Still don´t have an adaptor yet, despite walking around for about two hours this morning. My laptop is very forlorn with it´s blinking "I´m dead" light. There are two blog posts pleading to be let out of it.
In the meantime I´ll have to forget about my electronic concerns, get some food, then plop myself on the beach. It´s GORGEOUS here!
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Monday, April 6, 2009
a little out of order.
Before Glasgow Day Three, I need to vent a bit, and in any case the blog I have all typed up for that is stuck on my laptop whose battery has died and I don´t yet have an adaptor for Spain. This is an ancient, ancient computer I´m typing on, the buttons are different and the S and W keys aren´t orking very well. Bear ith me.
Yes, Spain is where I am. I´m still calming down from the overwhelming entrance to the country. First I couldn´t figure out the train. It took me a lot of looking dumb and lost before I read the one sign that explained that there was construction on the rails and my stop was closed. When I got to my alternate stop I looked at my map and thought, "It´s a nice evening. I´ll just walk across town, get a feel for the place." Well it turn out there´s this holiday called "Easter". Some dude died. Now every year around this time Spain has these crazy parades with four tiered crucifixes and giant float made of candels. This would be a neat spectacle if I was a) expecting it and b) it wasn´t blocking every conceivable route to my hostel. And I walked right into it and didn´t know what was happening until I was smashed on a sidewalk, feet off the ground, with a marching band playing and candlelit Jesus above me. I´m not sure I´ve been in a stranger situation.
On the bright side, I got to see, literally, the entire town, even the rougher areas that some of the locals with their children were seeing for the first time too. Becaue there were so many people out, dark creepy areas became somewhat friendly. The scenery would go from hard scrabble, crumbling clay building with graffiti everywhere to a castle, surrounded by tall skinny palm trees that leaned across the moon.
The map got me there, even if I had to take the longest route imaginable. The direction that the hostel provided said to not climb the hill. Apparently that meant, "climb most of the way up the hill, then turn left up the dark, steep stairs climb the rest of it." The hostel does not have wifi like it claimed, the showers are down the scariest hallway I´ve seen since my late grandpa´s wine cellar he called the Dungeon. There´s a very loud and drunk girl from Chicago in the bar that´s right next to my room who is trying desperately to screw any and every boy with a funny foreign name. The boys for their part are drinking straight out of a bottle and smoking a four-foot high hookah. It´s enough to make a girl not want to stay in a hostel ever again. (When I win the lottery) I could just hop in a cab and say, "take me to [respectable hotel]" where upon arriving at my room I could then fire up the laptop and write a blog about what a chore it is to fly.
Tomorrow I will hopefully be more with it.
Yes, Spain is where I am. I´m still calming down from the overwhelming entrance to the country. First I couldn´t figure out the train. It took me a lot of looking dumb and lost before I read the one sign that explained that there was construction on the rails and my stop was closed. When I got to my alternate stop I looked at my map and thought, "It´s a nice evening. I´ll just walk across town, get a feel for the place." Well it turn out there´s this holiday called "Easter". Some dude died. Now every year around this time Spain has these crazy parades with four tiered crucifixes and giant float made of candels. This would be a neat spectacle if I was a) expecting it and b) it wasn´t blocking every conceivable route to my hostel. And I walked right into it and didn´t know what was happening until I was smashed on a sidewalk, feet off the ground, with a marching band playing and candlelit Jesus above me. I´m not sure I´ve been in a stranger situation.
On the bright side, I got to see, literally, the entire town, even the rougher areas that some of the locals with their children were seeing for the first time too. Becaue there were so many people out, dark creepy areas became somewhat friendly. The scenery would go from hard scrabble, crumbling clay building with graffiti everywhere to a castle, surrounded by tall skinny palm trees that leaned across the moon.
The map got me there, even if I had to take the longest route imaginable. The direction that the hostel provided said to not climb the hill. Apparently that meant, "climb most of the way up the hill, then turn left up the dark, steep stairs climb the rest of it." The hostel does not have wifi like it claimed, the showers are down the scariest hallway I´ve seen since my late grandpa´s wine cellar he called the Dungeon. There´s a very loud and drunk girl from Chicago in the bar that´s right next to my room who is trying desperately to screw any and every boy with a funny foreign name. The boys for their part are drinking straight out of a bottle and smoking a four-foot high hookah. It´s enough to make a girl not want to stay in a hostel ever again. (When I win the lottery) I could just hop in a cab and say, "take me to [respectable hotel]" where upon arriving at my room I could then fire up the laptop and write a blog about what a chore it is to fly.
Tomorrow I will hopefully be more with it.
Glasgow! Day Two
The sun came out the second day and we drove up to Loch Lomond and Loch Long. Oddly enough, the area reminded me of the Columbia Gorge, minus the wind and a little less steep. I was surprised at the amount of trees. During my last trip to Scotland I took a backpackers' tour through the highlands and I'm not sure I saw a single tree. Ok, that's probably exaggerating, but I maintain that there are far more trees in the Loch Lomond/Long area than further north. We drank some coffee (good! they do coffee in Scotland far better than the Irish), ate some food, visited their boat, and went on a hike during which the spaniel went on a rampage through every mud puddle she came across.
The American that lives there took me out to dinner that night to a Mexican restaurant. After my experiences at Puffins: A Northwest Canadian Bistro in Korea that served "Pah-jee-tahs" and put raisins in nearly everything, I was morbidly curious as to what the Scots would do with Mexican food. Turns out, they probably do it better than in Mexico! I got something covered in chocolate sauce. Spicy chocolate sauce! Holy mother of god was it good. Why had I never considered chocolate with Mexican food?
After eating I plopped down on a bench in George Square to digest some of the giant meal and had a staring contest with a pigeon. It got chased off by a seagull. I'm sure it then pooped on someone's head.
The American that lives there took me out to dinner that night to a Mexican restaurant. After my experiences at Puffins: A Northwest Canadian Bistro in Korea that served "Pah-jee-tahs" and put raisins in nearly everything, I was morbidly curious as to what the Scots would do with Mexican food. Turns out, they probably do it better than in Mexico! I got something covered in chocolate sauce. Spicy chocolate sauce! Holy mother of god was it good. Why had I never considered chocolate with Mexican food?
After eating I plopped down on a bench in George Square to digest some of the giant meal and had a staring contest with a pigeon. It got chased off by a seagull. I'm sure it then pooped on someone's head.
Glasgow! Day One or How Meeting People on the Internet Isn't a Bad Thing
The bus ride up to Glasgow was uneventful if late and a little boring. I have to admit to being a tad nervous about meeting the people in Glasgow. Sure, I've "known" them for a long time, but have you ever tried to explain the concept of blogging to someone who isn't too familiar with the internet? It's impossible to not sound ridiculous. After trying to find a dignified way of explaining to the customs/immigration agent how I knew people in the UK I finally just sighed and said, "I met them on the internet." That terminator of a woman just stared at me, letting the ridiculousness of the statement sink in while I looked down at my shoes sheepishly. Then she stamped my passport, slid it back and forgot about me. Some people are just born into their jobs.
Anyway, obviously I'm alive and blogging, so they didn't turn out to be serial killers or anything. In fact, they're about the nicest people in the world. Even their underbite-plagued spaniel was charming.
Glasgow itself was really, really nice. I don’t know where I’d gotten the impression (ok, I do know – the news and that book about hooligans “How Soccer Explains the World”) that Glasgow was a seedy, dangerous place. Sure I’d seen pretty pictures of statues and historic buildings and things, but I’d always assumed that just outside the frame of the shot someone was being stabbed. But it really is nice, mostly clean, and I felt totally safe the whole time. In fact, I felt safer there than in most cities in Ameica. I wonder how those news reporters who write up those stories on violent Glasgow would react to a place like LA. Hell, North Portland might be too much for them. There were seemingly endless amounts of old stone buildings with either domes, ornate carvings or statues on top of them, wide pedestrian only streets and packs of people. I’m not sure I’ve seen a place with more walkers (er, that’s people walking, not those things pushed by the geriatric).
After unsuccessfully trying to watch a soccer match, I got back to the apartment I was staying at and tried in vain to stay up late enough to watch the US men's qualifier against Costa Rica. Though I fell asleep before it started, I got a hold of my mom via text message and talked on the phone to my cousin that I'll be staying with in Spain.
Anyway, obviously I'm alive and blogging, so they didn't turn out to be serial killers or anything. In fact, they're about the nicest people in the world. Even their underbite-plagued spaniel was charming.
Glasgow itself was really, really nice. I don’t know where I’d gotten the impression (ok, I do know – the news and that book about hooligans “How Soccer Explains the World”) that Glasgow was a seedy, dangerous place. Sure I’d seen pretty pictures of statues and historic buildings and things, but I’d always assumed that just outside the frame of the shot someone was being stabbed. But it really is nice, mostly clean, and I felt totally safe the whole time. In fact, I felt safer there than in most cities in Ameica. I wonder how those news reporters who write up those stories on violent Glasgow would react to a place like LA. Hell, North Portland might be too much for them. There were seemingly endless amounts of old stone buildings with either domes, ornate carvings or statues on top of them, wide pedestrian only streets and packs of people. I’m not sure I’ve seen a place with more walkers (er, that’s people walking, not those things pushed by the geriatric).
After unsuccessfully trying to watch a soccer match, I got back to the apartment I was staying at and tried in vain to stay up late enough to watch the US men's qualifier against Costa Rica. Though I fell asleep before it started, I got a hold of my mom via text message and talked on the phone to my cousin that I'll be staying with in Spain.
Bad Blogger
Really, Sara? It's been a week since I left and I've only made one post on here. Crap, I haven't even written in my journal, which is really weird. In any case, here's a round up that may be out of order and confusing, but ya know what? You'll live.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
The first day in Manchester (March 31st)
One thing I was really looking forward to doing once I hit Manchester was to eat kebabs. For whatever reason, Manchester and that whole area are covered with kebab shops that serve big mounds of cheap, delicious meat. I'm hungry just thinking about it now. Unfortunately, after 21 million hours of flying and waiting in airports and flying some more my stomach was really, really unhappy. It was totally unfair then that my hostel was in the part of town occupied by a lot of Middle Easterners (there was a bank next door called "Habib Bank" -- the love bank?) and all of their great food that I couldn't eat.
So... after being temporarily kicked out of the hostel I decided to wander around the city and make my way towards Old Trafford. I sat and people-watched at some square (Piccadilly Gardens, I think it was) for awhile. There was a guy playing some sort of homemade harp-like thing attached to a speaker. The music coming from it was beautiful, but I couldn't begin to tell you what sort of music it was, other than from somewhere in Asia. It really reminded me of Pioneer Square in that well-dressed professionals ate their lunch or stalked by along with students and homeless people and teenagers in tracksuits.
A couple things I learned from the people-watching: pigeon-chasing is Very Serious Business for the children of Manchester. They will hunt down every last one that dares land on the ground, completely oblivious to incoming trams, cars, etc. The girls and women were all very fancily dressed, hair done just so, and covered in makeup. Made me feel like even more of a slob.
After that, I hopped on the tram to get to the stadium. The Metrolink, as they called it, is like an older version of Portland's MAX light rail. The inside was steel gray with bright orange paint that had seriously flaked off. It reminded me of movies about life in prison. The Metrolink seemed to serve primarily very old people, and Japanese tourists who wanted to see Old Trafford. I really don't think there was a person under the age of 80 on that tram that didn't get off at the stadium.
You (whoever you are) are probably not very interested in the stadium itself. If you (again, whoever you are) are unaware of Old Trafford, it's where Manchester United play soccer. The tour was pretty neat though for someone who's watched a whole lot of English soccer but has never seen these places in person. OT hold just under 77,000, which means it has ten thousand more seats than the next biggest stadium I've ever been to - Qwest field in awful Seattle - but seemed smaller than the place. No matter where we walked in the stadium the view of the pitch was perfect and everything seemed close, as opposed to Qwest which seems like a cavern (probably this is because last time I was there those snobby fans up who wouldn't support a lower division team only had 1,500 people in the stadium and the only ones making noise were those of us in the visitors' section) and it's nearly impossible to see the goal on the far side. The tour group went through the locker room and the players' lounge as well as the players' tunnel. I have to admit, the last part was pretty cool, walking out towards the pitch and imagining the home crowd RIGHT THERE. I was however, unimpressed with ticket prices. No wonder Man Utd fans get called the Prawn Sandwich Brigade. Actual humans couldn't ever afford to go there and I suspect that tour is as close to attending a game as I'll ever get. Oh well, there's always cable TV.
That evening I spent a great deal of time walking in circles through the streets because I evidently left my sense of direction in Portland (or maybe Atlanta). At the end of it, I did manage to pick up a cell phone and a sandwich, so that was something at least. I barely made it to a reasonable bed time before passing out at eight.... and waking up again at midnight (roommates back from the club), one (more roommates), two, two-thirty... and so on until it was finally six or so. Then it was on to Glasgow!
So... after being temporarily kicked out of the hostel I decided to wander around the city and make my way towards Old Trafford. I sat and people-watched at some square (Piccadilly Gardens, I think it was) for awhile. There was a guy playing some sort of homemade harp-like thing attached to a speaker. The music coming from it was beautiful, but I couldn't begin to tell you what sort of music it was, other than from somewhere in Asia. It really reminded me of Pioneer Square in that well-dressed professionals ate their lunch or stalked by along with students and homeless people and teenagers in tracksuits.
A couple things I learned from the people-watching: pigeon-chasing is Very Serious Business for the children of Manchester. They will hunt down every last one that dares land on the ground, completely oblivious to incoming trams, cars, etc. The girls and women were all very fancily dressed, hair done just so, and covered in makeup. Made me feel like even more of a slob.
After that, I hopped on the tram to get to the stadium. The Metrolink, as they called it, is like an older version of Portland's MAX light rail. The inside was steel gray with bright orange paint that had seriously flaked off. It reminded me of movies about life in prison. The Metrolink seemed to serve primarily very old people, and Japanese tourists who wanted to see Old Trafford. I really don't think there was a person under the age of 80 on that tram that didn't get off at the stadium.
You (whoever you are) are probably not very interested in the stadium itself. If you (again, whoever you are) are unaware of Old Trafford, it's where Manchester United play soccer. The tour was pretty neat though for someone who's watched a whole lot of English soccer but has never seen these places in person. OT hold just under 77,000, which means it has ten thousand more seats than the next biggest stadium I've ever been to - Qwest field in awful Seattle - but seemed smaller than the place. No matter where we walked in the stadium the view of the pitch was perfect and everything seemed close, as opposed to Qwest which seems like a cavern (probably this is because last time I was there those snobby fans up who wouldn't support a lower division team only had 1,500 people in the stadium and the only ones making noise were those of us in the visitors' section) and it's nearly impossible to see the goal on the far side. The tour group went through the locker room and the players' lounge as well as the players' tunnel. I have to admit, the last part was pretty cool, walking out towards the pitch and imagining the home crowd RIGHT THERE. I was however, unimpressed with ticket prices. No wonder Man Utd fans get called the Prawn Sandwich Brigade. Actual humans couldn't ever afford to go there and I suspect that tour is as close to attending a game as I'll ever get. Oh well, there's always cable TV.
That evening I spent a great deal of time walking in circles through the streets because I evidently left my sense of direction in Portland (or maybe Atlanta). At the end of it, I did manage to pick up a cell phone and a sandwich, so that was something at least. I barely made it to a reasonable bed time before passing out at eight.... and waking up again at midnight (roommates back from the club), one (more roommates), two, two-thirty... and so on until it was finally six or so. Then it was on to Glasgow!
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
what the hell time is it anyway
Oooofff. I'm at that stage of tiredness that I'm nauseous and shaky, hungry and confused all at once. After wandering around Manchester looking for my hostel, I checked in, washed up and - finally! - laid down (smacking my head on the ceiling in the process. Damn bunk beds.) for a bit. But only for a bit, because the hostel staff burst in and declared that I was lying on a dirty bed and that I had to move. Then they took off all the sheets and disappeared. Hmmmph. I should probably go out and do something anyway. Maybe I'll take the tram over to Old Trafford and see if I can get on a tour.
Oh yes, I peaked out the window of my room to find: a kebab/pizza/burger joint attached to a XXX adult store attached to what appears to be a club - based on the DJ equipment visible in the window - that has two doors without handles or knobs. How does one get in? Then I watched a bus driver read the paper over the steering wheel while breezing through the intersection.
I guess the point of this post is to say that I'm officially in Manchester, but too tired to make much sense.
Oh yes, I peaked out the window of my room to find: a kebab/pizza/burger joint attached to a XXX adult store attached to what appears to be a club - based on the DJ equipment visible in the window - that has two doors without handles or knobs. How does one get in? Then I watched a bus driver read the paper over the steering wheel while breezing through the intersection.
I guess the point of this post is to say that I'm officially in Manchester, but too tired to make much sense.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
