Warning: to all of my friends with children, I apologize in advance...
Hey lady on the train, or couple on the plane, or grandparents on the metro, this goes out to you. You and yours love your child. Of course you do, it is a biological imperative. I do not love your child. In fact, I think your child is a narcissistic sociopath whose one and only concern is with their own interests and desires, with little to no concern for the happiness or comforts or even personal safety of others. Your responsibility as a parent or guardian is to rear them out of that state as they grow into fully functioning adults. When you allow your child to wield an umbrella with a point on the end a mere two feet from my face on a bumpy metro, you are not doing that job successfully. When you allow your toddler to spit on me on a train because she is not getting her way, you have failed as a parent. When you allow your whiny little brat to kick the back of my airplane chair for an hour and then proceed to put the burden on me by asking me to let you know if she is bothering me, you're an asshole.
Moral and legal standards dictate that I am not allowed to lay a hand on your child even if they assault and batter me, and I have accepted that. But my mother would have spanked the shit out of me if I had behaved this way in public when I was a child, and it is time that you let go of your PC, Dr. Spock bullshit and do the same. As a former child, I can attest to the fact that the one thing beyond love that will make you respect your parents the most is FEAR. Get your act together, or don't travel.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Thursday, November 4, 2010
10 Things I Hate About You-- Italian Edition...
To preface the scathing review of Italy in which I am about to indulge, I feel the need to say to all those Ital-a-philes out there that this was just one North Carolina girl's limited experience and therefore, should be taken with a grain of salt, laughed at and dismissed.
Now, let the Italiabashing begin!
1. Italians stare a lot, and when you catch them, they scowl at you.
2. Italians move like they drive-- on your ass. Excuse me sir, but there is a reason that the expression "breathing down one's neck" has a negative connotation. Now get the fuck off of me.
3. The doppleganger of Whitney Houston's assassin in the Bodyguard watched me struggle to haul my 25 lb. pack to the rack above my train seat, and then proceeded to scowl (this again) when I finally sat down... as if my struggle annoyed him. Kevin Costner's doppleganger would have helped me lift my bag. Punk.
4. Italians give directions like assholes. Period. The receptionist at my hostel told me that all I had to do to find the metro was to walk out the hostel and turn right. In the pouring rain. 20 minutes later, pack now weighing 30 lbs., two old ladies, driving like maniacs (albeit generous lovely maniacs) were driving me to the metro. Because it was NOT out the hostel door and down the street on the right. Not even close lady.
5. Italians treat you as if you are a stupid because you don't speak Italian. Newsflash, no one speaks Italian except Italians, and a few overzealous language students (Susanna, you are my favorite exception... or maybe the rule). You know how Americans have the annoying habit of just speaking English louder amd slower when they encounter a foreigner? Italians do not have this habit. They just stop listening to what you're saying and speak much much faster, in Italian, then they were before they realized that you couldn't speak Italian. And then they act as if you don't understand the most basic of instructions, even if they are given to you in English. Nothing funny about this, just terribly annoying.
6. Italians like to flex their proverbial muscle, especially train station employees. I have been bullied more by Trenitalia than all my childhood experiences combined. During the strike in France, my train from France to Italy was late, so I missed my reservation. When I asked the lady at the ticket counter how I should proceed from here, since it was not my fault that I lost my reservation, she replied, that is France's problem, not Italy's. Customer service must not translate in Italian. Another guy stole my ticket for no reason and with no explanation, and told me that I couldn't have it back until I gave him a 56 euro "fine". When I tried to find out why he was doing all this, he told me that because I am in Italy, he was not going to speak English to me, even though he could. Dick. Does that translate?
7. I have yet to encounter an Italian meal in Italy that is as good as Vivace. But I have had some great falafel.
8. Italian men are polite enough when approaching you on a romantic level... until they realize that you are not Italian. I may not speak the language, but I have worked in enough American kitchens to know when someone is saying crude things about you because they think you don't understand the language. And I do not appreciate. You hear me Jersey Shore?! Go back to Mama, and learn some manners.
9. The Italians put a damper on my Italian wine drinking experience. The wine was so cheap and delicious, and they ran me off. I think that makes me the most mad of all!
And finally...
10. There are McDonald's everywhere... but no Biscuitville. ;-)
Now, let the Italiabashing begin!
1. Italians stare a lot, and when you catch them, they scowl at you.
2. Italians move like they drive-- on your ass. Excuse me sir, but there is a reason that the expression "breathing down one's neck" has a negative connotation. Now get the fuck off of me.
3. The doppleganger of Whitney Houston's assassin in the Bodyguard watched me struggle to haul my 25 lb. pack to the rack above my train seat, and then proceeded to scowl (this again) when I finally sat down... as if my struggle annoyed him. Kevin Costner's doppleganger would have helped me lift my bag. Punk.
4. Italians give directions like assholes. Period. The receptionist at my hostel told me that all I had to do to find the metro was to walk out the hostel and turn right. In the pouring rain. 20 minutes later, pack now weighing 30 lbs., two old ladies, driving like maniacs (albeit generous lovely maniacs) were driving me to the metro. Because it was NOT out the hostel door and down the street on the right. Not even close lady.
5. Italians treat you as if you are a stupid because you don't speak Italian. Newsflash, no one speaks Italian except Italians, and a few overzealous language students (Susanna, you are my favorite exception... or maybe the rule). You know how Americans have the annoying habit of just speaking English louder amd slower when they encounter a foreigner? Italians do not have this habit. They just stop listening to what you're saying and speak much much faster, in Italian, then they were before they realized that you couldn't speak Italian. And then they act as if you don't understand the most basic of instructions, even if they are given to you in English. Nothing funny about this, just terribly annoying.
6. Italians like to flex their proverbial muscle, especially train station employees. I have been bullied more by Trenitalia than all my childhood experiences combined. During the strike in France, my train from France to Italy was late, so I missed my reservation. When I asked the lady at the ticket counter how I should proceed from here, since it was not my fault that I lost my reservation, she replied, that is France's problem, not Italy's. Customer service must not translate in Italian. Another guy stole my ticket for no reason and with no explanation, and told me that I couldn't have it back until I gave him a 56 euro "fine". When I tried to find out why he was doing all this, he told me that because I am in Italy, he was not going to speak English to me, even though he could. Dick. Does that translate?
7. I have yet to encounter an Italian meal in Italy that is as good as Vivace. But I have had some great falafel.
8. Italian men are polite enough when approaching you on a romantic level... until they realize that you are not Italian. I may not speak the language, but I have worked in enough American kitchens to know when someone is saying crude things about you because they think you don't understand the language. And I do not appreciate. You hear me Jersey Shore?! Go back to Mama, and learn some manners.
9. The Italians put a damper on my Italian wine drinking experience. The wine was so cheap and delicious, and they ran me off. I think that makes me the most mad of all!
And finally...
10. There are McDonald's everywhere... but no Biscuitville. ;-)
Monday, November 1, 2010
Hostel Bitch...
Yes, I spelled that correctly. Not hostile. Hostel. As in, I finally flipped out on one of these bitches at my Milan hostel last night.
First, allow me to present a foreword to put this post in context:
Women backpacking around Europe are rarely any different than women at any other point in their existence. They are just as self absorbed and vein as ever, just with luggage. Now, in fairness, there are always going to be exceptions to this rule. However, generally, they act as if they are in the privacy of their own homes, stomping about like elephants, taking hours in the bathroom doing their makeup, and coming in drunk and loud at 3 am, wanting to talk to their friends about the night they just spent. Problem is, they do all of this in a room with 6 to 10 other sleeping people...
Now, back to Milan.
This bitch. This bitch comes in at 3 am, and decides a druken beauty regimen is in order. Then she proceeds to talk to her friend, who is half passed out, while she riffles thorough her pack in the dark, looking for her cute pajamas, and her moisturizer, and her toothbrush, and perhaps even the lost city of Atlantis, while the rest of the room tries to sleep. And through no real fault of hers, I am tired of this shit. I am tired of these people who should have sprung for the private room because they have no idea how to respect other people.
So I sit up, and I stare at her. And she looks at me, and has the nerve to ask me what I am staring at. Needless to say, I felt compelled to remind her that while her cow ass stomps around the room, others are trying to sleep, and if she is going to insist upon being the center of attention at 3 am, I am going to treat her as such, and stare at her until she goes to bed. Because God knows, I'm not going to be sleeping. So, she tells me that I am the one causing the scene, and I should have gotten a private room. For the sake of any minors reading this post, I will refrain from telling you what happens next... What I will say is there is a moral to this story. Disrupt sleeping roommates at a hostel in Italy from here to November 9, and be willing to face the wrath of the Hostel Bitch. ;-)
First, allow me to present a foreword to put this post in context:
Women backpacking around Europe are rarely any different than women at any other point in their existence. They are just as self absorbed and vein as ever, just with luggage. Now, in fairness, there are always going to be exceptions to this rule. However, generally, they act as if they are in the privacy of their own homes, stomping about like elephants, taking hours in the bathroom doing their makeup, and coming in drunk and loud at 3 am, wanting to talk to their friends about the night they just spent. Problem is, they do all of this in a room with 6 to 10 other sleeping people...
Now, back to Milan.
This bitch. This bitch comes in at 3 am, and decides a druken beauty regimen is in order. Then she proceeds to talk to her friend, who is half passed out, while she riffles thorough her pack in the dark, looking for her cute pajamas, and her moisturizer, and her toothbrush, and perhaps even the lost city of Atlantis, while the rest of the room tries to sleep. And through no real fault of hers, I am tired of this shit. I am tired of these people who should have sprung for the private room because they have no idea how to respect other people.
So I sit up, and I stare at her. And she looks at me, and has the nerve to ask me what I am staring at. Needless to say, I felt compelled to remind her that while her cow ass stomps around the room, others are trying to sleep, and if she is going to insist upon being the center of attention at 3 am, I am going to treat her as such, and stare at her until she goes to bed. Because God knows, I'm not going to be sleeping. So, she tells me that I am the one causing the scene, and I should have gotten a private room. For the sake of any minors reading this post, I will refrain from telling you what happens next... What I will say is there is a moral to this story. Disrupt sleeping roommates at a hostel in Italy from here to November 9, and be willing to face the wrath of the Hostel Bitch. ;-)
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Paris is the "City of Lights"...
...but I believe it is time to reevaluate the name. Perhaps the "City of PDA" would be more appropriate? Or, in a new twist, we could just start referring to PDA (Public Displays of Affection, for those of you living under a rock) as "being Parisian".
Imagine it, you're in a bar, on a Friday night, some overly drunk couple is in the corner making out and groping inappropriately, and you lean over to your girlfriend and say, "look at that tacky couple over there, they're being so Parisian right now."
It would serve them right for calling us out for all these years for being stupid and uncivilized. I'm uncivilized?! You just had sex on a metro bench!
In all seriousness, Paris is unbelievable beautiful, and the effort that they make in this country to promote aesthetics at every turn is unrivaled. I have never been to a more visually stimulating country in my life. That stimulation stayed north of the border, but hey, maybe if I had spent more than a few weeks here, I, too, would have turned into a raging nymphomaniac.
Imagine it, you're in a bar, on a Friday night, some overly drunk couple is in the corner making out and groping inappropriately, and you lean over to your girlfriend and say, "look at that tacky couple over there, they're being so Parisian right now."
It would serve them right for calling us out for all these years for being stupid and uncivilized. I'm uncivilized?! You just had sex on a metro bench!
In all seriousness, Paris is unbelievable beautiful, and the effort that they make in this country to promote aesthetics at every turn is unrivaled. I have never been to a more visually stimulating country in my life. That stimulation stayed north of the border, but hey, maybe if I had spent more than a few weeks here, I, too, would have turned into a raging nymphomaniac.
Amsterdam...
...I can barely remember, but it held true to form. Good people with sincere good naturedness, lots of marijuana (so much so I found scraps of it stuck to my laundry in Paris) and too much shopping.
So most people assume two things about Amsterdam: marijuana and hookers. This is entirely fair. But these two sinful activities are surrounded by the most wholesome looking town you've ever seen, so much so that it would be easy to forget that those two were so synonymous with Amsterdam... if you weren't so high.
Here is Amsterdam's dirtiest little secret, the one they never warn you about in the guidebooks, and it is one that can do far more damage to your bank account than the Red Light District or the Coffee Shops. H&M. Yes, H&M. According to HM.com/nl/storelocator, there are only 10. I beg to differ. I went into 10, so there is no way that I found them all. And according to Amsterdam.info, there are only 751,000. That is one H&M for every 75,000 people. And if you've ever been to H&M on a Saturday afternoon, that number is just about right.
So most people assume two things about Amsterdam: marijuana and hookers. This is entirely fair. But these two sinful activities are surrounded by the most wholesome looking town you've ever seen, so much so that it would be easy to forget that those two were so synonymous with Amsterdam... if you weren't so high.
Here is Amsterdam's dirtiest little secret, the one they never warn you about in the guidebooks, and it is one that can do far more damage to your bank account than the Red Light District or the Coffee Shops. H&M. Yes, H&M. According to HM.com/nl/storelocator, there are only 10. I beg to differ. I went into 10, so there is no way that I found them all. And according to Amsterdam.info, there are only 751,000. That is one H&M for every 75,000 people. And if you've ever been to H&M on a Saturday afternoon, that number is just about right.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Prague is a bitch.
Warning: The following post contains scathing criticisms not suitable for children or the elderly. Only those 18 and above and willing to indulge in some good old fashioned bashing need read forward.
Prague is a bitch. She is like one those girls you went to high school with; she is pretty, I guess, or at least all the boys think so. She is cheap, rude and more than a little dirty. Many men have left their mark on her, and although she is fun to drink with, she has little of interest to say, beyond her minor cultural virtues, namely ballet, opera, and puppets. Yes, puppets.
I felt so "American" there, in the worst way, the way that other Europeans always assume you are. I was dissatisfied constantly with the shoddy service. I hated that next to nothing was written in English, even the major tourist centers. I was offended that so many people refused to be patient with me while I struggled to understand both Czech currency and the language. Excuse me, but Czech isn't exactly offered as a language course ANYWHERE. Maybe if you had bothered to conquer a few foreign lands in your day like the British, Spanish or French, I would know how to say "how do I get to Prague Castle" in Czech, but alas, you didn't, so shouldn't I be the one shaking my finger at you?
Furthermore, there is never any need to be rude to people who are being polite to you, no matter how annoying they seem in the moment. And it seemed to permeate the Prague air. Even the people who weren't Czech were showing their ass. My hostel roommates got up at all hours of the morning, stomping about, slamming doors and talking at the top of their voices despite knowing that others were sleeping. One woman even scolded me for "taking ages" in the shower even though I never take more than 30 minutes to get ready, ever, and I had asked all the other people in the room if they needed to get in the shower before I got in. To top it all off, there are other showers on the floor, so her bitchiness was entirely uncalled for, which I made a point of informing her before I left.
I would never tell anyone not to visit a city, and maybe my limited experience in Prague has led me to an unfair conclusion. But first impressions are lasting, and Prague, you are one bitch that I am kicking to the curb.
Prague is a bitch. She is like one those girls you went to high school with; she is pretty, I guess, or at least all the boys think so. She is cheap, rude and more than a little dirty. Many men have left their mark on her, and although she is fun to drink with, she has little of interest to say, beyond her minor cultural virtues, namely ballet, opera, and puppets. Yes, puppets.
I felt so "American" there, in the worst way, the way that other Europeans always assume you are. I was dissatisfied constantly with the shoddy service. I hated that next to nothing was written in English, even the major tourist centers. I was offended that so many people refused to be patient with me while I struggled to understand both Czech currency and the language. Excuse me, but Czech isn't exactly offered as a language course ANYWHERE. Maybe if you had bothered to conquer a few foreign lands in your day like the British, Spanish or French, I would know how to say "how do I get to Prague Castle" in Czech, but alas, you didn't, so shouldn't I be the one shaking my finger at you?
Furthermore, there is never any need to be rude to people who are being polite to you, no matter how annoying they seem in the moment. And it seemed to permeate the Prague air. Even the people who weren't Czech were showing their ass. My hostel roommates got up at all hours of the morning, stomping about, slamming doors and talking at the top of their voices despite knowing that others were sleeping. One woman even scolded me for "taking ages" in the shower even though I never take more than 30 minutes to get ready, ever, and I had asked all the other people in the room if they needed to get in the shower before I got in. To top it all off, there are other showers on the floor, so her bitchiness was entirely uncalled for, which I made a point of informing her before I left.
I would never tell anyone not to visit a city, and maybe my limited experience in Prague has led me to an unfair conclusion. But first impressions are lasting, and Prague, you are one bitch that I am kicking to the curb.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
The Dublin Experience...
As I enjoy my last few hours in Dublin, I am contemplating what I would tell those I know about to travel here, the important things that they should know about Dublin that they don't tell you in travel brochures. Since I rarely read travel brochures, and usually grab them as I'm leaving a country because I am too cheap to buy souvenirs, I have no idea if these are actually in the brochures, but here you are my friends, enjoy...
1. They serve "chips" (a.k.a. french fries) with everything. It doesn't matter if the dish you ordered already has 1000 calories all on its own, they'll still add chips. Cottage pie, which is essentially ground beef in a bowl of gravy, with a few mixed veg thrown in for good measure and mashed potatoes and cheese on top... served with chips. It is enough to make even the most devoted Southern diner a bit bloated. The waitress at today's pub asked me if my chips were alright. "Yes, I responded, it is just a lot of food". "Are you sure love, I can get you mashed potatoes or a salad if you want". Great, now they offer the salad.
2. There is no Harp in Dublin. I will admit, I didn't go into every pub in Dublin, but I made a solid effort, and no Harp. I didn't want a Harp, I wasn't disappointed, but if you are some weird Harp obsessed person, do not come to Dublin, for the proverbial Harp well is dry. I asked a bartender about it, and he confirmed my findings... you probably won't find any Harp in Dublin. It went out of fashion at the end of the 80's. Instead, he offered me an ice cold Budweiser. I respectfully declined.
3. I thought North Carolina had a lot of churches. They ain't got nothing on Dublin. If there is a day of reckoning, God will be saving these people first, that I can assure you.
4. Good luck finding your way around Dublin at first. It is not the most navigable town. However, the people are beyond friendly, and not in a cloying, insincere way (you listening, North Carolina?) but in a genuine, subtle way. So if you get lost, they'll help you find your way. They'll gently explain that something is "just over there" or my personal favorite, "down that road, just passed the church..."
5. If you feel like you've stumbled into a bad neighborhood, don't worry. I have several times, a fearful, primed-to-be-mugged tourist, wandered into a seedy looking neighborhood, and people pay me no mind. I wouldn't recommend doing it at 2 in the morning though... not that this is the kind of city where anything is going on a 2 in the morning, because it really isn't. Then again, it is a weekday, and these are good, God-fearing people. Besides, judging by the full bar stools at pubs all across this fair city prior to sundown, they are probably all too drunk to make it until 2.
6. Speaking of pubs, if you wander into a pub and there isn't a woman in sight, this shouldn't surprise you. Apparently, you just found the best Guinness in town, or so I've been told.
7. The dirtiest little secret of all, the one no one ever told me about Dublin, is they don't have much Irish food here. Yes, the capital of Ireland is a difficult place to find traditional Irish fare. You'll be better off looking for curry, that, my friends, is everywhere. Maybe all the Irish food is in India...
1. They serve "chips" (a.k.a. french fries) with everything. It doesn't matter if the dish you ordered already has 1000 calories all on its own, they'll still add chips. Cottage pie, which is essentially ground beef in a bowl of gravy, with a few mixed veg thrown in for good measure and mashed potatoes and cheese on top... served with chips. It is enough to make even the most devoted Southern diner a bit bloated. The waitress at today's pub asked me if my chips were alright. "Yes, I responded, it is just a lot of food". "Are you sure love, I can get you mashed potatoes or a salad if you want". Great, now they offer the salad.
2. There is no Harp in Dublin. I will admit, I didn't go into every pub in Dublin, but I made a solid effort, and no Harp. I didn't want a Harp, I wasn't disappointed, but if you are some weird Harp obsessed person, do not come to Dublin, for the proverbial Harp well is dry. I asked a bartender about it, and he confirmed my findings... you probably won't find any Harp in Dublin. It went out of fashion at the end of the 80's. Instead, he offered me an ice cold Budweiser. I respectfully declined.
3. I thought North Carolina had a lot of churches. They ain't got nothing on Dublin. If there is a day of reckoning, God will be saving these people first, that I can assure you.
4. Good luck finding your way around Dublin at first. It is not the most navigable town. However, the people are beyond friendly, and not in a cloying, insincere way (you listening, North Carolina?) but in a genuine, subtle way. So if you get lost, they'll help you find your way. They'll gently explain that something is "just over there" or my personal favorite, "down that road, just passed the church..."
5. If you feel like you've stumbled into a bad neighborhood, don't worry. I have several times, a fearful, primed-to-be-mugged tourist, wandered into a seedy looking neighborhood, and people pay me no mind. I wouldn't recommend doing it at 2 in the morning though... not that this is the kind of city where anything is going on a 2 in the morning, because it really isn't. Then again, it is a weekday, and these are good, God-fearing people. Besides, judging by the full bar stools at pubs all across this fair city prior to sundown, they are probably all too drunk to make it until 2.
6. Speaking of pubs, if you wander into a pub and there isn't a woman in sight, this shouldn't surprise you. Apparently, you just found the best Guinness in town, or so I've been told.
7. The dirtiest little secret of all, the one no one ever told me about Dublin, is they don't have much Irish food here. Yes, the capital of Ireland is a difficult place to find traditional Irish fare. You'll be better off looking for curry, that, my friends, is everywhere. Maybe all the Irish food is in India...
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
On to Dublin...
I will admit, this place overwhelmed me at first, for various reasons. First, they speak English here, and yet, they don't. It is disguised by an accent that is unreasonably un-understandable. I mean, it is ENGLISH for God's sake. Seriously, I challenge you to do better. On the plane ride into Dublin from London, we experienced severe turbulence. I had, as I always do, paid attention to the emergency instructions prior to take-off, but upon getting my ass nearly thrown from my seat, all such instructions flew right out of my memory. The pilot did his due diligence, instructing us after each rocky encounter to... well, I don't know what he was saying to us because he was Irish. His tone was calming enough. I'm sure it was standard, but how was I to know? I couldn't understand a single word he said. So I kept staring at the place above you where those oxygen masks fall when you're basically about to die on an airplane. We landed, all was well, then I got on a bus to bring me into Dublin. Let me tell you something about Dublin buses: they do not announce the names of stops. At all. I had no clue where we were at any given time. We could have been headed back to England for all I know. And street names and maps here are useless. Every street in Dublin is like Lynn Rd/Spring Forest Rd/Kyle Dr. Meaning they change with no obvious reason. And it doesn't matter, because the buses won't tell you were you are anyway, so who cares what the name of the street is. No wonder they like to drink so much here. I find being a bit drunk is the easiest way to get around.
The next day, I wandered about, allowing myself to get lost. Let's be honest, I was going to get lost anyway. My natural radar brought me first to the center of Dublin's shopping district, St. Stephen's Green, where I wandered into a TopShop and left, begrudgingly, with nothing. Then I ended up at the Natural History Museum, where the best of the Irish taxidermists stuff any animal that ever existed, and it is AWESOME! I never realized what an affinity I have for dead animals that still look completely intact, but I do. I spent about an hour in there, being weird, and then I stumbled upon a traditional restored Georgian home. I don't necessarily know what a Georgian home is, per ce, but I have ascertained that is a quaint way of describing a house from long ago where really rich and spoiled people live. I gathered many interesting interior design tips which I WILL use in the future, mark my spoiled, bourgeois words. There was a tour in which I was invited to join, full of people who were very lovely and very old. Apparently, I am the only person under the age of 65 who loves touring historical houses. They liked me though, making sure that I moved to the front to get a good look at everything the Irish tour guide was saying. Of course, I understood none of it.
The next day, I wandered about, allowing myself to get lost. Let's be honest, I was going to get lost anyway. My natural radar brought me first to the center of Dublin's shopping district, St. Stephen's Green, where I wandered into a TopShop and left, begrudgingly, with nothing. Then I ended up at the Natural History Museum, where the best of the Irish taxidermists stuff any animal that ever existed, and it is AWESOME! I never realized what an affinity I have for dead animals that still look completely intact, but I do. I spent about an hour in there, being weird, and then I stumbled upon a traditional restored Georgian home. I don't necessarily know what a Georgian home is, per ce, but I have ascertained that is a quaint way of describing a house from long ago where really rich and spoiled people live. I gathered many interesting interior design tips which I WILL use in the future, mark my spoiled, bourgeois words. There was a tour in which I was invited to join, full of people who were very lovely and very old. Apparently, I am the only person under the age of 65 who loves touring historical houses. They liked me though, making sure that I moved to the front to get a good look at everything the Irish tour guide was saying. Of course, I understood none of it.
London is way cooler than me.
I think the post title says it all. Let me tell you a few things about London:
1. The girls will make you sick. They are all chic-er than you, and it is sheer torture, because you know that, despite having the same access to the same clothes, they will always look more perfectly disheveled and layered than you do, and that is the end of that. The accent doesn't hurt.
2. There is a bird obsession in London that is a bit over the top. They even have TV shows about it. That, and squirrels. Yes, squirrels. I've heard several conversations about the American gray squirrels causing the English red squirrels to go nearly extinct. It is a big deal. However, our American gray squirrels, I will admit, have really found their niche here. They will come right up to you, and it is awesome. Ok, enough about animals...
3. Another thing that is helpful to know about London before you get here, they will use words that will be very familiar to you. Don't fall into the trap of thinking that they have the same meaning as they do in the States. Apparently, pants are underwear, trousers are pants, pudding is dessert in general, but can also be savory (and apparently, it can be a sort of bread roll/pastry type thing when called "yorkshire pudding") and sometimes contains coagulated blood, so ask first. Chips are french fries, biscuits are cookies, scones are the closest thing I can find to an actual biscuit, faggots are meatballs, and fags are cigarettes. I wish I had written this blog sooner so that I could remember all of the insane misnomers, but here we are, with my Guinness impaired memory, so don't be surprised if I add more later as they come to me.
4. Stuff = bits. Insert the word "bits" anywhere you usually say "stuff" and you will be thoroughly British in no time.
5. The underground, the London answer to a subway, also called the tube, is great. At first, it can be a bit overwhelming (I mean "bit" in the American sense, not the British one, so I do not mean "at first, it can be a stuff overwhelming"). But generally, it gets you everywhere and once you get the hang of it, it is actually loads of fun.
6. To shop: Oxford and Bond Streets. Go no where else.
7. This is a full English breakfast, as far as I can ascertain: sausage, bacon (yes, both), eggs (typically fried), a tomato, a mushroom cap (I know, random), toast or an English muffin, and sometimes, hashbrowns. Also, a great cure for a hangover.
1. The girls will make you sick. They are all chic-er than you, and it is sheer torture, because you know that, despite having the same access to the same clothes, they will always look more perfectly disheveled and layered than you do, and that is the end of that. The accent doesn't hurt.
2. There is a bird obsession in London that is a bit over the top. They even have TV shows about it. That, and squirrels. Yes, squirrels. I've heard several conversations about the American gray squirrels causing the English red squirrels to go nearly extinct. It is a big deal. However, our American gray squirrels, I will admit, have really found their niche here. They will come right up to you, and it is awesome. Ok, enough about animals...
3. Another thing that is helpful to know about London before you get here, they will use words that will be very familiar to you. Don't fall into the trap of thinking that they have the same meaning as they do in the States. Apparently, pants are underwear, trousers are pants, pudding is dessert in general, but can also be savory (and apparently, it can be a sort of bread roll/pastry type thing when called "yorkshire pudding") and sometimes contains coagulated blood, so ask first. Chips are french fries, biscuits are cookies, scones are the closest thing I can find to an actual biscuit, faggots are meatballs, and fags are cigarettes. I wish I had written this blog sooner so that I could remember all of the insane misnomers, but here we are, with my Guinness impaired memory, so don't be surprised if I add more later as they come to me.
4. Stuff = bits. Insert the word "bits" anywhere you usually say "stuff" and you will be thoroughly British in no time.
5. The underground, the London answer to a subway, also called the tube, is great. At first, it can be a bit overwhelming (I mean "bit" in the American sense, not the British one, so I do not mean "at first, it can be a stuff overwhelming"). But generally, it gets you everywhere and once you get the hang of it, it is actually loads of fun.
6. To shop: Oxford and Bond Streets. Go no where else.
7. This is a full English breakfast, as far as I can ascertain: sausage, bacon (yes, both), eggs (typically fried), a tomato, a mushroom cap (I know, random), toast or an English muffin, and sometimes, hashbrowns. Also, a great cure for a hangover.
The beginning...
As many may already know, I have embarked on a journey. For the second time in my life, I am traveling Europe solo. This is an adventure not entered into lightly. It involves quite a bit of sacrifice on one's part-- money, time, comforts of home, and the solitude can be deafening. This is my itinerary, for those of you just joining:
London
Dublin
Prague
Amsterdam
Paris
Burgundy & Rhone (for drinking's sake)
Nice
Milan
Venice
Florence
Rome
Undetermined, but add about 2 more weeks...
This is unnerving. Don't get me wrong, I love Europe, but I am beginning to think I am too old for this "backpacking across Europe" brew-ha-ha (yes, I spelled it "brew" as in beer, because it takes me a few of those each day for my brain to not implode).
I did a similar version of this trip when I was 22. Thinner, younger, more adaptable to sharing a shower with a million other dirty hostel partakers. These days I have to block out the idea that the person in the bed next to me is going to steal my iPhone as it charges. That there are not bedbugs in my comforter. And that I won't get some weird venereal disease from using common facilities. Let's face it, I am an American, and I hate that about myself, but what can I say? I live in a townhouse in Raleigh, NC with my own plush bathroom and hot water nearly anytime I want it. Don't even ask me how much I miss my DVR. I will cry.
But all of this aside, I am determined to enjoy this for what it is... an adventure. I am, after all, someone who loves the life lived "off the beaten path" and what is more off the beaten path than a trip across the Atlantic Ocean. So bear with me as I leave behind my life of American luxury and become a true American vagabond in Europe... even if it kills me.
London
Dublin
Prague
Amsterdam
Paris
Burgundy & Rhone (for drinking's sake)
Nice
Milan
Venice
Florence
Rome
Undetermined, but add about 2 more weeks...
This is unnerving. Don't get me wrong, I love Europe, but I am beginning to think I am too old for this "backpacking across Europe" brew-ha-ha (yes, I spelled it "brew" as in beer, because it takes me a few of those each day for my brain to not implode).
I did a similar version of this trip when I was 22. Thinner, younger, more adaptable to sharing a shower with a million other dirty hostel partakers. These days I have to block out the idea that the person in the bed next to me is going to steal my iPhone as it charges. That there are not bedbugs in my comforter. And that I won't get some weird venereal disease from using common facilities. Let's face it, I am an American, and I hate that about myself, but what can I say? I live in a townhouse in Raleigh, NC with my own plush bathroom and hot water nearly anytime I want it. Don't even ask me how much I miss my DVR. I will cry.
But all of this aside, I am determined to enjoy this for what it is... an adventure. I am, after all, someone who loves the life lived "off the beaten path" and what is more off the beaten path than a trip across the Atlantic Ocean. So bear with me as I leave behind my life of American luxury and become a true American vagabond in Europe... even if it kills me.
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