish, was ordering lunch at the delightful Trenque-Lauquen. After assuring the waiter that it was indeed just me eating (why is this Universally such a hard concept to grasp??), and no, boyfriend was not joining us (he really is loved there), I somehow managed to order a still mineral water instead of a sparkling one - but hey, who cares, it was bloody hot - and three empanadas. Empanadas here are large, very large, and three is a meal. The espinaca (spinach, for those of you playing at home) emmanada was simply a culinary relevation. Very simple ingredients combined to make something that I cannot do justice with words.. but allow me to attempt to convey the experience.
Hot, buttery pastry held between two fingers (only heathens eat empanadas with cutlery BF assures me) that is heavier than it looks, for its size. I blow softly on the first bite, trying to release some of the heat trapped inside this pillow of pastry perfection; crisp, soft, slightly crumbling, leaving small wet marks of grease on my fingertips. The first bite is mostly the twisted, bunched ends of pastry, but even that elicits a small satisfied sigh from my lips. The next bite is more serious; I can see the deep, dark green of the spinach now not so much as hiding inside the pillow, but inviting me to get to know it better. A hit of nutmeg surprises me; the soft, yielding and almost reminiscent of rubber texture of the feta-esque cheese inside adds a layer of textural contrast, and when I find the sweetness of golden raisins married with the gentle bitterness of the spinach, I am officially in heaven. Soon, I discover it really is too hot to eat like this, so I reluctantly put this marvel of food back on my plate, and resort to the very uncouth use of a knife and fork. I make short work of the rest of my espinaca empanada, and its two friends: carne & aceitunas, and queso & cebolla. Very happy, slightly full but not uncomfortably so, I embark upon the Spanglish dance of requesting the bill, and assuring my eager-to-please waiter that I do not need dessert. It is at this point he gives me a message for BF in Spanish which I quickly text across to him before I forget. Apparently it was something lovely, because I get an enthusiastic "thanks to the waiter!" back. Sadly, I cannot remember what was said, and after prompting my beloved, neither can he. Some things will remain a mystery I suppose.
Another walk through El Retiro; grass and leaves alike dappled with the energising afternoon sun, a bird dancing on the almond-coloured sand pathway, daring me to take its photo. I happily oblige, fairly confident the photo will not turn out at all, as I haven't brought my DSL, but am rather using my iPhone which is not so great for action shots. I do love this bird though, and he has become my Tennessee cardinal; my elusive colourful bird who taunts me every other day, flaunting his bright sapphire feathers at me, teasing me with flitting close and then far, never stopping long enough for me to get a decent shot. I haven't seen this bird outside of Madrid and I am quite curious as to what he is, so I will perhaps do some research, squinting at the shoddy photos I have, and come up with a species to satisfy my avian curiosity.
The mission for today, however, is Museo del Prado; one of Europe's premier and oldest art museums. There are two collections on display today - the permanent collection, featuring artists such as Rembrandt, Poussin, Goya; and the temporary exhibitions, one of which is a tribute to El Greco, and includes his works but also works of other artists inspired by him. Picasso, for example.
I do love a good art gallery. I spent hours walking the quiet halls, climbing the old winding staircases and discovering what felt like hidden chambers tucked away inside bigger rooms. The El Greco exhibition was spectacular, his work made my heart fill with feelings of awe, joy, sadness and amazement. If you are unfamiliar with The Adoration of the Name of Jesus, or An Old Gentleman, or Lady in a Fur Wrap; I suggest you make yourself familiar, if and when possible. The talent, the precision, the passion, the ability to tell as story through brushstroke and manipulation of colour and texture is amazing. I don't normally wax lyrical about art, I think a great deal of it is a great deal of wankery.. but some art is just so captivating it truly deserves a mention. At any rate, after I had spent a good hour in the El Greco exhibition alone, absorbing all the works inspired by Jesus Christ and the events surrounding his life, I was probably full-up on what I have dubbed "Jesus art". Sadly, the Prado had different ideas for me. Full you say? Oh no! You can see more! More! MORE! MOOORRREE!!
I ended up leaving the Prado after another hour, because I simply could not survive any more paintings of Jesus on the cross, Jesus' ascension, Jesus being received by God and cherubs and angels and other creepy child-like entities. It seemed everywhere I turned there was JC, looking mournfully at me with bloody wounds to his scrawny pasty body. It began to completely overshadow the experience of the art for me, so I stepped out into the stunning gardens outside, took a few deep breaths of fresh late-summer air, and began the long walk home.
More sunshine, more small children smiling up at me, more little dogs trotting along the footpath, more fast-spoken Spanish, a left, a few rights, and I was home again.
M x
Thursday, September 18, 2014
Day One of Solo Madrid
Now that the weekend is over, and my beloved has gone back to work, I find myself with at least eight hours a day in which to explore Madrid solo. I think we all know I'm good at solo travel; so this is hardly a problem. Where to start, is more the problem. I have my usual Lonely Planet guide to the city, and Trip Advisor has lots of suggestions for me as well. I decide that walking is my best bet, and head off in a vague direction of North-West. I have tried explaining to my boyfriend that I have an excellent sense of direction; we'll see, shall we? Soon I am deep in the Retiro barrio (neighbourhood), and feeling reasonably confident that I am heading in the right direction, I continue pounding pavement, until eventually - yes! I see Parque del Retiro - the beautifully landscaped inner-city park he took me to the day prior, to look at the rose gardens. Such a romantic. The map of our neighbourhood is coming together in my head nicely, and feeling confident, I spend some time wandering through Retiro park. It is just so beautiful, with the autumn colours beginning to creep into the otherwise lush and dense foliage luxuriously lining hundreds of trees. The sand pathways are a subtle contrast to the brilliance of the blue sky, the soothing greenery and the black lacework of the metal fences and lamp posts that line the park's paths. Birds live here, happily and plentifully, and my heart soars to hear their singing; it is at this moment that I know I will spend a lot of time in Parque del Retiro.
I spend probably a good forty-five minutes wandering through the park, using my bird-brain to guide me to the centre of Madrid. I saw some beautiful statues atop buildings yesterday that I really want to capture decent photographs of, and the afternoon sun was doing them no justice yesterday, so armed with my beloved Nikon, I keep winding my way West until eventually I see Puerta de Alcalá; one of the gates of Madrid. It is a landmark; a shining beacon telling me I am indeed going the right way and my sense of direction is working fine. Filled with a deep happiness and satisfaction at making it this far (I mean come on, let's face it - I don't read Spanish very well, and I don't even know what the places I want to get to are called at this point so it's not like I can stop and ask for directions), I continue past the beautiful monument that used to be part of an extensive city wall system, built in 1778. I'm deep in downtown territory now, and am rewarded with more and more historical buildings kept in mint condition, until I reach the piece de résistance - the Plaza de Cibeles. I cannot begin to tell you how beautiful it is; the fountain in the centre of the roundabout, the white buildings surrounding it on three sides, the quaint and terribly private park on the other. I stop for a few moments to take it in, to absorb its beauty, and finally to take a few photos that I know will do it no justice, but hopefully will at least be refreshers for my memory in months to come.
I walk another half an hour, and am suddenly acutely aware that I haven't eaten anything at all today, and it is easily 1pm. I am filled with a sense of purpose; I must find the Mercardo san Miguel, and I simply must eat as much tapas there as I can possibly manage. West! West! Keep moving west! I arrive at the Mercardo and am overwhelmed by choice. I know I have to try new things, but the gulas and croquetas are on my "must eat again" list.. and so I do. I eat and eat until I can no longer; stuffed olives, cured meats, cheese, beautifully presented tapas for as little as 1 Euro. Finally, I have had my fill, met two French tourists and decide it would be a good idea to walk off the near-overindulgence of lunch. I spend my afternoon walking downtown Madrid and smiling; smiling at the other tourists, smiling at the locals going about their business, smiling at the beautiful blue sky and the warmth of summer's last days on my skin. I see all the litter, the homeless, the filth and grunge and grit in the historical streets, but I see the beauty, the hope of newly constructed buildings, the smiles on the many latino faces that I go past. Madrid is beginning to feel quite comfortable to me, and I've only been here a handful of days. A sign of good things to come.
M x
I spend probably a good forty-five minutes wandering through the park, using my bird-brain to guide me to the centre of Madrid. I saw some beautiful statues atop buildings yesterday that I really want to capture decent photographs of, and the afternoon sun was doing them no justice yesterday, so armed with my beloved Nikon, I keep winding my way West until eventually I see Puerta de Alcalá; one of the gates of Madrid. It is a landmark; a shining beacon telling me I am indeed going the right way and my sense of direction is working fine. Filled with a deep happiness and satisfaction at making it this far (I mean come on, let's face it - I don't read Spanish very well, and I don't even know what the places I want to get to are called at this point so it's not like I can stop and ask for directions), I continue past the beautiful monument that used to be part of an extensive city wall system, built in 1778. I'm deep in downtown territory now, and am rewarded with more and more historical buildings kept in mint condition, until I reach the piece de résistance - the Plaza de Cibeles. I cannot begin to tell you how beautiful it is; the fountain in the centre of the roundabout, the white buildings surrounding it on three sides, the quaint and terribly private park on the other. I stop for a few moments to take it in, to absorb its beauty, and finally to take a few photos that I know will do it no justice, but hopefully will at least be refreshers for my memory in months to come.
I walk another half an hour, and am suddenly acutely aware that I haven't eaten anything at all today, and it is easily 1pm. I am filled with a sense of purpose; I must find the Mercardo san Miguel, and I simply must eat as much tapas there as I can possibly manage. West! West! Keep moving west! I arrive at the Mercardo and am overwhelmed by choice. I know I have to try new things, but the gulas and croquetas are on my "must eat again" list.. and so I do. I eat and eat until I can no longer; stuffed olives, cured meats, cheese, beautifully presented tapas for as little as 1 Euro. Finally, I have had my fill, met two French tourists and decide it would be a good idea to walk off the near-overindulgence of lunch. I spend my afternoon walking downtown Madrid and smiling; smiling at the other tourists, smiling at the locals going about their business, smiling at the beautiful blue sky and the warmth of summer's last days on my skin. I see all the litter, the homeless, the filth and grunge and grit in the historical streets, but I see the beauty, the hope of newly constructed buildings, the smiles on the many latino faces that I go past. Madrid is beginning to feel quite comfortable to me, and I've only been here a handful of days. A sign of good things to come.
M x
Madrid... Latinos... Latin America... America?
So I'm in Madrid, Spain. I figure if you squint hard enough and extrapolate like I did in the title of this blog, it's passable to include it in my America travel diary. I have to admit, it is very, very odd being on holidays in a country that isn't the USA, and even more odd to be on holidays with my boyfriend. Not that he's on holidays; he lives here. But, after the past however long of travelling solo, and spending all my free time and money exploring the USA.. it's a bit of a culture shock. Sure, the language is different (unless you're talking So Cal, in which case you'd be used to hearing Spanish) but it's more than that.. it's a whole world apart from the Southern Hospitality I've been used to the last few years. Spaniards are strange, but wonderful. Siesta does my head in like you wouldn't believe, and it seems to be the time every single day where I decide I need something from the shops, only to find out yet again that most shops are closed mid-afternoon.
I debated writing a blog for this trip, because strictly speaking, I'm not here on holidays. Yes, sure I'm in a different country and I'm not working and I'm exploring the city and sightseeing - so it is a holiday - but that's not the purpose of my being here. I'm here to meet and spend time with the man I met months ago online, and figure out if we work as a couple, and whether we can visualise a life together. The answer, thus far, dear readers - is yes. I could spend the entire blog waxing lyrical about how wonderful he is, how in love I am, how he's everything I never even knew I wanted in a partner.. but I imagine that'd get tiresome pretty quickly, and given the purpose of my blogs is to remind me of my travels I think I should stay on-point. I can't see me forgetting how smitten I am any time soon!
Madrid - weekend #!. Emirates loses my bags. Somewhere in Dubai, apparently. OK, not a problem. I'm just so happy to arrive alive and to finally be able to put my arms around said amazing man, that I don't much care my presents for him or my beloved camera are MIA. We went shopping, at El Corte Ingles, a major department store to the North-West of his apartment. Had a lovely time shopping for essentials (think underwear, clothes, perfume etc) and just grinning like fools at each other. Listening to Spaniards roll their "r's" and speak with a warmth and openness that is typically European was both a culture shock and a delight to witness. Tapas, or Pinchos, for lunch. I let him choose everything. Dish after dish of delicious and very different to my usual white man food arrives. I eat slowly; he pops the whole thing in his mouth and it's done in one or two bites. Lots of people watching. Lots of smiling. I notice that the girls here are slight of build, wearing underwear for shorts, long lean tanned legs lengthened by the high cut line of their short shorts. Mad gesticulating. Everyone smokes. And I do mean EVERYONE. It's hot; hotter than I've felt in a long while but not suffocatingly so because of the utter lack of humidity. My hair responds by rebelling into greasy here, dry there and peaks & horns everywhere. Litter - everywhere. All over the streets. What an absolute shame to denigrate the beauty of these otherwise beautifully manicured streets with their quaint shuttered windowed buildings! Lots of smoking, lots of cigarette butts all over the streets, the gardens. Madrid isn't going to win "cleanest city" award any time soon. Strange smells in alleyways; probably the homeless population meeting with the over-abundance of pet dogs being walked everywhere I look.
Buildings yawn up into the sky like sleepy mythical giants; shuttered windows remind me of eyelashes framing huge rectangular eyes like powder-blue lacework. The afternoon sun beats down from a perfectly blue sky, both warming and scorching, depending on where you stand in the street. I'm suddenly thirsty, realising I haven't drunk anywhere near enough water to combat the drying effect of the Madrid heat. We cross another street, and make our way past al fresco dining as it is now well and truly Spanish lunch hour. I do not understand how folks can eat breakfast at 7am but have lunch at 2pm and dinner at 9pm. My poor stomach is going to protest, I just know it.
Finally, after more shopping, more public displays of affection (I cannot help it; it's been too long that I've been unable to touch the man I love), more fanning myself to combat the heat - we head home. Tired, happy, brimming with new love.
I debated writing a blog for this trip, because strictly speaking, I'm not here on holidays. Yes, sure I'm in a different country and I'm not working and I'm exploring the city and sightseeing - so it is a holiday - but that's not the purpose of my being here. I'm here to meet and spend time with the man I met months ago online, and figure out if we work as a couple, and whether we can visualise a life together. The answer, thus far, dear readers - is yes. I could spend the entire blog waxing lyrical about how wonderful he is, how in love I am, how he's everything I never even knew I wanted in a partner.. but I imagine that'd get tiresome pretty quickly, and given the purpose of my blogs is to remind me of my travels I think I should stay on-point. I can't see me forgetting how smitten I am any time soon!
Madrid - weekend #!. Emirates loses my bags. Somewhere in Dubai, apparently. OK, not a problem. I'm just so happy to arrive alive and to finally be able to put my arms around said amazing man, that I don't much care my presents for him or my beloved camera are MIA. We went shopping, at El Corte Ingles, a major department store to the North-West of his apartment. Had a lovely time shopping for essentials (think underwear, clothes, perfume etc) and just grinning like fools at each other. Listening to Spaniards roll their "r's" and speak with a warmth and openness that is typically European was both a culture shock and a delight to witness. Tapas, or Pinchos, for lunch. I let him choose everything. Dish after dish of delicious and very different to my usual white man food arrives. I eat slowly; he pops the whole thing in his mouth and it's done in one or two bites. Lots of people watching. Lots of smiling. I notice that the girls here are slight of build, wearing underwear for shorts, long lean tanned legs lengthened by the high cut line of their short shorts. Mad gesticulating. Everyone smokes. And I do mean EVERYONE. It's hot; hotter than I've felt in a long while but not suffocatingly so because of the utter lack of humidity. My hair responds by rebelling into greasy here, dry there and peaks & horns everywhere. Litter - everywhere. All over the streets. What an absolute shame to denigrate the beauty of these otherwise beautifully manicured streets with their quaint shuttered windowed buildings! Lots of smoking, lots of cigarette butts all over the streets, the gardens. Madrid isn't going to win "cleanest city" award any time soon. Strange smells in alleyways; probably the homeless population meeting with the over-abundance of pet dogs being walked everywhere I look.
Buildings yawn up into the sky like sleepy mythical giants; shuttered windows remind me of eyelashes framing huge rectangular eyes like powder-blue lacework. The afternoon sun beats down from a perfectly blue sky, both warming and scorching, depending on where you stand in the street. I'm suddenly thirsty, realising I haven't drunk anywhere near enough water to combat the drying effect of the Madrid heat. We cross another street, and make our way past al fresco dining as it is now well and truly Spanish lunch hour. I do not understand how folks can eat breakfast at 7am but have lunch at 2pm and dinner at 9pm. My poor stomach is going to protest, I just know it.
Finally, after more shopping, more public displays of affection (I cannot help it; it's been too long that I've been unable to touch the man I love), more fanning myself to combat the heat - we head home. Tired, happy, brimming with new love.
Thursday, June 6, 2013
Eureka Springs is a quaint little place. Its main streets are deep in the valley between two ridges; its shops terraced along the steep, curving streets cut out of the cliff rock.
I arrived at The Crescent Hotel a little worse for wear after my GPS going into melt-down mode when the grid structure Americans use to navigate their towns failed to work due to the actual roads following the cliffs and ridges instead of a neat pattern of grids. Numerous times I was instructed to turn right literally off the edge of a cliff; it is enough to make you paranoid that your iPhone is out to get you. As I climbed higher and higher I could see an impressive structure perched on the edge of the tallest ridge, its presence imposing and demanding attention against the green surrounding forest. When I finally ignored my GPS and made my own way using sense of direction, I breathed a huge sigh of relief as I saw the looming "The Crescent Hotel, est 1886" sign marking the entrance to the car park. I pulled in, and felt a wave of joy sweep over me, for the Hotel truly is magnificent, the grounds manicured in a perfect echo of the old time glory of the building itself. My joy was short lived however, when upon impulse I decided to check my itinerary (something I hadn't done in days), and to my dismay discovered that I was meant to be staying at The Arkansas House in Jasper - a town I'd passed through around four hours earlier. Worse yet - I'd already paid (in full) for this hotel room. Dangnabit!! Not to be disheartened, I rang the owner and apologised profusely and explained my predicament, and he gruffly agreed to refund my room and promptly hung up on me. Oh well, at least I got a good outcome, I told myself as I shook it off and made my way to the grand entrance of the Crescent. Old world manners live here, and I was greeted by a dashing young man opening the huge silver and glass door for me. In a matter of minutes, I had: patted one very cute cat who reminds me uncannily of Henri Le Chat Noir; been given the king balcony suite with jacuzzi for $99 instead of the initially quoted $269; and handed a glass of raspberry iced tea by one of the lovely hotel staff. I have to say, I felt rather chuffed at this point. I booked in for the 8pm hotel ghost tour and took my suitcase upstairs to the awaiting luxury suite. It really is a thing of beauty - massive antique king bed made from cherrywood, delightful curtains complementing the wallpaper, huge jacuzzi positioned to look over the balcony but with white gauzy curtains for privacy (the balcony is shared between two suites). The balcony itself was wonderful - massive, compared with the usual balconies I've had attached to hotel rooms - you could easily host a part of 30 out there. Lovely garden furniture, including tables with mosaic crescent moon symbols inlaid on the table tops. Best of all, I had been given a suite with a view of the valley and the opposing southern ridge. Beautiful. Make sure you check out the photos of the view and the "HC" hedge seen by looking directly down from my balcony. I decided a long hot jacuzzi with book in hand and balcony doors wide open to let in the mist was just what the doctor ordered.
The Crescent Hotel has been many things in its long life, one of which is a hotel set up for the rich and famous, indeed only those on the elite invitation list were able to come and holiday there for quite some time. Quite on the opposite end of the spectrum, a torture house and morgue for wealthy elite suffering from cancer. Advertised as a cancer-curing treatment retreat, the unscrupulous new owner (bought from the original owner after the great depression set in and no one could afford lavish hotel stays anymore) had no idea how to cure cancer, and was only interested in making a quick buck rather than actually treating people. He injected them seven times a day with a horrid concoction of herbs and acid. Many people tried to write their relatives to tell them that the 'treatments' were hurting them worse than their original disease, however his racket wasn't discovered for many, many years. When you entered the treatment facility, he would have you sign a blank letter. If you happened to die at the facility, he would fill in the blank letter with something along the lines of "I'm great! Improved dramatically, very happy, keep the cheques coming!" and post it to your family. In addition to treating your cancer, it was supposed to be a nice retreat, a break away from the stressful 'real life' back home. Well, many of his patients were in agony from their illness, and doubly so from their treatments. Some people in severe pain have been known to moan, wail, and even scream. Well this was disrupting the other guests' stay, so he had reinforced steel rooms built to be completely soundproof, so he could put these noisy creatures in and shut the door, and not have the peace disturbed for the other patients. As you can imagine, being locked up, writhing in pain and near death's door... many of these poor folk who died in these rooms aren't the most restful of souls. Indeed so many people died, he had to build a morgue in the basement of the hotel, to cope with the bodies. I'm sure by now you're getting a picture of the people who haunt this building, and why they're so unhappy and restless. The ghost tour was informative and very interesting; I realised I had already encountered two of the phenomenon earlier in the afternoon. I was out on the back porch, enjoying the view when I could smell the beautiful sweet scent of fruit tobacco, and I thought at the time how odd it was, because no one else was on the back porch with me, and I couldn't see anyone walking the gardens either. I did a bit of a sniff around and strangely, the scent was gone as quickly as it had come. Later on that night, we were told about one of the doctors who worked at the original hotel (as an on site doctor for the wealthy hotel guests) who was always seen wandering around with a pipe in his hand, his tobacco of choice? Cherry flavoured. Apparently it's quite common to smell the tobacco in small whiffs every now and then, and his ghost has actually been seen several times, crossing from the elevator across the hallway into his old office.
I did love this hotel, with all its quirks and freaky sensations and even the trip to the morgue which was slightly terrifying, was also enjoyable. Incidentally, SyFy did a show on The Crescent Hotel, and two amateur ghost hunters went down to the morgue with a thermal camera, and captured a rather creepy very clear image of a man standing in what appeared to be a civil war uniform, right next to one of the ghost hunters. Freaky, freaky stuff. I stood in the spot where this was caught on film and it was a little unnerving - the ghost caught on film didn't exactly look like he wanted to be best friends.
Slightly unnerved, I headed back to my room to try to get some sleep.. which just didn't happen. A combination of me being paranoid, and the ghosts (and guests) making all their unwelcome noises kept me waking every few hours. I packed up all my kit (which by now had grown to almost unmentionable size) and lugged it downstairs, unsure what I'd be doing for the day, but knowing that I wasn't going to stay another night in a hotel I just cannot sleep in, no matter how comfortable.
I drove towards downtown, wondering what I'd do for breakfast, when I happened to see a little house with a sandwich board sign out the front, advertising Oscar's Café. BINGO! What better way to get to know the locals, than get to know the locals off the beaten path? This proved to be a really wonderful idea, as the delightful English & American couple were happy to let me sit and plan my day, and he took time out of the kitchen to make suggestions and draw me a very helpful mud map. The homemade bagel with smoked salmon and massive side salad with absolutely perfect light lemon vinaigrette was a total hit. I walked in at the same time as a man covered in glitter, and as he twinkled in front of me, and ordered the same meal as me, I decided I'd like to get to know him. He turned to me once we'd ordered at the counter and said "so! where are we sitting?" YES. We chose a table on the porch and got to know each other. Sparky hails from Hot Springs, and is relatively new to Eureka Springs, but is finding everyone delightfully whacky (like attracts like!), and was in the process of getting ready for the afternoon's art street fair. I do now, with the benefit of hindsight, sincerely wish I'd just taken his hand and said "lead on!", but silly me, I thought I'd visit Branson. If you're ever in Eureka Springs, go and pay them a visit. The street is gorgeous - residential, so not covered in tourists - the house is very sweet and quirky, and the food is so good and healthful you'll forget you're in America.
One of the places the owner/chef had suggested was Black Bass Lake - a totally off the beaten path, not even signed, down a gravel road and round a few bends, locals' spot. You can walk the perimeter of the lake, take in its beauty, observe the wildlife, fish, sunbake - whatever takes your fancy. I did just that - whatever took my fancy - and spent a whole lot of time getting good photos of beautiful bright blue butterflies.
Downtown Eureka Springs is a gorgeously quaint little town; its shops built into cuts in the ridges, terraced shops lining both sides of the winding, climbing street. Dangerously steep in places, ramshackle (but not unsightly) in others, squeal-worthy cute in some - the two main streets were definitely worth the few hours I devoted to walking them.
But as is life, all good things must come to an end, and I was as far North in Arkansas as I could be, so the next stop was Missouri. I bode Eureka Springs and Arkansas a very fond farewell, and began the climb into the mountains to cross the border. Another beautiful countryside and forest drive, and I was over the border, and into the grand lakes of Southern Missouri.
If you'd like to see some photos, click here.
Till next time,
M x
I arrived at The Crescent Hotel a little worse for wear after my GPS going into melt-down mode when the grid structure Americans use to navigate their towns failed to work due to the actual roads following the cliffs and ridges instead of a neat pattern of grids. Numerous times I was instructed to turn right literally off the edge of a cliff; it is enough to make you paranoid that your iPhone is out to get you. As I climbed higher and higher I could see an impressive structure perched on the edge of the tallest ridge, its presence imposing and demanding attention against the green surrounding forest. When I finally ignored my GPS and made my own way using sense of direction, I breathed a huge sigh of relief as I saw the looming "The Crescent Hotel, est 1886" sign marking the entrance to the car park. I pulled in, and felt a wave of joy sweep over me, for the Hotel truly is magnificent, the grounds manicured in a perfect echo of the old time glory of the building itself. My joy was short lived however, when upon impulse I decided to check my itinerary (something I hadn't done in days), and to my dismay discovered that I was meant to be staying at The Arkansas House in Jasper - a town I'd passed through around four hours earlier. Worse yet - I'd already paid (in full) for this hotel room. Dangnabit!! Not to be disheartened, I rang the owner and apologised profusely and explained my predicament, and he gruffly agreed to refund my room and promptly hung up on me. Oh well, at least I got a good outcome, I told myself as I shook it off and made my way to the grand entrance of the Crescent. Old world manners live here, and I was greeted by a dashing young man opening the huge silver and glass door for me. In a matter of minutes, I had: patted one very cute cat who reminds me uncannily of Henri Le Chat Noir; been given the king balcony suite with jacuzzi for $99 instead of the initially quoted $269; and handed a glass of raspberry iced tea by one of the lovely hotel staff. I have to say, I felt rather chuffed at this point. I booked in for the 8pm hotel ghost tour and took my suitcase upstairs to the awaiting luxury suite. It really is a thing of beauty - massive antique king bed made from cherrywood, delightful curtains complementing the wallpaper, huge jacuzzi positioned to look over the balcony but with white gauzy curtains for privacy (the balcony is shared between two suites). The balcony itself was wonderful - massive, compared with the usual balconies I've had attached to hotel rooms - you could easily host a part of 30 out there. Lovely garden furniture, including tables with mosaic crescent moon symbols inlaid on the table tops. Best of all, I had been given a suite with a view of the valley and the opposing southern ridge. Beautiful. Make sure you check out the photos of the view and the "HC" hedge seen by looking directly down from my balcony. I decided a long hot jacuzzi with book in hand and balcony doors wide open to let in the mist was just what the doctor ordered.
The Crescent Hotel has been many things in its long life, one of which is a hotel set up for the rich and famous, indeed only those on the elite invitation list were able to come and holiday there for quite some time. Quite on the opposite end of the spectrum, a torture house and morgue for wealthy elite suffering from cancer. Advertised as a cancer-curing treatment retreat, the unscrupulous new owner (bought from the original owner after the great depression set in and no one could afford lavish hotel stays anymore) had no idea how to cure cancer, and was only interested in making a quick buck rather than actually treating people. He injected them seven times a day with a horrid concoction of herbs and acid. Many people tried to write their relatives to tell them that the 'treatments' were hurting them worse than their original disease, however his racket wasn't discovered for many, many years. When you entered the treatment facility, he would have you sign a blank letter. If you happened to die at the facility, he would fill in the blank letter with something along the lines of "I'm great! Improved dramatically, very happy, keep the cheques coming!" and post it to your family. In addition to treating your cancer, it was supposed to be a nice retreat, a break away from the stressful 'real life' back home. Well, many of his patients were in agony from their illness, and doubly so from their treatments. Some people in severe pain have been known to moan, wail, and even scream. Well this was disrupting the other guests' stay, so he had reinforced steel rooms built to be completely soundproof, so he could put these noisy creatures in and shut the door, and not have the peace disturbed for the other patients. As you can imagine, being locked up, writhing in pain and near death's door... many of these poor folk who died in these rooms aren't the most restful of souls. Indeed so many people died, he had to build a morgue in the basement of the hotel, to cope with the bodies. I'm sure by now you're getting a picture of the people who haunt this building, and why they're so unhappy and restless. The ghost tour was informative and very interesting; I realised I had already encountered two of the phenomenon earlier in the afternoon. I was out on the back porch, enjoying the view when I could smell the beautiful sweet scent of fruit tobacco, and I thought at the time how odd it was, because no one else was on the back porch with me, and I couldn't see anyone walking the gardens either. I did a bit of a sniff around and strangely, the scent was gone as quickly as it had come. Later on that night, we were told about one of the doctors who worked at the original hotel (as an on site doctor for the wealthy hotel guests) who was always seen wandering around with a pipe in his hand, his tobacco of choice? Cherry flavoured. Apparently it's quite common to smell the tobacco in small whiffs every now and then, and his ghost has actually been seen several times, crossing from the elevator across the hallway into his old office.
I did love this hotel, with all its quirks and freaky sensations and even the trip to the morgue which was slightly terrifying, was also enjoyable. Incidentally, SyFy did a show on The Crescent Hotel, and two amateur ghost hunters went down to the morgue with a thermal camera, and captured a rather creepy very clear image of a man standing in what appeared to be a civil war uniform, right next to one of the ghost hunters. Freaky, freaky stuff. I stood in the spot where this was caught on film and it was a little unnerving - the ghost caught on film didn't exactly look like he wanted to be best friends.
Slightly unnerved, I headed back to my room to try to get some sleep.. which just didn't happen. A combination of me being paranoid, and the ghosts (and guests) making all their unwelcome noises kept me waking every few hours. I packed up all my kit (which by now had grown to almost unmentionable size) and lugged it downstairs, unsure what I'd be doing for the day, but knowing that I wasn't going to stay another night in a hotel I just cannot sleep in, no matter how comfortable.
I drove towards downtown, wondering what I'd do for breakfast, when I happened to see a little house with a sandwich board sign out the front, advertising Oscar's Café. BINGO! What better way to get to know the locals, than get to know the locals off the beaten path? This proved to be a really wonderful idea, as the delightful English & American couple were happy to let me sit and plan my day, and he took time out of the kitchen to make suggestions and draw me a very helpful mud map. The homemade bagel with smoked salmon and massive side salad with absolutely perfect light lemon vinaigrette was a total hit. I walked in at the same time as a man covered in glitter, and as he twinkled in front of me, and ordered the same meal as me, I decided I'd like to get to know him. He turned to me once we'd ordered at the counter and said "so! where are we sitting?" YES. We chose a table on the porch and got to know each other. Sparky hails from Hot Springs, and is relatively new to Eureka Springs, but is finding everyone delightfully whacky (like attracts like!), and was in the process of getting ready for the afternoon's art street fair. I do now, with the benefit of hindsight, sincerely wish I'd just taken his hand and said "lead on!", but silly me, I thought I'd visit Branson. If you're ever in Eureka Springs, go and pay them a visit. The street is gorgeous - residential, so not covered in tourists - the house is very sweet and quirky, and the food is so good and healthful you'll forget you're in America.
One of the places the owner/chef had suggested was Black Bass Lake - a totally off the beaten path, not even signed, down a gravel road and round a few bends, locals' spot. You can walk the perimeter of the lake, take in its beauty, observe the wildlife, fish, sunbake - whatever takes your fancy. I did just that - whatever took my fancy - and spent a whole lot of time getting good photos of beautiful bright blue butterflies.
Downtown Eureka Springs is a gorgeously quaint little town; its shops built into cuts in the ridges, terraced shops lining both sides of the winding, climbing street. Dangerously steep in places, ramshackle (but not unsightly) in others, squeal-worthy cute in some - the two main streets were definitely worth the few hours I devoted to walking them.
But as is life, all good things must come to an end, and I was as far North in Arkansas as I could be, so the next stop was Missouri. I bode Eureka Springs and Arkansas a very fond farewell, and began the climb into the mountains to cross the border. Another beautiful countryside and forest drive, and I was over the border, and into the grand lakes of Southern Missouri.
If you'd like to see some photos, click here.
Till next time,
M x
Friday, May 17, 2013
Gangsters, sassy madams & crooked politicians: the childhood home of Bill Clinton
The drive up Highway 7 from Little Rock was all it promised: beautiful sweeping views of the valleys and mountains; and stunning old forest growth lining each side of the road, the canopy almost touching overhead as the road curves and bends its merry way north. Wildflowers grow abundantly either side of the one-lane 'highway'; the concrete almost forgotten with such a bounty of nature right in front of you.
I arrived into Hot Springs and happily settled into my hotel for a well-deserved rest. I was even happier to discover how well I'd chosen; my room was not only plush and comfortable but overlooked Lake Catherine - a beautiful sight indeed.
Hot Springs is an interesting old town, it has seen many different eras. I suppose none so as interesting as the Roaring 20's, when Leo P McLaughlin was elected Mayor, and proceeded to announce to anyone who was interested, that he was only too happy to take bribes for himself and his police force, to look the other way at the illegal gambling and brothels that had begun to pop up in the town. So a golden era was born for Hot Springs. Infamous gangsters such as "Lucky" Luciano, and Al Capone came to call it their home away from home. So prevalent were the gangsters escaping the law from up North, that the town began to thrive on illegal gambling, with Leo boldly declaring that as long as the gangsters kept their crime (other than the gambling and whorehousing) out of Hot Springs, he would happily not notify the Northern authorities that they were in town, and leave them in peace. Hot Springs, so named for the many underground springs that welled up and provided essential healing and luxurious bathing, became the gangster holiday city of choice. 1927 - 1947 was the pinnacle for wealth and tourism in the area, with the architectural masterpiece Arlington Hotel being rebuilt for the third time in 1925. Suite 443 was the long-standing favoured suite of Al Capone, and often he would rent out the entire floor to ensure his privacy. Gangsters during this period, were the equivalent of Hollywood A-listers today, so an elaborate set of underground tunnels were used to provide the gangsters with a means of getting around the city without being frequently spotted and harassed for photos or their autographs.
Much to the disgust of the gangsters, brothel madams and undoubtedly the local police and other mayoral authorities, Rockefeller was elected Governor of Arkansas and began a campaign to bring illegal gambling to a close. In 1967 he succeeded, and Hot Springs was no longer the mecca for all things salacious as it had been in the forty previous years.
For the next twenty or so years, the city fell into decline. Indeed it wasn't really until after Bill Clinton was elected President, and the town received a boon of money to rebuild, than Hot Springs started to re-become a holiday destination in the area. Subsequently there are two sides to Hot Springs; the historic downtown district that encompasses Bathhouse Row and many other beautiful old buildings, and the almost derelict outskirts which I drove through with my windows up and my doors locked.
With two beautiful blue lakes in the town, and plenty of natural forest to provide that jade-green backdrop, Hot Springs is a lovely place to look at (if you don't go too far West and end up in the derelict areas..). North of the downtown area is a woodland called Garvan Woodland Gardens, where you can stroll around and see many beautiful trees and wildflowers. It even has a wildlife viewing area, although I didn't get so far on my walking tour, as it was blazing hot and even with my broad-brimmed hat on and my face slathered in sunscreen, I could feel the heat chipping away at my resolve step by step.
Day two in Hot Springs and I was ensconced in the Gangster Museum of America - quite an interesting step through history run by a very sweet young gentleman who offered to show me around town and pointed out some 'must see' attractions along Bathhouse Row to me. Once I'd had my fill of lazily wandering around taking happy snaps, I hopped back in my trust red mobile and headed North again along Highway 7. I had heard that Highway 7 North of Hot Springs was the most scenic of the self-named "scenic byway", and I was very much looking forward to drinking in the beauty of the wilderness as I drove North to Russellville. I imagine this stretch of highway to be particularly gorgeous (having seen some photos in the tourism brochures), but unfortunately for me, due to incredibly heavy fog, I barely saw a tree the entire three hours I drove North. At some points, particularly high in the mountains, the fog was so dense I couldn't see more than 10 metres in front of the car. Which is why the 90 minute drive took me three hours. While I still had GPS reception, I was actually relying on the little image on my iPhone screen to advise whether the road ahead was curving left or right. Disappointing, yes, but beautiful in its own haunting and ethereal kind of way.
Finally the fog cleared a bit as I descended the mountains and came to the Petit Jean State Park I had so been looking forward to hiking. I came to the visitors information centre, and proceeded to grab a trail map, when suddenly the light mist turned to dense fog, and then rain. Decidedly against getting soaked and lost in the wilderness, I jumped back in my car, sighed and headed North again for Russellville. Which by the way, is not a destination - it was simply a place to lay my head for the evening, without having to press too much further North.
Arkansas certainly delivers on its title of The Natural State. It is very easy to forget that you're only a few hours from the bustling metropolis of Memphis when your one-lane road bends and winds its way through mountains and valleys that are lush and green and filled with the noise of insects and movements of bigger things.
Chat soon,
M x
I arrived into Hot Springs and happily settled into my hotel for a well-deserved rest. I was even happier to discover how well I'd chosen; my room was not only plush and comfortable but overlooked Lake Catherine - a beautiful sight indeed.
Hot Springs is an interesting old town, it has seen many different eras. I suppose none so as interesting as the Roaring 20's, when Leo P McLaughlin was elected Mayor, and proceeded to announce to anyone who was interested, that he was only too happy to take bribes for himself and his police force, to look the other way at the illegal gambling and brothels that had begun to pop up in the town. So a golden era was born for Hot Springs. Infamous gangsters such as "Lucky" Luciano, and Al Capone came to call it their home away from home. So prevalent were the gangsters escaping the law from up North, that the town began to thrive on illegal gambling, with Leo boldly declaring that as long as the gangsters kept their crime (other than the gambling and whorehousing) out of Hot Springs, he would happily not notify the Northern authorities that they were in town, and leave them in peace. Hot Springs, so named for the many underground springs that welled up and provided essential healing and luxurious bathing, became the gangster holiday city of choice. 1927 - 1947 was the pinnacle for wealth and tourism in the area, with the architectural masterpiece Arlington Hotel being rebuilt for the third time in 1925. Suite 443 was the long-standing favoured suite of Al Capone, and often he would rent out the entire floor to ensure his privacy. Gangsters during this period, were the equivalent of Hollywood A-listers today, so an elaborate set of underground tunnels were used to provide the gangsters with a means of getting around the city without being frequently spotted and harassed for photos or their autographs.
Much to the disgust of the gangsters, brothel madams and undoubtedly the local police and other mayoral authorities, Rockefeller was elected Governor of Arkansas and began a campaign to bring illegal gambling to a close. In 1967 he succeeded, and Hot Springs was no longer the mecca for all things salacious as it had been in the forty previous years.
For the next twenty or so years, the city fell into decline. Indeed it wasn't really until after Bill Clinton was elected President, and the town received a boon of money to rebuild, than Hot Springs started to re-become a holiday destination in the area. Subsequently there are two sides to Hot Springs; the historic downtown district that encompasses Bathhouse Row and many other beautiful old buildings, and the almost derelict outskirts which I drove through with my windows up and my doors locked.
With two beautiful blue lakes in the town, and plenty of natural forest to provide that jade-green backdrop, Hot Springs is a lovely place to look at (if you don't go too far West and end up in the derelict areas..). North of the downtown area is a woodland called Garvan Woodland Gardens, where you can stroll around and see many beautiful trees and wildflowers. It even has a wildlife viewing area, although I didn't get so far on my walking tour, as it was blazing hot and even with my broad-brimmed hat on and my face slathered in sunscreen, I could feel the heat chipping away at my resolve step by step.
Day two in Hot Springs and I was ensconced in the Gangster Museum of America - quite an interesting step through history run by a very sweet young gentleman who offered to show me around town and pointed out some 'must see' attractions along Bathhouse Row to me. Once I'd had my fill of lazily wandering around taking happy snaps, I hopped back in my trust red mobile and headed North again along Highway 7. I had heard that Highway 7 North of Hot Springs was the most scenic of the self-named "scenic byway", and I was very much looking forward to drinking in the beauty of the wilderness as I drove North to Russellville. I imagine this stretch of highway to be particularly gorgeous (having seen some photos in the tourism brochures), but unfortunately for me, due to incredibly heavy fog, I barely saw a tree the entire three hours I drove North. At some points, particularly high in the mountains, the fog was so dense I couldn't see more than 10 metres in front of the car. Which is why the 90 minute drive took me three hours. While I still had GPS reception, I was actually relying on the little image on my iPhone screen to advise whether the road ahead was curving left or right. Disappointing, yes, but beautiful in its own haunting and ethereal kind of way.
Finally the fog cleared a bit as I descended the mountains and came to the Petit Jean State Park I had so been looking forward to hiking. I came to the visitors information centre, and proceeded to grab a trail map, when suddenly the light mist turned to dense fog, and then rain. Decidedly against getting soaked and lost in the wilderness, I jumped back in my car, sighed and headed North again for Russellville. Which by the way, is not a destination - it was simply a place to lay my head for the evening, without having to press too much further North.
Arkansas certainly delivers on its title of The Natural State. It is very easy to forget that you're only a few hours from the bustling metropolis of Memphis when your one-lane road bends and winds its way through mountains and valleys that are lush and green and filled with the noise of insects and movements of bigger things.
Chat soon,
M x
Wednesday, May 15, 2013
Arkansas: The Natural State.
Arkansas was given a bit of a ribbing by the people I'd spoken to in Tennessee; I remember in particular Joel and Michael laughing when I said I was going to Little Rock. Their response? "What for?"
What for indeed? Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time. I'd never been this deep into the middle of the country (that I can recall - my parents may have taken me on one of our overseas holidays when I was little, but if they did, I don't remember) and I wanted to see what it was all about. Being a country girl, I figured I would love The Natural State. After hearing quite a few disparaging comments about Little Rock, AR, I was concerned I'd made a bad decision. But, determined to find out for myself, I hopped on the I-40 W, and did a rather lovely drive actually, for two hours through farming land from Memphis to Little Rock.
Little Rock is the city of museums. I kid you not when I say that you cannot walk a couple of blocks without seeing another museum. My first museum was the Old State House Museum - a lovely grand old building built pre-civil war with beautiful lush green gardens and a spectacular water fountain out front. They had several exhibitions showing, and I settled in happily for what I expected to be a few hours of losing myself in history. The first exhibition was on growing up pre-technology, when children actually sat at dinner tables and talked to their parents and did their homework and played outside with friends. It was a combination of recreated 1950s classrooms/living rooms etc and documentary-style video snippets on various aspects of the culture of Arkansas pre-technology (so really, pre 1980s, but as far back as the 1820s). Things like, the role the church played in family life. The importance of teachers, and how they were also a big part of 'bringing up' the local children. It was a simpler time in terms of your choices were limited, so you made the best of what you had available, and you really didn't know any better so you were content with what you had. At least, this is the message I got loud and clear from those interviewed in the doco's. By the time I'd finished this exhibition, I was feeling quite warm and fuzzy and nostalgic for an era I wasn't even born in. I headed upstairs to see the exhibition of Arkansas women's antique dresses I had been looking forward to - I do love vintage fashion. As soon as I walked into the room, I felt terrified. There was this cold dark presence pushing down on me, like I could feel someone watching me around the corner of the displays; someone full of ill intent. My heart filled with panic and instead of ignoring my rather good instincts, I walked backwards as quickly and calmly as I could, until I hit the threshold of the room and spun on my heel and fled virtually straight into the couple who had been going through the exhibits alongside me. I must've looked a bit odd, because I got a bit of a quizzical face from the woman, but at that point my heart was beating so fast I couldn't have cared less.
I don't ordinarily mind encounters with ghosts, primarily I suppose because I'm usually forewarned and therefore prepared to receive their presence. But I wasn't warned at all, and this spirit was angry, and vengeful. For those who don't believe in ghosts, or who aren't sensitive to them, you'll not understand that terror, and I'm happy for you to live without it. For those who have had this kind of encounter, you'll know what I mean when I say I couldn't have spent another minute in that room. The feeling of malice and ill intent was far too strong to ignore. Once I'd put enough distance between me and Mr Angry Ghost, I went to the front desk and asked "has anyone died in this building?" and without knowing which room I referred to, he said "oh yes, someone was stabbed to death in that top left room". OH GOOD! And you sent a young girl by herself up there with no warning! Thanks mister! Bloody hell. I left muttering to myself, feeling much better to be out in the fresh air and full sun again.
My next museum was the Historic Arkansas Museum, and it was an interesting spin through history. Once I'd had my fill here, I took a bit of a brisk walk around downtown, and eventually headed to my hotel to get ready for dinner with Joe David and his wife. Joe David Rice works for Arkansas Tourism, and we 'met' via email when I was enquiring about things to do and where to stay. They took me out to dinner that night, and it was delightful, with Joe David choosing great restaurants and the two of them being wonderful company. After around four hours, we eventually parted, and I gave them their gift of TimTams. I got a text the next day saying "TimTams are great!" Another fan acquired.
Just before leaving Little Rock the next morning, I headed over to the Farmer's Markets to buy some fresh fruit & vege for snacking. The markets didn't disappoint, and I ended up with a punnet of strawberries picked that morning! I also ended up with some very sweet, crisp sugar snap peas. Munching happily on my bounty, I did some final exploring in the surrounding area, before heading South-West to Hot Springs.
Hot Springs is worth its own blog, so I'll leave it there. If you'd like to see some photos from Little Rock, click here.
Chat soon,
M x
What for indeed? Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time. I'd never been this deep into the middle of the country (that I can recall - my parents may have taken me on one of our overseas holidays when I was little, but if they did, I don't remember) and I wanted to see what it was all about. Being a country girl, I figured I would love The Natural State. After hearing quite a few disparaging comments about Little Rock, AR, I was concerned I'd made a bad decision. But, determined to find out for myself, I hopped on the I-40 W, and did a rather lovely drive actually, for two hours through farming land from Memphis to Little Rock.
Little Rock is the city of museums. I kid you not when I say that you cannot walk a couple of blocks without seeing another museum. My first museum was the Old State House Museum - a lovely grand old building built pre-civil war with beautiful lush green gardens and a spectacular water fountain out front. They had several exhibitions showing, and I settled in happily for what I expected to be a few hours of losing myself in history. The first exhibition was on growing up pre-technology, when children actually sat at dinner tables and talked to their parents and did their homework and played outside with friends. It was a combination of recreated 1950s classrooms/living rooms etc and documentary-style video snippets on various aspects of the culture of Arkansas pre-technology (so really, pre 1980s, but as far back as the 1820s). Things like, the role the church played in family life. The importance of teachers, and how they were also a big part of 'bringing up' the local children. It was a simpler time in terms of your choices were limited, so you made the best of what you had available, and you really didn't know any better so you were content with what you had. At least, this is the message I got loud and clear from those interviewed in the doco's. By the time I'd finished this exhibition, I was feeling quite warm and fuzzy and nostalgic for an era I wasn't even born in. I headed upstairs to see the exhibition of Arkansas women's antique dresses I had been looking forward to - I do love vintage fashion. As soon as I walked into the room, I felt terrified. There was this cold dark presence pushing down on me, like I could feel someone watching me around the corner of the displays; someone full of ill intent. My heart filled with panic and instead of ignoring my rather good instincts, I walked backwards as quickly and calmly as I could, until I hit the threshold of the room and spun on my heel and fled virtually straight into the couple who had been going through the exhibits alongside me. I must've looked a bit odd, because I got a bit of a quizzical face from the woman, but at that point my heart was beating so fast I couldn't have cared less.
I don't ordinarily mind encounters with ghosts, primarily I suppose because I'm usually forewarned and therefore prepared to receive their presence. But I wasn't warned at all, and this spirit was angry, and vengeful. For those who don't believe in ghosts, or who aren't sensitive to them, you'll not understand that terror, and I'm happy for you to live without it. For those who have had this kind of encounter, you'll know what I mean when I say I couldn't have spent another minute in that room. The feeling of malice and ill intent was far too strong to ignore. Once I'd put enough distance between me and Mr Angry Ghost, I went to the front desk and asked "has anyone died in this building?" and without knowing which room I referred to, he said "oh yes, someone was stabbed to death in that top left room". OH GOOD! And you sent a young girl by herself up there with no warning! Thanks mister! Bloody hell. I left muttering to myself, feeling much better to be out in the fresh air and full sun again.
My next museum was the Historic Arkansas Museum, and it was an interesting spin through history. Once I'd had my fill here, I took a bit of a brisk walk around downtown, and eventually headed to my hotel to get ready for dinner with Joe David and his wife. Joe David Rice works for Arkansas Tourism, and we 'met' via email when I was enquiring about things to do and where to stay. They took me out to dinner that night, and it was delightful, with Joe David choosing great restaurants and the two of them being wonderful company. After around four hours, we eventually parted, and I gave them their gift of TimTams. I got a text the next day saying "TimTams are great!" Another fan acquired.
Just before leaving Little Rock the next morning, I headed over to the Farmer's Markets to buy some fresh fruit & vege for snacking. The markets didn't disappoint, and I ended up with a punnet of strawberries picked that morning! I also ended up with some very sweet, crisp sugar snap peas. Munching happily on my bounty, I did some final exploring in the surrounding area, before heading South-West to Hot Springs.
Hot Springs is worth its own blog, so I'll leave it there. If you'd like to see some photos from Little Rock, click here.
Chat soon,
M x
I was walking with my feet ten feet off of Beale...
It wouldn't be an accurate recollection of my holiday if I didn't include my less than enthusiastic approach to the first half of my stay in Memphis; I arrived into gloomy weather and was super tired, thanks to my GPS going offline for 24 hours which resulted in me having to follow my sense of direction in an area I'd never been in before. So instead of the 2 hours it was meant to take me to get to Memphis, it took all day Thursday. The next morning (Friday) I awoke crying after a particularly ominous nightmare, and a deep sense of separation from Shaun. The huge storm cell that had been making its way south finally broke over Memphis, and as I woke up with that sense of loss, thunder clapped and the storm rolled over the Home of the Blues. I hunkered down in bed defiantly, not wanting to be an adult and get up to face the day. Little wonder, with a start like that, that I didn't end up particularly motivated to explore Memphis' downtown region.
Friday was spent catching up on laundry & Game of Thrones; and a 90 minute massage which put me in s stupor for the rest of the day. I did manage to eat lunch however, at a place I'd had on my hit list: Gus' World Famous Fried Chicken. Moist meat, crispy exterior with just the right amount of heat - I can see why this is a preferred local hang-out. While I was busy enjoying my chicken, the guy in front of me turned around and started asking me questions (starting with 'do you like the chicken?' and moving to things like 'how long you here for?'), and we found ourselves engaged in a lengthy and pleasant conversation about all things from Memphis to Brisbane. When Greg proposed we have dinner together that night, I was happy to oblige, as I had been wanting to go to the restaurant he was proposing, to try the local barbecue fare. Unfortunately, Interstate B-B-Q is.. how can I put this? Crap. The ambience is TERRIBLE (think ripped seats with stuffing coming out and smoke-stained walls), the waitstaff are surly, the neighbourhood is terrifying (Greg had to walk me to my car to ensure I got there safely, and the restaurant gives discounts to the police to keep them in the area!), and the food was overcooked, dried out, like somewhere between jerky and ribs. I have absolutely no idea why this place is an 'institution' in Memphis BBQ.
Saturday I woke determined to see downtown, and find something I liked about Memphis. Initially, I tried to go to Slave Haven Underground Railroad Museum, but upon pulling up outside and having my car eyeballed by a bunch of truly dodgy looking youths, I decided against it. Instead, I hit the next attraction on my list - Elmwood Cemetery. Not only did I get to pat the cemetery cat, Howard, (squeeee!!), I got a CD which is a guided tour of the cemetery and commentary on its more interesting residents. As you drive slowly around, the narrator tells you when to stop and which headstone to look for, and then proceeds to give you a colourful story about the person buried there. From brothel madams turned yellowfever heros to confederate generals and the first black millionaire, it was an interesting step through history.
After spending a couple of hours in Elmwood, I headed to the next target on my hit list: the National Civil Rights Museum. I wasn't entirely sure what this museum was about, but I do like my museums, and I am constantly fascinated by the history of slavery in America, so off I went. I would estimate more than two thirds of this museum is a shrine to Martin Luther King Jr, as it is the exact location where he was assassinated, and you can actually stand on the balcony where he received that fatal bullet, and stand at the window where James Earl Ray took aim and fired. The museum is much more than that, of course, it goes through the history of black slavery and civil rights (not just for black people, but all people) in the USA, the struggles, the triumphs, the set-backs. The component dedicated to MLK is very large however, and in detail goes through the lead-up to his assassination through to after Ray's sentencing, from both his side in chronological order, and James Earl Ray's. The feeling that it was indeed a conspiracy and Ray had more than help still lingers, and it seems pretty unlikely he was able to do it by himself, without financial assistance. I could go into it, but that would be more than one blog entry in itself. If you're interested, go here for more details. "No flash" photographs are allowed, so I made good use of my camera and took some shots of the balcony on which MLK stood, and the bathroom in which Ray stood, as well as the bullet recovered from MLK along with all the other evidence used in the criminal trial.
I wandered around the entertainment district for a while, after securely parking my car in a garage run by the most happy parking attendants I've ever encountered. They had a boom box going, playing all kinds of funky tunes, and they were dancing and laughing and calling me "baby" etc (not that this is unusual here in the South..) and were just a delight to witness really. Finally, I wandered onto Beale St, and boy oh boy. The first whiff of pee I got nearly had me doing a 180, but I steeled myself and threw my body headlong into the press of sweaty people lining the main strip which had been roped off to vehicular traffic. BB King's Blues Bar seemed like the logical place to go for lunch, and after settling in and ordering some fried pickles, I was pleased with my choice. The band were fantastic (although not strictly playing Blues..) and the female lead was excellent. She caught me taking happy snaps and winked at me, and for the rest of the afternoon I grinned at her like a love-struck fool as she belted out winners like "I'd rather go blind" and "Mississippi Woman" and "Chain of Fools". The food was sub-par, but the atmosphere and music were wonderful. I headed back out into the light like a mole rising above ground; squinting and struggling to find my sunglasses and to orient myself amidst the hustle and noise of Beale St midtown. So much to see! And unfortunately smell! After spending a good hour walking up and down, watching shoe shines holler for business and young boys do acrobatics up and down the street, I decided it was time I called it a day, and headed back to the peace and quiet of my room. Once you've eaten, and you've watched the buskers, and you've soaked it in - there's little to do in Beale St except sit down and start drinking, and I'm not on that kind of holiday.
My last day in Memphis was nothing short of beautiful - the clouds had moved South, and the rains had washed away any residual smog in the air, leaving a crisp, clear and slightly chilly day ahead. I started by doing another tour of the downtown region, further East this time as I had focused on the midtown area Saturday. Once satisfied I'd seen the best of the downtown area, I parked the car near the river and walked a few kms (miles?) up to Beale St Landing, a new under-development dock and parkland complex due to be finished in March 2014. This is the new location for the riverboats to depart from, and I was pretty determined to go on a riverboat cruise on the Mighty Mississippi. I arrived around midday to discover that boarding time wasn't 1pm, but 2pm, for a 2:30pm cruise. Whoops! After asking the girls manning the ticket booth how I could kill two hours, and receiving "nothing to do around here" as a response, I decided to just sit down and enjoy some sunshine on the dock instead. I noticed fairly quickly through the viewfinder of my trust Nikon, that the dock appeared to be uhm.. underwater. Feeling a bit alarmed, and wondering if Memphis was having a flood I wasn't aware of, I decided to be proactive and ask a man driving along in a golf buggy if he knew the answer. Boy! Did he know the answer! ALL of the answers! Jimmy is a veritable treasure trove of all thins Memphis, history and current goings-on, and not only did he answer that question (no, it's not flooding, more on that later) but he proceeded to invite me to hop in the buggy, and drove me all around the new development, showing me landmarks and telling me what's planned, and how things will look, and then took me up in an elevator to see the top part of the development, and then back down again to show me the architect's diagrams of the finalised project. He spent a good 40 minutes educating me on Memphis and the river, and I barely said a word, too scared that if I stopped his stream of information, he'd realise how long he'd been talking and realise he should probably get back to work. Turns out Jimmy is the Community Engagement Manager for the riverfront development - looks like they hired well. I was mighty engaged! Sadly, all good things must come to an end, and when we returned to where he'd parked the buggy, his two workers had arrived and were sitting on it expectantly. I went back to the riverfront and sat on the steps, watching the birds dance precariously on the debris swirling along the muddy river. It wasn't long before I overheard two men talking about Australia, and I had to giggle to myself when one said "...Brisbane... Sydney... Melbourne.. that's about it, I think they're the only real cities." The same man asked me if I minded them smoking cigars, and I said of course not, and well, as seems to happen, we struck up a friendship for the next few hours, as we talked about Australia and about their adventures as well. They were on what they call a "cigar holiday". Two good buddies, who reminded me uncannily of Danny Crane and Alan Shore from Boston Legal, with their cigars and fishing hats and subtle wealth under their easy going manner. Confusingly though, one looked so much like George Segal , I couldn't stop staring at him. We sat next to each other on the cruise, and chatted amicably for the next couple of hours. It was a little sad to say goodbye (they were flying home in a few hours) and Joel gave me a bit of a hug goodbye, while Michael aka George just kinda waved airily at me. Characters indeed.
Now! On to some actual information about Memphis and the Mississippi! The river's tide mark varies greatly season to season. In Spring, the water level rises to around 35-48 foot (at the bank level, not the level of the deepest parts), thanks to the influx of Spring rains and melting snow coming down from up North. After Summer however, due to a lack of rain and no more melting snow, the river will dip down to as low as -10, leaving huge stretches of riverbank exposed. To compensate for this constant shift in river level, the new development has a very smart system in place, whereby the ramp you walk down to meet the dock has five levels on a spiral system (four of which were submerged when I was there), and the dock itself is attached to two huge mechanical arms that swing up and down with the water, so lift the dock up to meet the required level of the ramp to meet the water level. Click here to check out some photos. There is also a whole riverbank walkway system that goes underwater during the high tide season, which of course has been built to withstand submersion. There's around $300Million worth of development going on in the Riverfront District right now; not only the Beale St Landing complex but also the world's sixth largest pyramid (yes, including the ones in Egypt) is undergoing a massive transformation inside. The pyramid was initially built as a fancy football stadium - it is six stadiums wide at the base - but in the late 90s, the local basketball and football teams wanted a state-of-the-art stadium built (not entirely sure what was wrong with the existing structure), and so FedEx Stadium was built. But it was built with an exclusivity contract attached, so since 2004, the pyramid has been empty. Recently, Bass Pro has bought the stadium, and is in the process of converting it into an outdoor sports ecosystem of marshes, creeks, log cabins etc, so people can go on holiday there and fish inside the pyramid. Bizarre. It's costing $30M apparently! The river was 55 foot deep when we went on our cruise, and running at around 9-10 miles/hour. She moves along at a clip!
So all in all, I did end up finding some spots I quite enjoyed, but I have to say, I'm terribly disappointed with Memphis BBQ. I heard so much about how wonderful it was before I left, and I was really looking forward to some finger-lickin' ribs. I don't know if I just kept going to the wrong places, but I honestly did not have one good meal while I was there. Which is appalling if you consider I was there four nights, and five days. Monday morning I awoke refreshed and ready to get on with the rest of my road trip. I turned on 95.3 HICK-FM and headed on the I-40 W for Little Rock. Miranda Lambert (fittingly) sang me out over the state line with my new favourite song "Mama's Broken Heart". I particularly like the lines "Go and fix your make up, girl, it’s just a break up / Run and hide your crazy and start actin’ like a lady / 'Cause I raised you better, gotta keep it together / Even when you fall apart". Click here to listen to her awesomeness.
Chat soon,
M x
Friday was spent catching up on laundry & Game of Thrones; and a 90 minute massage which put me in s stupor for the rest of the day. I did manage to eat lunch however, at a place I'd had on my hit list: Gus' World Famous Fried Chicken. Moist meat, crispy exterior with just the right amount of heat - I can see why this is a preferred local hang-out. While I was busy enjoying my chicken, the guy in front of me turned around and started asking me questions (starting with 'do you like the chicken?' and moving to things like 'how long you here for?'), and we found ourselves engaged in a lengthy and pleasant conversation about all things from Memphis to Brisbane. When Greg proposed we have dinner together that night, I was happy to oblige, as I had been wanting to go to the restaurant he was proposing, to try the local barbecue fare. Unfortunately, Interstate B-B-Q is.. how can I put this? Crap. The ambience is TERRIBLE (think ripped seats with stuffing coming out and smoke-stained walls), the waitstaff are surly, the neighbourhood is terrifying (Greg had to walk me to my car to ensure I got there safely, and the restaurant gives discounts to the police to keep them in the area!), and the food was overcooked, dried out, like somewhere between jerky and ribs. I have absolutely no idea why this place is an 'institution' in Memphis BBQ.
Saturday I woke determined to see downtown, and find something I liked about Memphis. Initially, I tried to go to Slave Haven Underground Railroad Museum, but upon pulling up outside and having my car eyeballed by a bunch of truly dodgy looking youths, I decided against it. Instead, I hit the next attraction on my list - Elmwood Cemetery. Not only did I get to pat the cemetery cat, Howard, (squeeee!!), I got a CD which is a guided tour of the cemetery and commentary on its more interesting residents. As you drive slowly around, the narrator tells you when to stop and which headstone to look for, and then proceeds to give you a colourful story about the person buried there. From brothel madams turned yellowfever heros to confederate generals and the first black millionaire, it was an interesting step through history.
After spending a couple of hours in Elmwood, I headed to the next target on my hit list: the National Civil Rights Museum. I wasn't entirely sure what this museum was about, but I do like my museums, and I am constantly fascinated by the history of slavery in America, so off I went. I would estimate more than two thirds of this museum is a shrine to Martin Luther King Jr, as it is the exact location where he was assassinated, and you can actually stand on the balcony where he received that fatal bullet, and stand at the window where James Earl Ray took aim and fired. The museum is much more than that, of course, it goes through the history of black slavery and civil rights (not just for black people, but all people) in the USA, the struggles, the triumphs, the set-backs. The component dedicated to MLK is very large however, and in detail goes through the lead-up to his assassination through to after Ray's sentencing, from both his side in chronological order, and James Earl Ray's. The feeling that it was indeed a conspiracy and Ray had more than help still lingers, and it seems pretty unlikely he was able to do it by himself, without financial assistance. I could go into it, but that would be more than one blog entry in itself. If you're interested, go here for more details. "No flash" photographs are allowed, so I made good use of my camera and took some shots of the balcony on which MLK stood, and the bathroom in which Ray stood, as well as the bullet recovered from MLK along with all the other evidence used in the criminal trial.
I wandered around the entertainment district for a while, after securely parking my car in a garage run by the most happy parking attendants I've ever encountered. They had a boom box going, playing all kinds of funky tunes, and they were dancing and laughing and calling me "baby" etc (not that this is unusual here in the South..) and were just a delight to witness really. Finally, I wandered onto Beale St, and boy oh boy. The first whiff of pee I got nearly had me doing a 180, but I steeled myself and threw my body headlong into the press of sweaty people lining the main strip which had been roped off to vehicular traffic. BB King's Blues Bar seemed like the logical place to go for lunch, and after settling in and ordering some fried pickles, I was pleased with my choice. The band were fantastic (although not strictly playing Blues..) and the female lead was excellent. She caught me taking happy snaps and winked at me, and for the rest of the afternoon I grinned at her like a love-struck fool as she belted out winners like "I'd rather go blind" and "Mississippi Woman" and "Chain of Fools". The food was sub-par, but the atmosphere and music were wonderful. I headed back out into the light like a mole rising above ground; squinting and struggling to find my sunglasses and to orient myself amidst the hustle and noise of Beale St midtown. So much to see! And unfortunately smell! After spending a good hour walking up and down, watching shoe shines holler for business and young boys do acrobatics up and down the street, I decided it was time I called it a day, and headed back to the peace and quiet of my room. Once you've eaten, and you've watched the buskers, and you've soaked it in - there's little to do in Beale St except sit down and start drinking, and I'm not on that kind of holiday.
My last day in Memphis was nothing short of beautiful - the clouds had moved South, and the rains had washed away any residual smog in the air, leaving a crisp, clear and slightly chilly day ahead. I started by doing another tour of the downtown region, further East this time as I had focused on the midtown area Saturday. Once satisfied I'd seen the best of the downtown area, I parked the car near the river and walked a few kms (miles?) up to Beale St Landing, a new under-development dock and parkland complex due to be finished in March 2014. This is the new location for the riverboats to depart from, and I was pretty determined to go on a riverboat cruise on the Mighty Mississippi. I arrived around midday to discover that boarding time wasn't 1pm, but 2pm, for a 2:30pm cruise. Whoops! After asking the girls manning the ticket booth how I could kill two hours, and receiving "nothing to do around here" as a response, I decided to just sit down and enjoy some sunshine on the dock instead. I noticed fairly quickly through the viewfinder of my trust Nikon, that the dock appeared to be uhm.. underwater. Feeling a bit alarmed, and wondering if Memphis was having a flood I wasn't aware of, I decided to be proactive and ask a man driving along in a golf buggy if he knew the answer. Boy! Did he know the answer! ALL of the answers! Jimmy is a veritable treasure trove of all thins Memphis, history and current goings-on, and not only did he answer that question (no, it's not flooding, more on that later) but he proceeded to invite me to hop in the buggy, and drove me all around the new development, showing me landmarks and telling me what's planned, and how things will look, and then took me up in an elevator to see the top part of the development, and then back down again to show me the architect's diagrams of the finalised project. He spent a good 40 minutes educating me on Memphis and the river, and I barely said a word, too scared that if I stopped his stream of information, he'd realise how long he'd been talking and realise he should probably get back to work. Turns out Jimmy is the Community Engagement Manager for the riverfront development - looks like they hired well. I was mighty engaged! Sadly, all good things must come to an end, and when we returned to where he'd parked the buggy, his two workers had arrived and were sitting on it expectantly. I went back to the riverfront and sat on the steps, watching the birds dance precariously on the debris swirling along the muddy river. It wasn't long before I overheard two men talking about Australia, and I had to giggle to myself when one said "...Brisbane... Sydney... Melbourne.. that's about it, I think they're the only real cities." The same man asked me if I minded them smoking cigars, and I said of course not, and well, as seems to happen, we struck up a friendship for the next few hours, as we talked about Australia and about their adventures as well. They were on what they call a "cigar holiday". Two good buddies, who reminded me uncannily of Danny Crane and Alan Shore from Boston Legal, with their cigars and fishing hats and subtle wealth under their easy going manner. Confusingly though, one looked so much like George Segal , I couldn't stop staring at him. We sat next to each other on the cruise, and chatted amicably for the next couple of hours. It was a little sad to say goodbye (they were flying home in a few hours) and Joel gave me a bit of a hug goodbye, while Michael aka George just kinda waved airily at me. Characters indeed.
Now! On to some actual information about Memphis and the Mississippi! The river's tide mark varies greatly season to season. In Spring, the water level rises to around 35-48 foot (at the bank level, not the level of the deepest parts), thanks to the influx of Spring rains and melting snow coming down from up North. After Summer however, due to a lack of rain and no more melting snow, the river will dip down to as low as -10, leaving huge stretches of riverbank exposed. To compensate for this constant shift in river level, the new development has a very smart system in place, whereby the ramp you walk down to meet the dock has five levels on a spiral system (four of which were submerged when I was there), and the dock itself is attached to two huge mechanical arms that swing up and down with the water, so lift the dock up to meet the required level of the ramp to meet the water level. Click here to check out some photos. There is also a whole riverbank walkway system that goes underwater during the high tide season, which of course has been built to withstand submersion. There's around $300Million worth of development going on in the Riverfront District right now; not only the Beale St Landing complex but also the world's sixth largest pyramid (yes, including the ones in Egypt) is undergoing a massive transformation inside. The pyramid was initially built as a fancy football stadium - it is six stadiums wide at the base - but in the late 90s, the local basketball and football teams wanted a state-of-the-art stadium built (not entirely sure what was wrong with the existing structure), and so FedEx Stadium was built. But it was built with an exclusivity contract attached, so since 2004, the pyramid has been empty. Recently, Bass Pro has bought the stadium, and is in the process of converting it into an outdoor sports ecosystem of marshes, creeks, log cabins etc, so people can go on holiday there and fish inside the pyramid. Bizarre. It's costing $30M apparently! The river was 55 foot deep when we went on our cruise, and running at around 9-10 miles/hour. She moves along at a clip!
So all in all, I did end up finding some spots I quite enjoyed, but I have to say, I'm terribly disappointed with Memphis BBQ. I heard so much about how wonderful it was before I left, and I was really looking forward to some finger-lickin' ribs. I don't know if I just kept going to the wrong places, but I honestly did not have one good meal while I was there. Which is appalling if you consider I was there four nights, and five days. Monday morning I awoke refreshed and ready to get on with the rest of my road trip. I turned on 95.3 HICK-FM and headed on the I-40 W for Little Rock. Miranda Lambert (fittingly) sang me out over the state line with my new favourite song "Mama's Broken Heart". I particularly like the lines "Go and fix your make up, girl, it’s just a break up / Run and hide your crazy and start actin’ like a lady / 'Cause I raised you better, gotta keep it together / Even when you fall apart". Click here to listen to her awesomeness.
Chat soon,
M x
Thursday, May 9, 2013
The War of Northern Aggression - the trail continues...
I rolled into Franklin mid-morning and headed straight for the only major attraction I didn't visit last year - Lotz House. To be honest, after the captivating stories at Carter House (just across the road from Lotz House) and Carnton Plantation (a couple of miles down the road), Lotz House didn't impress me much. Unfortunately, the original owners (the Lotz family..) had to flee town, after Mr Lotz, a woodworker from Germany, hand-made a piano depicting the Civil War they experienced. He carved symbols for both the Confederates and Federal sides into the piano, the most dramatic of which was a huge eagle, wings spread, claws clutching a Confederate flag. No one is entirely sure of why he did this, but the KKK (Klan..) heard about it, and were NOT impressed. They planned to come kill him as they thought it was a really offensive symbol. He heard about their intention, and within ten days had sold their house and all the belongings he could, and had packed what was left and his family into a covered wagon, and headed as far away as he could. He ended up all the way West into California. When the Klan came calling, they barged straight into the house much to the surprise of the new owners, and once they established he was long gone, they dragged the piano out front and burned it down to ash. The disappointing part of Lotz is because the owners left so soon, and it wasn't handed down the generations, the house was emptied of its original furnishings, and has been used for different residential and commercial purposes; it has been a family home, a subway shop and pretty much everything in between. An historical home loses some of its fascination when it doesn't really contain the original contents.
Feeling a little underwhelmed, I decided to hop back on the Civil War Trail down Columbine Pike (the infamous pike that Gen. Schofield managed to sneak his 20,000+ men down past Gen. Hood's army..) and head to Spring Hill, the site of the previous major battlefield the day before the Franklin Battle. Upon advice that Rippavilla (I kid you not) Plantation was the best place to go, I headed straight there, and was not disappointed. She's a beauty. The antebellum architecture is grand and stately and in immaculate condition. The interior has been modified, yes, but only slightly by the man who bought the house from the original owners, and so it is still 100+ years old even with the modifications. I would love to own and live in this home. Fourteen foot ceilings downstairs and sixteen foot ceilings upstairs! Grand entranceways and a beautiful serene light-filled sunroom! Amazingly, much of the furniture and décor in the home is from the original family, including hand-sewn quilts placed at the end of the feather-stuffed mattresses in the bedrooms. This home has great historical significance, because it is here General Hood (my main man!) gave his ill-fated orders for the Battle of Franklin. They still have the original dining suite that Hood and his Generals sat on, the dining table he spread his maps out on, to plan his assault on the Federal forces north in Franklin. Looking at those weathered chairs it's easy to imagine the men gathered around, feeling tense and nervous, moving pieces around on their old parchment maps. It was here I learned the origins of the expression 'bite the bullet'. Apparently, when soldiers were gravely wounded, and needed their limbs amputated or some kind of painful medical procedure performed, they were given bullets to bite down on, to try to grit away their pain. Not everyone had painkillers on hand, or left in supply. The museum wing of the house has bullets recovered from the battlefield with actual teeth marks clearly imprinted in them. Glad you live in the 21st century? I patted my handbag containing panadol and gave a moment of thanks upon hearing this story. Also in the museum was a 19th century curling iron. Oh how I was photography was allowed inside the home, because I'm not sure I an adequately describe it. But it is shaped much like the curling irons of today, but with a barrel about 5mm across, and of course no electrical plug. I imagine they heated them by putting them in the fire, and then did their best not to burn their fingers (or scalp!) while curling tiny little tendrils of hair. The sheer patience and amount of time you'd have to spend to get a whole head of hair curled this way is unfathomable. Who has the time?!
A little-known piece of terribly interesting information (if you think about the implications), is that Generals Hood and Schofield were actually good friends - as were many of the soldiers on opposing sides of the war - they both went to Westpoint Military School, and more than that - were roommates. Imagine growing up with someone, going through something as testing as military school, graduating together, and then being called into service on opposite sides? To culminate in a great bloody battle during which SIX Generals died and over 10,000 soldiers lost their lives?
Another interesting piece of information I picked up here was the purpose of those antique settees I've seen around (I believe my nan had one); one joined settee with two 'chair' shapes at each end and a lower, uncomfortable-looking middle seat? Know the ones? Well, these were called 'courting settees', or 'chaperone chairs'. The unwed couple would sit one at each end, and the chaperone would sit in between them, in the uncomfortable part, designed specifically to be uncomfortable so as to keep the chaperone awake and alert. Doesn't that sound like a fun way of dating?! Gods only know what topics were 'safe' or 'appropriate', and how they managed to have a flowing conversation around a crotchety old relative (think elderly aunt or grandmother) or worse yet - the girl's father.
Joining me on this tour was a busload of seniors from Nashville - and boy were they a hoot. One of the lovely old ladies was a member of the Tennessee Confederate Union, and she stood straight and proud when she announced this to all of us. I made friends with a few of them and by the time I left I found myself wishing they could come with me further South. I got a lovely compliment from a couple of them asking me if I was there learning about the War for a college assignment. Ha! God bless!
From Spring Hill I headed South-West to Savannah Tennessee (not to be confused with the Savannah, in Georgia) to spend the night. It seemed like a good place to lay my head, as I was getting weary, and it held a few areas of interest for me. I arrived very weary, and headed straight for the visitors centre, to ask for recommendations on where to sleep and eat. The lady advised that the motel directly across the street gets her good feedback, and the BBQ joint three doors down is very good. So I took her sage advice, and wandered across the road to check in. After I was settled I had dinner - Hickory Pit - very cute little restaurant that is kept in business by the locals and random passers-by. The waitress there had the thickest southern accent I've heard in a long time, it was like listening to molasses slide down her throat. She was such a sweetheart I tipped her nearly 30%. I'm giving Australians a great reputation for tipping in these parts! It was only after I returned to my room to turn in for the night that I noticed across the other street, was a large boring building with the sign "Savannah Correctional Facility". EEP! I locked everything I could and threw my now very heavy suitcase in front of the door, but after watching two episodes of Game of Thrones on my laptop I forgot about my first-world woes and went to sleep grateful for the large comfortable bed and clean sheets. TEN HOURS LATER (which has to be record for me) I awoke refreshed, and ready to tackle the day.
Leaving the car park I was waved at by another guest, and off I went to tour the Historic District of downtown Savannah. Boy oh boy I could live here. Seriously. The homes are beautiful. The grounds are beautiful. The fast-moving Tennessee River creates a natural border for the residential district, and people fish directly off their back porches into it. The abundance of wildlife and nature sounds; the smell of serenity and just a hint of haunted past lingers in the air. The ghosts here whisper with just the right amount of menace; enough for the hairs on the back of your neck to prickle slightly, but not so much you feel endangered. After a couple of hours and covering pretty much all of the northern side of town, I headed for breakfast, where I ran into the same guy from the hotel car park. We exchanged conversation and chatted about traveling the Civil War trail; he's heading for Vicksburg in a very round-about kind of way, and had just come from Shiloh and Memphis - the direction in which I was to head. David from Minnesota is a nice chap, and gave a few recommendations & ideas for the next part of my journey. While I was in the café I asked the staff what the main source of economy is in Savannah, TN. Their responses were hazy; they know a lot of people in town work for a government department called 'ISR' but they're not entirely sure what is done there. One of the girls took the initiative and called out to a local patron to find out. Turns out ISR is secret military research, looking into things like unmanned drones and whatnot. How terribly exciting!
My last stop for this leg of the Civil War trail was in Shiloh, the site of one of the most famous military battles. Shiloh Military Park has a 13 mile driving tour of significant points of interest from the battle in April 1862. Suffice to say (I know not all of you are keen on Civil War history) I found it thoroughly fascinating, and took time to stand on the battlefield and feel the breeze, and imagine the sounds of terror and smell of blood and gunpowder rolling over me. Of course I saw plenty of wildlife, which I endeavoured to capture photographs of, but by far the most wonderful was the nest of bald eagle babies, complete with mum & dad flying to & fro delivering fresh catfish from the Tennessee River only minutes away. I did my best to capture the moment with my new digital SLR; I haven't yet looked at the photos but I am hoping against hope that one or two of them came out OK; they were very high up and I just don't have a good zoom lens. Yet...
After leaving Shiloh Military Park, I headed to Hagy's Catfish Hotel (another recommendation from the helpful lady in Savannah's visitor centre) for lunch. Established in 1938 after owner Norwin Hagys cooked dinner of catfish & hushpuppies for his good friend, Governor Gordon Browning, the restaurant has been in the family ever since. Apparently Gov Browning was so impressed with the fare he insisted Norwin open a restaurant to serve same. Who can argue with their Governor?
Now given I still didn't have any mobile reception (it disappeared just before I reached Savannah the night before), and my phone is acting as my GPS, I didn't have the faintest how to get to my hotel in Memphis in the most direction fashion. Subsequently, I simply followed signs based on the helpful 'south' or 'west' indicators, and meandered my way south-west until I eventually (hours longer than it should have taken) found myself on the outskirts of Memphis, where I finally recovered signal. This journey wasn't wasted however, as I got to see some great back-roads (as opposed to the boring interstates), and drove through a quaint little town called La Grange, established earlier but finally incorporated on December 1, 1829. Situated on a high bluff overlooking the Wolf River with a view of several miles into North Mississippi, this area was originally home to Chickasaw Native Americans. La Grange was settled primarily by families from Virginia, North Carolina and Alabama. Many of the original homes still exist, with cute signs out from identifying when they were built. They range from the super-impressive Woodlawn Plantation (1828) to the small but character-filled La Petit Maison (c1900), and everything in between. I did several turns up and down the main road, taking photos and trying not to get hit by the traffic as the main street happens to by highway 57.
Speaking of photos, as I have now arrived into my hotel in East Memphis, and am safe and sound with reliable wifi, I think I'm going to get about looking at my photos, and creating an Instagram account or Tumblr or whatever you young'uns are doing these days to display photos. Better get onto it now before it gets away from me...
Chat soon,
M x
**update** I have finally created a Tumblr account. You can view photos from my trip so far here: AussieGirlinUSA
Feeling a little underwhelmed, I decided to hop back on the Civil War Trail down Columbine Pike (the infamous pike that Gen. Schofield managed to sneak his 20,000+ men down past Gen. Hood's army..) and head to Spring Hill, the site of the previous major battlefield the day before the Franklin Battle. Upon advice that Rippavilla (I kid you not) Plantation was the best place to go, I headed straight there, and was not disappointed. She's a beauty. The antebellum architecture is grand and stately and in immaculate condition. The interior has been modified, yes, but only slightly by the man who bought the house from the original owners, and so it is still 100+ years old even with the modifications. I would love to own and live in this home. Fourteen foot ceilings downstairs and sixteen foot ceilings upstairs! Grand entranceways and a beautiful serene light-filled sunroom! Amazingly, much of the furniture and décor in the home is from the original family, including hand-sewn quilts placed at the end of the feather-stuffed mattresses in the bedrooms. This home has great historical significance, because it is here General Hood (my main man!) gave his ill-fated orders for the Battle of Franklin. They still have the original dining suite that Hood and his Generals sat on, the dining table he spread his maps out on, to plan his assault on the Federal forces north in Franklin. Looking at those weathered chairs it's easy to imagine the men gathered around, feeling tense and nervous, moving pieces around on their old parchment maps. It was here I learned the origins of the expression 'bite the bullet'. Apparently, when soldiers were gravely wounded, and needed their limbs amputated or some kind of painful medical procedure performed, they were given bullets to bite down on, to try to grit away their pain. Not everyone had painkillers on hand, or left in supply. The museum wing of the house has bullets recovered from the battlefield with actual teeth marks clearly imprinted in them. Glad you live in the 21st century? I patted my handbag containing panadol and gave a moment of thanks upon hearing this story. Also in the museum was a 19th century curling iron. Oh how I was photography was allowed inside the home, because I'm not sure I an adequately describe it. But it is shaped much like the curling irons of today, but with a barrel about 5mm across, and of course no electrical plug. I imagine they heated them by putting them in the fire, and then did their best not to burn their fingers (or scalp!) while curling tiny little tendrils of hair. The sheer patience and amount of time you'd have to spend to get a whole head of hair curled this way is unfathomable. Who has the time?!
A little-known piece of terribly interesting information (if you think about the implications), is that Generals Hood and Schofield were actually good friends - as were many of the soldiers on opposing sides of the war - they both went to Westpoint Military School, and more than that - were roommates. Imagine growing up with someone, going through something as testing as military school, graduating together, and then being called into service on opposite sides? To culminate in a great bloody battle during which SIX Generals died and over 10,000 soldiers lost their lives?
Another interesting piece of information I picked up here was the purpose of those antique settees I've seen around (I believe my nan had one); one joined settee with two 'chair' shapes at each end and a lower, uncomfortable-looking middle seat? Know the ones? Well, these were called 'courting settees', or 'chaperone chairs'. The unwed couple would sit one at each end, and the chaperone would sit in between them, in the uncomfortable part, designed specifically to be uncomfortable so as to keep the chaperone awake and alert. Doesn't that sound like a fun way of dating?! Gods only know what topics were 'safe' or 'appropriate', and how they managed to have a flowing conversation around a crotchety old relative (think elderly aunt or grandmother) or worse yet - the girl's father.
Joining me on this tour was a busload of seniors from Nashville - and boy were they a hoot. One of the lovely old ladies was a member of the Tennessee Confederate Union, and she stood straight and proud when she announced this to all of us. I made friends with a few of them and by the time I left I found myself wishing they could come with me further South. I got a lovely compliment from a couple of them asking me if I was there learning about the War for a college assignment. Ha! God bless!
From Spring Hill I headed South-West to Savannah Tennessee (not to be confused with the Savannah, in Georgia) to spend the night. It seemed like a good place to lay my head, as I was getting weary, and it held a few areas of interest for me. I arrived very weary, and headed straight for the visitors centre, to ask for recommendations on where to sleep and eat. The lady advised that the motel directly across the street gets her good feedback, and the BBQ joint three doors down is very good. So I took her sage advice, and wandered across the road to check in. After I was settled I had dinner - Hickory Pit - very cute little restaurant that is kept in business by the locals and random passers-by. The waitress there had the thickest southern accent I've heard in a long time, it was like listening to molasses slide down her throat. She was such a sweetheart I tipped her nearly 30%. I'm giving Australians a great reputation for tipping in these parts! It was only after I returned to my room to turn in for the night that I noticed across the other street, was a large boring building with the sign "Savannah Correctional Facility". EEP! I locked everything I could and threw my now very heavy suitcase in front of the door, but after watching two episodes of Game of Thrones on my laptop I forgot about my first-world woes and went to sleep grateful for the large comfortable bed and clean sheets. TEN HOURS LATER (which has to be record for me) I awoke refreshed, and ready to tackle the day.
Leaving the car park I was waved at by another guest, and off I went to tour the Historic District of downtown Savannah. Boy oh boy I could live here. Seriously. The homes are beautiful. The grounds are beautiful. The fast-moving Tennessee River creates a natural border for the residential district, and people fish directly off their back porches into it. The abundance of wildlife and nature sounds; the smell of serenity and just a hint of haunted past lingers in the air. The ghosts here whisper with just the right amount of menace; enough for the hairs on the back of your neck to prickle slightly, but not so much you feel endangered. After a couple of hours and covering pretty much all of the northern side of town, I headed for breakfast, where I ran into the same guy from the hotel car park. We exchanged conversation and chatted about traveling the Civil War trail; he's heading for Vicksburg in a very round-about kind of way, and had just come from Shiloh and Memphis - the direction in which I was to head. David from Minnesota is a nice chap, and gave a few recommendations & ideas for the next part of my journey. While I was in the café I asked the staff what the main source of economy is in Savannah, TN. Their responses were hazy; they know a lot of people in town work for a government department called 'ISR' but they're not entirely sure what is done there. One of the girls took the initiative and called out to a local patron to find out. Turns out ISR is secret military research, looking into things like unmanned drones and whatnot. How terribly exciting!
My last stop for this leg of the Civil War trail was in Shiloh, the site of one of the most famous military battles. Shiloh Military Park has a 13 mile driving tour of significant points of interest from the battle in April 1862. Suffice to say (I know not all of you are keen on Civil War history) I found it thoroughly fascinating, and took time to stand on the battlefield and feel the breeze, and imagine the sounds of terror and smell of blood and gunpowder rolling over me. Of course I saw plenty of wildlife, which I endeavoured to capture photographs of, but by far the most wonderful was the nest of bald eagle babies, complete with mum & dad flying to & fro delivering fresh catfish from the Tennessee River only minutes away. I did my best to capture the moment with my new digital SLR; I haven't yet looked at the photos but I am hoping against hope that one or two of them came out OK; they were very high up and I just don't have a good zoom lens. Yet...
After leaving Shiloh Military Park, I headed to Hagy's Catfish Hotel (another recommendation from the helpful lady in Savannah's visitor centre) for lunch. Established in 1938 after owner Norwin Hagys cooked dinner of catfish & hushpuppies for his good friend, Governor Gordon Browning, the restaurant has been in the family ever since. Apparently Gov Browning was so impressed with the fare he insisted Norwin open a restaurant to serve same. Who can argue with their Governor?
Now given I still didn't have any mobile reception (it disappeared just before I reached Savannah the night before), and my phone is acting as my GPS, I didn't have the faintest how to get to my hotel in Memphis in the most direction fashion. Subsequently, I simply followed signs based on the helpful 'south' or 'west' indicators, and meandered my way south-west until I eventually (hours longer than it should have taken) found myself on the outskirts of Memphis, where I finally recovered signal. This journey wasn't wasted however, as I got to see some great back-roads (as opposed to the boring interstates), and drove through a quaint little town called La Grange, established earlier but finally incorporated on December 1, 1829. Situated on a high bluff overlooking the Wolf River with a view of several miles into North Mississippi, this area was originally home to Chickasaw Native Americans. La Grange was settled primarily by families from Virginia, North Carolina and Alabama. Many of the original homes still exist, with cute signs out from identifying when they were built. They range from the super-impressive Woodlawn Plantation (1828) to the small but character-filled La Petit Maison (c1900), and everything in between. I did several turns up and down the main road, taking photos and trying not to get hit by the traffic as the main street happens to by highway 57.
Speaking of photos, as I have now arrived into my hotel in East Memphis, and am safe and sound with reliable wifi, I think I'm going to get about looking at my photos, and creating an Instagram account or Tumblr or whatever you young'uns are doing these days to display photos. Better get onto it now before it gets away from me...
Chat soon,
M x
**update** I have finally created a Tumblr account. You can view photos from my trip so far here: AussieGirlinUSA
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