We left Madrid on the night train to Barcelona--in a lucky turn of events, all coach seats were sold out and Robyn and I were forced to splurge on a couchette (a cot instead of a seat) to earn a spot on the train. More importantly, we had a place to get horizontal, finally!
It wasn't much, actually it was reminscent of my nights at Castle Irwell, but it was far better than trying to fall asleep while sitting up, or folded awkwardly or on the shoulder of the stranger next to you.
We were sharing a "cabin" with a Spanish lady (presumably, because she didn't speak a word to anyone else) and two lesbians on the tail-end of their 8-month backpacking tour of all over. Not that any of these people were particularly noteworthy room mates..but, once we were off the train I think my and Robyn's first spoken words were:
How about our room mates being a lesbian couple?
Yeah...interesting. Coffee?
Yes (said in the style of Almost Famous' Russell Hammond, for you, Robyn).
We decided to treat ourselves to a "relaxing end," meaning a place to stay and minimal walking in Barcelona. Though we were seriously considering ditching mainland Europe for Ireland one last time (our Madrid hosts were that bad), giving Barcelona one last chance was a good idea.
There is a lot to offer in that city, being thousands of years old, with a history that far outdoes Madrid's and other more contemporary attractions as well. La Rambla is Barcelona's"main drag," like a tourist promenade with all the shopping, eating and other randomn things you could ask for.
Randomn things like: vendors selling pigeons, roosters, other various birds, rabbits, fish, reptiles and more. Not to mention the status quo t-shirts, fridge magnets and post cards.
Street performers--my favourite being the golden man with the giant clock enrusted into his chest. He didn't do anything, but he had the biggest crowd. Hoards of people would stand and watch him, and his clock, ticking away.
It got entertaining when frustrated bystanders would stomp off:
"he doesn't do ANYthing!" leaving their fifty cents or couple euros in his open bag. For not doing anything, I would say he made the most monely soley on the fact that everyone thought their donation would certainly be the one to stir him into action. And for some reason, he so compelled me I was considering letting everyone else in on the secret I swear only he and I understood:
Don't you see!? It's a clock, and you're watching it! The joke is on you...he's Time, you're watching Time, fly ...by ..or something!!!!
You know it's time for your trip to end when you think you're making special connections with the street performers.
Barcelona is tourist friendly, in fact La Rambla is entirely dedicated to tourists. Neither Robyn nor I speak a word of Spanish and we were completely fine; okay, that's an exaggeration. Day 1 of my journal read:
Attempts to speak Spanish: 4
Attempts to speak Spanish words other than Hola, Per favor, Gracias and Adios: 0
By Day 11 we had imroved immensely with two important additions to our developing mono-lingual-and-a-quarter selves:
1. cafe con leche (very important to know because washrooms are indicated with signs, cheques and reciepts have numbers and a good map will go a long way; but starting your morning out of your backpack without coffee the way you like it just makes the day so much more difficult than it has to be).
In fact, the trip confirmed for both of us that there is a direct correlation between caffeine in your bloodstream and your mood--yes, the epiphanies do not come often, but when they do they come boldy.
And the second addition to our grasp of the Spanish language:
2. guapa: ...people--more accurately the guys working the doors of every resturant on La Rambla--kept on saying it to us. But like this, guaaaapppaahhhh
Finally we asked. Guapa means pretty. But remember, I said we were hearing it from all the Spanish guys working the doors. In other words, they were being paid to call us pretty. We still giggled like little school girls every time we heard it, but I personally subscribe to the "I'm a tourist, might as well soak it up" line of thinking.
In my opinion, when you're a tourist you should take advantage of a few things:
a. the chance to admit that you don't know something and it's pefectly okay, or embarassingly okay
- oh, I didn't know that in Spain the toilets don't have seats and the toilet paper is located outside of the stalls. Squat and wag. Sometimes, you just have to get over yourself.
b. the chance to look completely out of place and be able to chalk it up to another culture's "style"
- oh, sure. In Canada, coordinating orange with pink, green, red and flourescent deflective strips is all the rage.
c. the chance to climb all over national monuments (that are lions more often than not) as though you were a child again, or as though you had never seen a giant statue before
- since this trip, "take my picture with the lion" has been a regular request
We left Barcelona that morning, but thanks to a roundabout wrong-way incident, our bus on leg 3 of the the journey was delayed so that leg 3 was soon styled like Microsoft Windows and developed a 3.1, 3.2, 3.3 and all the way to probably about 3.7 version of leg 3. Eventually, we ended up in Lincoln, Robyn's home and place of employment.
In an occurance of miraculous travelling-together-fate, Robyn and I probably were getting along better by the end of the trip than at the beginning. Not that we weren't getting along well to begin with, but who extends their nine-day backpacking whirlwind tri-city tour by two more days...
well we did, for:
- the most amazing shower I've ever been in
- a lot of food
- a real bed
- a Sex & the City marathon
- and three kids, a dog that snores and a 16-week-old puppy that acted as though their favourite au pair had been gone for months...
Ah, but like all good things....eventually the trip did end. Robyn dropped me off at the train station today and I made my way back to Manchester, where I will take a flight back to Canada tomorrow morning.
See you soon.
Friday, December 22, 2006
Saturday, December 16, 2006
Madrid, thus far
No sleep.
No food aside from the granola bars and oranges in our bags.
Over sixteen hours on a train.
It was like a pilgrimage to Madrid--the place of rest and riches of running water, feasts and internet access. When we finally made it into the train station our nerves were shot and probably talking in incoherent blurbs. Fortunately, we´re foreigners and so allowances are made.
We were expecting Kenny to pick us up, but via a handful of text messages we discovered it would be his friend, Jazz, instead. We didn´t care who it was, as long as they picked us up and delivered us to food, a shower and a bed.
One text message informed us about Burgo´s, the place we would meeting Kenny.
Burgo´s. Sounds like a fantastic burger joint to me.
We started rambling about burgers and food in general, about how much we would eat and considering if asking for drive-thru so as not to interrupt our journey to bed would be bad manners.
Jazz arrives, saying ¨Hi, we´re meeting Kenny at Burgos, he´s already there.¨
Perfect, maybe he has ordered ahead.
¨Yeah, we heard. We don´t know what Burgo´s is but it sure sounds good!¨
It is Burgos. Not Burgo´s. And it is a city, not a burger joint, two and a half hours north of Madrid.
The looks of sheer panic that struck across our faces would have been priceless had we caught them on film. Instead, we could barely manage a reply. We prayed it was a joke; we hoped that Jazz was, instead, whisking us away to said mecca of rest and riches.
But alas, it was not a joke and Burgos is definitely every minute of two and a half hours north of Madrid. Even more heartbreaking, we saw buildings and landmarks that we had already passed hours before on the train, whizzing by us like some cruel form of deja-vu. We sat, in a dejected state of shock, our heads bobbling back and forth, fighting off sleep (or perhaps coma) while the three other people in the van jabbered in Spanish.
We found out later each and every one of our chauffeurs was born in America with English being their native tongue. It was the beginning experience of some bizarre Spanish-speaking club we are excluded from, or so it seems.
Kenny explained it like this: a fierce attachment to Spain and the culture, resulting in the unwillingness to accomodate non-Spanish speaking individuals.
I´ve experienced it like this: an ignorant and snobbish decision to exclude indiviuals you are perfectly capable of accomodating. This is particularly true, for me, of the American-born ¨Spaniards,¨who didn´t bother to say so much as hello or inquire as to what we were doing.
We spent the evening at an ¨underground worship,¨where nearly everyone was capable of speaking English to us but chose not to. But to each their own, and perhaps they weren´t appreciative of us gatecrashing their worship.
underground worship -- a group of young people gathering to listen to a band and meditate on their faith in general.
Either way, it wasn´t entirely heartbreaking because we weren´t exactly in any state to be interacting with anyone, let alone with a language barrier of sorts to contend with. Eventually, we made it back to Madrid and collapsed into bed at 3:30 am.
Woke up around noon and have lazed since then. Our feet our still swollen and bruised, but it is glorious to know that today we will eat and tonight we will sleep.
We are recuperating. To be continued...
No food aside from the granola bars and oranges in our bags.
Over sixteen hours on a train.
It was like a pilgrimage to Madrid--the place of rest and riches of running water, feasts and internet access. When we finally made it into the train station our nerves were shot and probably talking in incoherent blurbs. Fortunately, we´re foreigners and so allowances are made.
We were expecting Kenny to pick us up, but via a handful of text messages we discovered it would be his friend, Jazz, instead. We didn´t care who it was, as long as they picked us up and delivered us to food, a shower and a bed.
One text message informed us about Burgo´s, the place we would meeting Kenny.
Burgo´s. Sounds like a fantastic burger joint to me.
We started rambling about burgers and food in general, about how much we would eat and considering if asking for drive-thru so as not to interrupt our journey to bed would be bad manners.
Jazz arrives, saying ¨Hi, we´re meeting Kenny at Burgos, he´s already there.¨
Perfect, maybe he has ordered ahead.
¨Yeah, we heard. We don´t know what Burgo´s is but it sure sounds good!¨
It is Burgos. Not Burgo´s. And it is a city, not a burger joint, two and a half hours north of Madrid.
The looks of sheer panic that struck across our faces would have been priceless had we caught them on film. Instead, we could barely manage a reply. We prayed it was a joke; we hoped that Jazz was, instead, whisking us away to said mecca of rest and riches.
But alas, it was not a joke and Burgos is definitely every minute of two and a half hours north of Madrid. Even more heartbreaking, we saw buildings and landmarks that we had already passed hours before on the train, whizzing by us like some cruel form of deja-vu. We sat, in a dejected state of shock, our heads bobbling back and forth, fighting off sleep (or perhaps coma) while the three other people in the van jabbered in Spanish.
We found out later each and every one of our chauffeurs was born in America with English being their native tongue. It was the beginning experience of some bizarre Spanish-speaking club we are excluded from, or so it seems.
Kenny explained it like this: a fierce attachment to Spain and the culture, resulting in the unwillingness to accomodate non-Spanish speaking individuals.
I´ve experienced it like this: an ignorant and snobbish decision to exclude indiviuals you are perfectly capable of accomodating. This is particularly true, for me, of the American-born ¨Spaniards,¨who didn´t bother to say so much as hello or inquire as to what we were doing.
We spent the evening at an ¨underground worship,¨where nearly everyone was capable of speaking English to us but chose not to. But to each their own, and perhaps they weren´t appreciative of us gatecrashing their worship.
underground worship -- a group of young people gathering to listen to a band and meditate on their faith in general.
Either way, it wasn´t entirely heartbreaking because we weren´t exactly in any state to be interacting with anyone, let alone with a language barrier of sorts to contend with. Eventually, we made it back to Madrid and collapsed into bed at 3:30 am.
Woke up around noon and have lazed since then. Our feet our still swollen and bruised, but it is glorious to know that today we will eat and tonight we will sleep.
We are recuperating. To be continued...
Paris
After a train ride that lasted from 5pm to 7:30am, that spanned southern Spain to northern France and that meant very little in the way of food and even less in the way of sleep, we arrived à Paris before light. And by deciding to set out on discovering Paris before finding a place to sleep, eat or orientate ourselves, we made one of the best decisions of the trip.
Consequently, Paris was a whirlwind.
We eventually discovered where we were and where we wanted to go by using the maps located on the back of bus stops. They were brilliantly marked with vous etes ici (you are here), unlike Spanish maps. Something I never thought I might take for granted.
Paris, like most major cities in Europe I have explored, is walkable if you are willing to seriously walk. Of course, there are tourist bus routes and metros, but neither Robyn nor I have a problem with walking --and take my word for it, by walking you get a better feel for the destination than you will on any tourist bus no matter how charismatic or informative the tour guide.
We came across Notre Dame by early dawn. The cathedral itself is beautiful without taking into account the pinkish hue that was descending on the city and la Seine. And from there, we continued to walk on.
To name a few, (and the ones readers and I most recognized):
- le sacre coeur
- le Louvre
- le Musee d´orsay
- le Arc de Triomphe (similar to the Arc de Triomf in Barcelona, both giant arcs looking very triumphant)
- des Champs d´Elysees, which is one reason why Paris has earned a name for fashion. For the fashionistas reading, Louis Vitton is its own building rivalling some of the most luxurious and imporant buildings I´ve seen on my journies...and it has its own flag.
- and of course, le tour Eiffel, as it is known in France.
The Eiffel Tower was my greatest expectation for Paris. At first, however, I was disappointed because the tower barely pokes above the Paris skyline, and only once you are quite close to it. To be honest, in appearance, it isn´t nearly as majestic or romantic as it is made out to be.
It isn´t until I was standing, as we so tactfully described it, under the skirt (and that was the most tactful of all the descriptions we spent five minutes coming up with) of the Eiffel Tower that I experienced it in any romantic way.
To put it as straightforward and honest as possible, it´s very industrial. It isn´t the clean lines of stone and marble. It´s greyish brown. It isn´t THAT big. But then, sitting beneath it, you realize what it symbolizes. And of course, sitting beneath, it feels THAT big. In an odd turn of events though, the Eiffel Tower was my favourite part of Paris, possibly because it wasn´t as impressive and amazing as everything else was. It won my heart, in some bizarre unepected-underdog sort of way.
It is difficult to explain, in any believable or accurate way, that the Eiffel Tower is the underdog of Paris. But it is, or was for me.
Some other unexpected discoveries and/or confirmations re: Paris --
- the French are not exclusiely as snobbish as they are made out to be.
In fact, almost all of the people we encountered were charmingly patient and accepting of our miserable attempts to converse en français. But, we were smart enough to avoid even approaching certain Parisians, case in point: the doorman of Louis Vitton who looked like someone out of the secret service/ someone with the importance of the Queen/ someone who considered himself with as much disillusioned grandiosity of celebirty as someone like Paris Hilton.
- Paris is very tourist-friendly, however, it´s fair to point out that those tourists it has in mind are of the financially-well-endowed kind. But essentially, by tourist-friendly I mean that a map isn´t absolutely necessary and there are plenty of signs that are decipherable regardless of what language you speak.
- the French really know coffee. I had three cups of cafe au lait during my time in France. They were the three best cups of coffee I have ever had. From the hole-in-the-wall concession-like stand in the hole-in-the-wall train station in Ceberre (on the way to Paris) to the expensive Cafe Austerlitz, each one was like a cup of caffeine heaven.
But don´t get me wrong: Tim Horton´s will forever have a place in my heart, and I think I actually ran into the Starbucks we came across whilw lost somewhere in the middle of non-tourist area Barcelona. But, kudos to authenticity. If I could have three wishes for every coffee-lover one of them would be that they all had the chance to stand au bar avec un cafe au lait à Paris just once.
- there is a very visible securty presence in Paris, in the way of armed guards patrolling certain destinations, like the Eiffel Tower, and train stations.
- Paris is less crowded than London, and you get a feel for Parisians and that they might actually live in the city. In London, if you manage to speak with someone who isn´t a tourist, then you will be hard-pressed to find someone originally from London and who isn´t just working there for a short period of time.
- French men really do possess a certain je ne sais quoi, at least from arm´s length away--as do the equally coiffed, preened and perfected French women on their arms. Now, granted I am backpacking and I am certainly attaining l´air de backpacker with success, I think even at my most scrubbed-clean, put together and presentable state I might just catch the eye of a French construction worker.
So Paris: Robyn and I put in several (nearly twelve) hours of walking. We rested once for about half an hour beneath the Eiffel Tower. But it was worth it. We experienced Paris all at once, like a long movie reel of amazing sites that were strangely familiar. And once we were done, we decided to move on.
They say that Rome wasn´t built in a day, and obviously neither was Paris. And although I could and plan to spend days on end in Paris--still never discovering or experiencing everything it has to offer, I am glad my virgin experience of that city was what it was:
One entire day, from dawn to dusk, of seeing the city as it unfolded before me on foot. We walked into and out of that city like travellers who find a mirage in the middle of a desert, except that it all proved to be real.
It is difficult to explain the experience accurately because describing one day in Paris obviously seems about several days short of what that city would require. But I don´t have any regrets about Paris.
We got on a train at 11pm headed for Madrid, scheduled to arrive sixteen hours later.
Au revoir Paris. À la prochaine.
Consequently, Paris was a whirlwind.
We eventually discovered where we were and where we wanted to go by using the maps located on the back of bus stops. They were brilliantly marked with vous etes ici (you are here), unlike Spanish maps. Something I never thought I might take for granted.
Paris, like most major cities in Europe I have explored, is walkable if you are willing to seriously walk. Of course, there are tourist bus routes and metros, but neither Robyn nor I have a problem with walking --and take my word for it, by walking you get a better feel for the destination than you will on any tourist bus no matter how charismatic or informative the tour guide.
We came across Notre Dame by early dawn. The cathedral itself is beautiful without taking into account the pinkish hue that was descending on the city and la Seine. And from there, we continued to walk on.
To name a few, (and the ones readers and I most recognized):
- le sacre coeur
- le Louvre
- le Musee d´orsay
- le Arc de Triomphe (similar to the Arc de Triomf in Barcelona, both giant arcs looking very triumphant)
- des Champs d´Elysees, which is one reason why Paris has earned a name for fashion. For the fashionistas reading, Louis Vitton is its own building rivalling some of the most luxurious and imporant buildings I´ve seen on my journies...and it has its own flag.
- and of course, le tour Eiffel, as it is known in France.
The Eiffel Tower was my greatest expectation for Paris. At first, however, I was disappointed because the tower barely pokes above the Paris skyline, and only once you are quite close to it. To be honest, in appearance, it isn´t nearly as majestic or romantic as it is made out to be.
It isn´t until I was standing, as we so tactfully described it, under the skirt (and that was the most tactful of all the descriptions we spent five minutes coming up with) of the Eiffel Tower that I experienced it in any romantic way.
To put it as straightforward and honest as possible, it´s very industrial. It isn´t the clean lines of stone and marble. It´s greyish brown. It isn´t THAT big. But then, sitting beneath it, you realize what it symbolizes. And of course, sitting beneath, it feels THAT big. In an odd turn of events though, the Eiffel Tower was my favourite part of Paris, possibly because it wasn´t as impressive and amazing as everything else was. It won my heart, in some bizarre unepected-underdog sort of way.
It is difficult to explain, in any believable or accurate way, that the Eiffel Tower is the underdog of Paris. But it is, or was for me.
Some other unexpected discoveries and/or confirmations re: Paris --
- the French are not exclusiely as snobbish as they are made out to be.
In fact, almost all of the people we encountered were charmingly patient and accepting of our miserable attempts to converse en français. But, we were smart enough to avoid even approaching certain Parisians, case in point: the doorman of Louis Vitton who looked like someone out of the secret service/ someone with the importance of the Queen/ someone who considered himself with as much disillusioned grandiosity of celebirty as someone like Paris Hilton.
- Paris is very tourist-friendly, however, it´s fair to point out that those tourists it has in mind are of the financially-well-endowed kind. But essentially, by tourist-friendly I mean that a map isn´t absolutely necessary and there are plenty of signs that are decipherable regardless of what language you speak.
- the French really know coffee. I had three cups of cafe au lait during my time in France. They were the three best cups of coffee I have ever had. From the hole-in-the-wall concession-like stand in the hole-in-the-wall train station in Ceberre (on the way to Paris) to the expensive Cafe Austerlitz, each one was like a cup of caffeine heaven.
But don´t get me wrong: Tim Horton´s will forever have a place in my heart, and I think I actually ran into the Starbucks we came across whilw lost somewhere in the middle of non-tourist area Barcelona. But, kudos to authenticity. If I could have three wishes for every coffee-lover one of them would be that they all had the chance to stand au bar avec un cafe au lait à Paris just once.
- there is a very visible securty presence in Paris, in the way of armed guards patrolling certain destinations, like the Eiffel Tower, and train stations.
- Paris is less crowded than London, and you get a feel for Parisians and that they might actually live in the city. In London, if you manage to speak with someone who isn´t a tourist, then you will be hard-pressed to find someone originally from London and who isn´t just working there for a short period of time.
- French men really do possess a certain je ne sais quoi, at least from arm´s length away--as do the equally coiffed, preened and perfected French women on their arms. Now, granted I am backpacking and I am certainly attaining l´air de backpacker with success, I think even at my most scrubbed-clean, put together and presentable state I might just catch the eye of a French construction worker.
So Paris: Robyn and I put in several (nearly twelve) hours of walking. We rested once for about half an hour beneath the Eiffel Tower. But it was worth it. We experienced Paris all at once, like a long movie reel of amazing sites that were strangely familiar. And once we were done, we decided to move on.
They say that Rome wasn´t built in a day, and obviously neither was Paris. And although I could and plan to spend days on end in Paris--still never discovering or experiencing everything it has to offer, I am glad my virgin experience of that city was what it was:
One entire day, from dawn to dusk, of seeing the city as it unfolded before me on foot. We walked into and out of that city like travellers who find a mirage in the middle of a desert, except that it all proved to be real.
It is difficult to explain the experience accurately because describing one day in Paris obviously seems about several days short of what that city would require. But I don´t have any regrets about Paris.
We got on a train at 11pm headed for Madrid, scheduled to arrive sixteen hours later.
Au revoir Paris. À la prochaine.
Nottingham to Barcelona
Robyn and I were to meet at the train station in Nottingham, about two hours from Manchester. However, on arriving I had a distinct feeling we weren´t going to meet there. I spent a semi-frantic, mostly just irritated, fifteen minutes of prescious time looking for Robyn.
Decided something definitely happened.
Decided had to get to East Midlands airport, which isn´t conveniently located anywhere near Nottingham train station) very soon.
Hailed taxi: an option that is always available, but one you never concede to very happily because it means all the other cheap alternatives have, for whatever reason, been disregarded for a very expensive--albeit convenient one.
Arrived at East Midlands airport to find Robyn, who had been delayed and rerouted several times due to a freak accident involving a semi-truck and a telephone pole on the only road out of the little town in which she lives. That is her story, she´s sticking to it... and as for the taxi ride, which cost me an amount that will never be disclosed, those are the breaks.
The flight to Barcelona, more accurately Girona--an hour and a bit outside of Barcelona--went swimmingly enough. We eventually located the place we were staying, after navigating the streets of a city constructed with octagon-shaped intersections. That may sound unimportant, but it means you actually go in three or four different directions to turn one corner.
Barcelona wasn´t bad. I use that term, both boring and anticlimatic, when explaining an amazing city like Barcelona because our experience there was mostly marred by two things:
- the expectation of Paris in the near future
- the fact that our host was violently ill. The term violent could never be more appropriate.
Needless to say, we were anxious to move on. Although we did enjoy the sun and cloudless skies of Spain, and we know we will be back to Barcelona to fly home, making it all the easier to leave.
But we´ve heard nothing but good things about Barcelona, and our experience there was far from being a negative one. It was an embarassing shock to realize that, yes, they do indeed speak Spanish here and English is not spoken as frequently as we had been told.
Those experiences must have been of the Spanish-resort vacation types. Neither one of us speaks Spanish. Neither one of us attempted to prepare for the language barrier either. But we did manage to find our way, eventually.
My journal, Day One: Barcelona, reads:
Got lost trying to find place because of Robyn´s map, or lack thereof.
It looked like some minimalist artist´s interpretation of Barcelona, more accurately--three blocks of Barcelona. It was so bad it was funny. We´ve consistently found our lack of preparation for these trips comical, and fortunately so, comical right away. Neither one of us minds being lost; again, fortunately because we have been a lot.
My journal, Day Two: Barcelona:
- found park and first "Spain feeling" in front of water falls, monuements and palm trees.
Sunny and warm, but Spaniards wearing scarves and winter jackets.
Everyone has a dog here.
At the end of Day 2, we miraculously ran into a group of English blokes that we had sat in front of on the plane over. This is miraculous because Robyn and I were wandering in the truest sense of the word, because Barcelona is a city with a population of approximately 3-4ish million, and because we didn´t talk in detail, let alone plan to meet these guys.
We went for dinner with them and discovered they were a group of seven English men in the Queen´s service visiting Barcelona for a couple days to say goodbye to two of their team´s members. But they were wonderful because:
We were lost.
They were distinclty English, meaning familiar, amongst millions of Spaniards.
A couple of them spoke Spanish fluently.
And they were a lot of fun--as are most military men who are holiday-ing from The service.
We spent the night with Rich, Richie, Gethin (from Wales, hence the name), Chris, Iain, Fitz and the seventh (forgotten his name) English guy with a lazy eye and a cold.
Taking the long night that lasted until 8am the next day into account, Robyn and I slept until noon and then caught the train to Paris early in the evening.
Decided something definitely happened.
Decided had to get to East Midlands airport, which isn´t conveniently located anywhere near Nottingham train station) very soon.
Hailed taxi: an option that is always available, but one you never concede to very happily because it means all the other cheap alternatives have, for whatever reason, been disregarded for a very expensive--albeit convenient one.
Arrived at East Midlands airport to find Robyn, who had been delayed and rerouted several times due to a freak accident involving a semi-truck and a telephone pole on the only road out of the little town in which she lives. That is her story, she´s sticking to it... and as for the taxi ride, which cost me an amount that will never be disclosed, those are the breaks.
The flight to Barcelona, more accurately Girona--an hour and a bit outside of Barcelona--went swimmingly enough. We eventually located the place we were staying, after navigating the streets of a city constructed with octagon-shaped intersections. That may sound unimportant, but it means you actually go in three or four different directions to turn one corner.
Barcelona wasn´t bad. I use that term, both boring and anticlimatic, when explaining an amazing city like Barcelona because our experience there was mostly marred by two things:
- the expectation of Paris in the near future
- the fact that our host was violently ill. The term violent could never be more appropriate.
Needless to say, we were anxious to move on. Although we did enjoy the sun and cloudless skies of Spain, and we know we will be back to Barcelona to fly home, making it all the easier to leave.
But we´ve heard nothing but good things about Barcelona, and our experience there was far from being a negative one. It was an embarassing shock to realize that, yes, they do indeed speak Spanish here and English is not spoken as frequently as we had been told.
Those experiences must have been of the Spanish-resort vacation types. Neither one of us speaks Spanish. Neither one of us attempted to prepare for the language barrier either. But we did manage to find our way, eventually.
My journal, Day One: Barcelona, reads:
Got lost trying to find place because of Robyn´s map, or lack thereof.
It looked like some minimalist artist´s interpretation of Barcelona, more accurately--three blocks of Barcelona. It was so bad it was funny. We´ve consistently found our lack of preparation for these trips comical, and fortunately so, comical right away. Neither one of us minds being lost; again, fortunately because we have been a lot.
My journal, Day Two: Barcelona:
- found park and first "Spain feeling" in front of water falls, monuements and palm trees.
Sunny and warm, but Spaniards wearing scarves and winter jackets.
Everyone has a dog here.
At the end of Day 2, we miraculously ran into a group of English blokes that we had sat in front of on the plane over. This is miraculous because Robyn and I were wandering in the truest sense of the word, because Barcelona is a city with a population of approximately 3-4ish million, and because we didn´t talk in detail, let alone plan to meet these guys.
We went for dinner with them and discovered they were a group of seven English men in the Queen´s service visiting Barcelona for a couple days to say goodbye to two of their team´s members. But they were wonderful because:
We were lost.
They were distinclty English, meaning familiar, amongst millions of Spaniards.
A couple of them spoke Spanish fluently.
And they were a lot of fun--as are most military men who are holiday-ing from The service.
We spent the night with Rich, Richie, Gethin (from Wales, hence the name), Chris, Iain, Fitz and the seventh (forgotten his name) English guy with a lazy eye and a cold.
Taking the long night that lasted until 8am the next day into account, Robyn and I slept until noon and then caught the train to Paris early in the evening.
Halfway
Hola, this comes to you from Madrid. I´ll try to be both detailed and succinct, which is a tall order for me, but it will exercise my journalistic muscles.
This is the morning--mental space--of Day 6 and the afternoon--real-time space--of Day 6 of my last minute Christmas escape to wherever the wind takes me. We´re in Madrid today, staying with a friend of Robyn´s, Kenny.
We are forever grateful to Kenny for providing us with his bed, his shower, his fridge and his internet access--all of which we have gone without since we left England on the 11th. We arrived in Madrid yesterday afternoon, after a sixteen-hour train ride from Paris. So, today is for recuperation and I´ve got a bit of time to play catch up on my blog. We´ll see how far I get.
This is the morning--mental space--of Day 6 and the afternoon--real-time space--of Day 6 of my last minute Christmas escape to wherever the wind takes me. We´re in Madrid today, staying with a friend of Robyn´s, Kenny.
We are forever grateful to Kenny for providing us with his bed, his shower, his fridge and his internet access--all of which we have gone without since we left England on the 11th. We arrived in Madrid yesterday afternoon, after a sixteen-hour train ride from Paris. So, today is for recuperation and I´ve got a bit of time to play catch up on my blog. We´ll see how far I get.
Sunday, December 10, 2006
Farewell Irwell
I'm writing this in Room 27 of House 17 in much the way it was on my arrival, sparse. Not that it was ever much more than sparse, but whatever it was has been packed up and moved out. It's always weird to say goodbye to a place you've inhabited, but even moreso to one you know will never see again, let alone be in.
Don't think I'm about to shed a tear or wax lyrical about Castle Irwell--but a goodbye is a goodbye; unless it's a good riddance, and I don't think I would go so far as to condemn this place in such a way. But good riddance to the dirty kitchen... and the dirty Spanish house mate (mostly responsible for the state of said kitchen). Otherwise, being an Irdweller never was that terrible.
I leave for Spain tomorrow morning from Nottingham, about an hour train ride from Manchester. It will be Robyn and my last trip, a Christmas-escape to Barcelona, Madrid and Paris. After nine days, I'll fly back to Nottingham and take the train to Bramhall, to the home of Norm and Grace Ryan. The Ryans have very much been like surrogate grandparents to me since I've been in England.
I met them at the Keg, where I served them and their daughter Beth and her family. When they found out I was moving to Manchester for four months, they immediately opened up their home to me. Grace picked me up at the airport in September and I spent my first three days in England with them.
I've also come to know Grace's other daughter, Fiona, and her family very well. They have taken me out on occasion to see "touristy" sites, as well as just to feed me and make sure I had a ready escape from student life.
Fiona, her husband Wayne, and their 8 year-old son, Toby, are heading to Canada in a few days to visit Beth. Beth and her family moved to Canada last January, and--unbelievably enough--live on the same street as me. Hopefully, I will have the opportunity to return just some of the hospitality their entire family has shown me over the past four months.
But until then, I'll make sure to thank and say goodbye to the people that have made my time at the University of Salford and in England better than it would have been without them.
- Shaun Fennell - my first friend, trusted travel guide (particularly while navigating across English roads), South African informant, always dutiful it's-late-and-dodgy-in-the-black-scally-infested-streets-of-Salford-home-walker, and all around gentleman.
Enjoy the Greeks, Shaun. Good luck with everything.
- Fatima Abrar - my editor at Student Direct, "first ever Muslim friend!" and my favourite person to sit in the newspaper office dungeon with for hours on end.
See you on the BBC, Fatima, headscarf and all.
- Niall Brown - my favourite Irishman, provider of late-night tv, endless questions and useless sayings, and the one who was always on the other end of the phone ringing me at two, three, four and five in the morning. Oh, and I suppose forever in my heart for being the one who brought me to a Manchester United game.
Nighty night night, Niall. Who was it?
- Martin Pye - the guy with the best Northern-English accent I've heard, and the one person most taken with my Canadian accent.
Good luck in America, Martin; but you have to see Canada --and the burrs in my backyard. You cannot rugby tackle one, no matter how caught-off-guard you think it might be. Badger!
- Robyn Roste - fellow Canadian amidst all these crazy English people, and travel companion to Dublin, Chicago (the musical), Dublin again, Barcelona, Madrid and Paris.
Good luck without me, Robyn. Think of me in J-lab OM 1411.
- Nicola Boyd - the best girl in England, and go figure... she's Scottish! my favourite sinful-food-indulging partner in crime, and just a level head; responsible for my first ceilidh and Highland flinging it with a boy in a kilt ..oh and also as taken by the idea of straightening and/or styling in any general manner...leg hair.
You promised to gatecrash me in Canada, where the "Scottish goddess" will be a shoe in.
Honourable mentions: James from Student Direct and my own personal photographer, Ben Clay, also from SD, my house mates, Flick, Sophia, Saffron, Hattie, Lyn, Felicity, Eva, Donna. Always friendly and always generous with their randomn coveted items I didn't have from home (pots, pans, cutlery, nail polish...nail polish remover, flat irons etc)...
...oh and Mojo - who nailed with ease and grace the role of the ever questioning-worried-and-interested mom. And sender of one very important care package containing another travel wallet, another hair dryer (I guess she thought I needed spares), Mr. Noodle soup, tea (because she though I wouldn't be able to find any in ENGLAND?!?), and among other things--the contraption that made the use of my flat iron, curling iron and (first) hair dryer possible.
See you soon.
And Korey Gannon - the boyfriend who has been patient enough to let me live on the other side of the world for four months--no questions asked.
December 23rd, Canada, British Columbia, Kelowna: airport: some gate, 11pm-ish. Be there.
Don't think I'm about to shed a tear or wax lyrical about Castle Irwell--but a goodbye is a goodbye; unless it's a good riddance, and I don't think I would go so far as to condemn this place in such a way. But good riddance to the dirty kitchen... and the dirty Spanish house mate (mostly responsible for the state of said kitchen). Otherwise, being an Irdweller never was that terrible.
I leave for Spain tomorrow morning from Nottingham, about an hour train ride from Manchester. It will be Robyn and my last trip, a Christmas-escape to Barcelona, Madrid and Paris. After nine days, I'll fly back to Nottingham and take the train to Bramhall, to the home of Norm and Grace Ryan. The Ryans have very much been like surrogate grandparents to me since I've been in England.
I met them at the Keg, where I served them and their daughter Beth and her family. When they found out I was moving to Manchester for four months, they immediately opened up their home to me. Grace picked me up at the airport in September and I spent my first three days in England with them.
I've also come to know Grace's other daughter, Fiona, and her family very well. They have taken me out on occasion to see "touristy" sites, as well as just to feed me and make sure I had a ready escape from student life.
Fiona, her husband Wayne, and their 8 year-old son, Toby, are heading to Canada in a few days to visit Beth. Beth and her family moved to Canada last January, and--unbelievably enough--live on the same street as me. Hopefully, I will have the opportunity to return just some of the hospitality their entire family has shown me over the past four months.
But until then, I'll make sure to thank and say goodbye to the people that have made my time at the University of Salford and in England better than it would have been without them.
- Shaun Fennell - my first friend, trusted travel guide (particularly while navigating across English roads), South African informant, always dutiful it's-late-and-dodgy-in-the-black-scally-infested-streets-of-Salford-home-walker, and all around gentleman.
Enjoy the Greeks, Shaun. Good luck with everything.
- Fatima Abrar - my editor at Student Direct, "first ever Muslim friend!" and my favourite person to sit in the newspaper office dungeon with for hours on end.
See you on the BBC, Fatima, headscarf and all.
- Niall Brown - my favourite Irishman, provider of late-night tv, endless questions and useless sayings, and the one who was always on the other end of the phone ringing me at two, three, four and five in the morning. Oh, and I suppose forever in my heart for being the one who brought me to a Manchester United game.
Nighty night night, Niall. Who was it?
- Martin Pye - the guy with the best Northern-English accent I've heard, and the one person most taken with my Canadian accent.
Good luck in America, Martin; but you have to see Canada --and the burrs in my backyard. You cannot rugby tackle one, no matter how caught-off-guard you think it might be. Badger!
- Robyn Roste - fellow Canadian amidst all these crazy English people, and travel companion to Dublin, Chicago (the musical), Dublin again, Barcelona, Madrid and Paris.
Good luck without me, Robyn. Think of me in J-lab OM 1411.
- Nicola Boyd - the best girl in England, and go figure... she's Scottish! my favourite sinful-food-indulging partner in crime, and just a level head; responsible for my first ceilidh and Highland flinging it with a boy in a kilt ..oh and also as taken by the idea of straightening and/or styling in any general manner...leg hair.
You promised to gatecrash me in Canada, where the "Scottish goddess" will be a shoe in.
Honourable mentions: James from Student Direct and my own personal photographer, Ben Clay, also from SD, my house mates, Flick, Sophia, Saffron, Hattie, Lyn, Felicity, Eva, Donna. Always friendly and always generous with their randomn coveted items I didn't have from home (pots, pans, cutlery, nail polish...nail polish remover, flat irons etc)...
...oh and Mojo - who nailed with ease and grace the role of the ever questioning-worried-and-interested mom. And sender of one very important care package containing another travel wallet, another hair dryer (I guess she thought I needed spares), Mr. Noodle soup, tea (because she though I wouldn't be able to find any in ENGLAND?!?), and among other things--the contraption that made the use of my flat iron, curling iron and (first) hair dryer possible.
See you soon.
And Korey Gannon - the boyfriend who has been patient enough to let me live on the other side of the world for four months--no questions asked.
December 23rd, Canada, British Columbia, Kelowna: airport: some gate, 11pm-ish. Be there.
Saturday, December 09, 2006
What English Heroes Are Made Of
So I've accomplished everything I set out to do.
My ultimate goal has been attained.
If this trip's purpose were a Christmas dinner turkey, then it's a cooked bird.
I will die a happy woman because....
I attended a Manchester United football match. (gasps of admiration; trumpets; hoohurrah etc.)
Yes, indeed. It was a glorious night last Wednesday when I set out to catch the all important Champions League match between Manchester United and, hailing from Portugal, Benfica. Both teams needed the points to cement a spot in the impending knockout phase of the Champion's League.
The UEFA Champions League, also referred to as the European Cup, is an annual club football competition put on by the Union of European Football Associations. Only the most successful football clubs in Europe partake, and the cup is one of the most prestigious club trophies in football (soccer). Over a billion people follow the Euorpean Cup.
With so many people watching, it is no surprise that Champions League competitions stimulate plenty of cash flow for the clubs that qualify to compete. The UEFA distributes part of the revenue obtained from tv deals between participating clubs; for example, the 32 participants of the 2005/06 group stage are estimted to share €430 million. Clubs also make additional money from ticket sales, corporate hospitality, and merchandising--evident when you make the pilgrimage to Old Trafford hours before the game where streets are lined with merchandise trailors and food stalls.
The Champions League is not to be confused with the the FA Premier League, or the Premiership, which is a league football competition for top clubs in the English football league. The Premiership is England's primary football competition, and apparently the most-watched sporting league in the world. If the Champions League is a moneymaker, then the Premier League is even more impressive for club ownership because it also has over a billion people following it, and it is based within just one country.
The Premiership is a league of twenty clubs, currently. It's often criticised (by non-English, and some bitter non-Manchester United fans) for the fact that in it's entire fourteen-season existence, only four teams have won its title: London-based Aresenal and Chelsea, and North Western England's Blackburn Rovers and (of course), Manchester United.
Manchester United is the most successful Premiership team, having won the title eight times in total and being the only club to win it for three consecutive years. However, United is not the only Premiership team in these parts (thankfully, I will be long gone when some of my newest friends/die hard Man U fans read this because they would beg to differ) --but, there is in fact a whole other team in the league from the same city. Again, I hesitate to even mention said "other" team, but for information's sake--that's my story and I'm sticking to it--the other Premiership team is Manchester City.
Who knew? At least I didn't, not until I arrived here to find that the world's greatest, uncontested and most wonderful football club was, in fact, a matter of opinion. There are plenty of fans for either side. Actually, tonight the city was host to a very important match: Manchester City v. Manchester United. Of course, everyone was out in support, meaning I could hardly get a plot of space on the sidewalk, let alone a seat in a restaurant tonight. There are even places that forbid patrons from entering wearing their team's colours on such a night--the bouncer asked my company to unzip his jacket before we got in to ensure he wasn's sporting any particular shade or hue implicitly announcing where his loyalties lie.
Manchester United 3 - Manchest City 1 ...but I was with a United fan, so thank the stars because football is serious over here and I didn't want the game's outcome to affect the ride on Manchester's giant wheel we were about to embark on.
(By the way --it's Manchester's version the London Eye and the laugh of the city is that the wheel is shy in height of the actual buildings surrounding it, which wasn't entirely true. But really--how exciting can riding a giant wheel be?)
Back to football--hopefully diehards and anyone else scouring my blog for football inaccuracies will excuse the digression...
The rival between United and City: not so much of a rival considering United almost always comes out on top. From what I've had the opportunity to take in as a completely unbiased and partisan observer, the rivalry is really more about what type of club you support, and how it's a direct reflection of the type of person you supposedly are. To generalize and in short:
City fans: diehard to the bitter end, which is usually the type of end it is; rougher around the edges (but that is a massive generalization because it implies that all the other football fans are not a little rough around the edges); stick-it-to-the-man types with a little guy's mentality. City fans say: it's only their payroll.
And United fans are: loyal; obnoxiously, undyingly, hopelessly proud; diehard in every sense of the word; defensive and a member-of-the-aristocracy types with the hero's mentality. United fans say: the history is proof.
I was in United territory on Wedesnday night at the team's stadium, Old Trafford, which is impressive in itself. It has a capacity of something near 76,000 spectators--it is massive. I mentioned the pilgrimmage to Old Trafford beforehand, and it is an accurate description. What with 76,000 people making their way to the same destination, the effect is accurately compared to some long journey to some sacred place as an act of religious devotion.
An example of how football in England is comparable to religion:
In Scotland, there are two main football clubs: the Rangers and Celtic. Both are historically supported by Protestants and Catholics, respectively.
Another football-religion example: the permenant MSN name of my friend is "MUFC - THE RELIGION." Do you think he supports the Manchester United Football Club as defiantly as he does his catholic religion? I'll tell you, if his enthusiastic participation in United chants at the match, in all their riddled-with-not-so-inconspicuous-versions-of-the-word-shit glory, the answer might be yes, and then some.
We set out from Castle Irwell, about fifty minute's walking distance. But once you're within twenty minutes of OldTrafford, the traffic that was heavily moving in one direction is then almost at a crawl, and you're joined with ranks of more and more fans--mostly decked in some form of United garb and not uncommonly in possession of a can of beer.
But before I go any further, I have to stomp on the angry-mob-of-maniacal-murdering football fans image I'm sure my can of beer statement just conjured. It was entirely civil--or perhaps I've been living in England for four months and I just didn't notice the brawls breaking out overhead or the punches being thrown to my right. Granted, you won't see thousands of fans congregating for hours before a sporting match to "rally" and consume beer in Canada, at least not on a regular basis (Stanley Cup finals exempt), but I was perfectly safe at all times. And I will dare say, disappointed at the lack of frightening football-fan mêlée.
But it wasn't a sleeper either. Benfica scored the opening goal, which put United fans even further off the edges of their seats. The home squad looked jittery off the bat and there were pensive "I know what you're thinking because I'm thinking it but don't you dare say it" looks on everyone's faces that a Portuguese club would oust the all-mighty United from the Champions League in a repeat of last year's apparently shocking and bitter defeat.
However, as always, United came through once they found their groove, obviously dominating the other team offensively. I was surprisingly close to the pitch, probably within 50 yards and just to the right of the net, and so I was close enough to take in all sorts of interesting details I wasn't expecting:
- the field is, believe this or not, just the size of a regular soccer field, exactly like the ones I've been playing on all my life (the same ones I think I'm going to die on if I have to run another length), but the same size nonetheless.
- unlike hockey fans that hold up caught pucks like gold at the end of a rainbow, football fans dutifully throw wild balls escaped into the stands back to the pitch.
- Ronaldo's footwork really is that impressive.
- Wayne Rooney's backside is larger than you would think a professional athlete of any sort should ever have, exempting sumo wrestlers. I guess he's as much a fan of the UK's Galaxy chocolate as I've become...
Other noteworthy observations from the match:
- the level of sound 76,000 fans can make, without interruption.
- the variation of chants in the United fans' repertoire--well exceeding "ole, ole ole ole!"
- the number of curse words in the United fans' repertoire, and that they are mostly nasty versions of nursery rhymes or children's songs, or similar to such
- there isn't an endless progression of mascots, vendors, volunteers, charity and/or organization and/or company representatives plying free t-shirts or chances to win $10,ooo or dream vacations during half time. The players walk off the feild; maintenance fixes divots in the feild; players walk on the feild. And there is a welcome absence from anyone on a loudspeaker.
In general, there is a lot less "official-ese" about a football match than there is a hockey game. For example, there wasn't an exchange of anthems at the beginning, only about 20 seconds of the chorus of the UEFA Champions League Anthem--technically, it's actually a hymn.
You know you're in England when hymns are preludes to sporting events.
- the spectators are mostly men, which leads me to assume that going to the football match isn't as commonly thought of as a nice date activity or night out for a couple the way catching the hockey game is in Canada.
Afterwards, everyone (civilly) filed out--but I attribute much of the civilty to the fact that United won and there were only about several hundred Benfica fans present and all relegated to one corner in the very attic of the stadium.
At the end of the day, the live version far outdid any professional football match I've seen on tv. Despite this very obvious observation: live, the game is far more real and alive. And 76,000 fans might help.
I have never wanted to play soccer and realized how limited my soccer ability is to such an extent and at exactly the same time as I did on Wednesday. But I suppose that's what they pay professional athletes/our heroes the big money for--something to idolize and aspire to be at the same time.
My ultimate goal has been attained.
If this trip's purpose were a Christmas dinner turkey, then it's a cooked bird.
I will die a happy woman because....
I attended a Manchester United football match. (gasps of admiration; trumpets; hoohurrah etc.)
Yes, indeed. It was a glorious night last Wednesday when I set out to catch the all important Champions League match between Manchester United and, hailing from Portugal, Benfica. Both teams needed the points to cement a spot in the impending knockout phase of the Champion's League.
The UEFA Champions League, also referred to as the European Cup, is an annual club football competition put on by the Union of European Football Associations. Only the most successful football clubs in Europe partake, and the cup is one of the most prestigious club trophies in football (soccer). Over a billion people follow the Euorpean Cup.
With so many people watching, it is no surprise that Champions League competitions stimulate plenty of cash flow for the clubs that qualify to compete. The UEFA distributes part of the revenue obtained from tv deals between participating clubs; for example, the 32 participants of the 2005/06 group stage are estimted to share €430 million. Clubs also make additional money from ticket sales, corporate hospitality, and merchandising--evident when you make the pilgrimage to Old Trafford hours before the game where streets are lined with merchandise trailors and food stalls.
The Champions League is not to be confused with the the FA Premier League, or the Premiership, which is a league football competition for top clubs in the English football league. The Premiership is England's primary football competition, and apparently the most-watched sporting league in the world. If the Champions League is a moneymaker, then the Premier League is even more impressive for club ownership because it also has over a billion people following it, and it is based within just one country.
The Premiership is a league of twenty clubs, currently. It's often criticised (by non-English, and some bitter non-Manchester United fans) for the fact that in it's entire fourteen-season existence, only four teams have won its title: London-based Aresenal and Chelsea, and North Western England's Blackburn Rovers and (of course), Manchester United.
Manchester United is the most successful Premiership team, having won the title eight times in total and being the only club to win it for three consecutive years. However, United is not the only Premiership team in these parts (thankfully, I will be long gone when some of my newest friends/die hard Man U fans read this because they would beg to differ) --but, there is in fact a whole other team in the league from the same city. Again, I hesitate to even mention said "other" team, but for information's sake--that's my story and I'm sticking to it--the other Premiership team is Manchester City.
Who knew? At least I didn't, not until I arrived here to find that the world's greatest, uncontested and most wonderful football club was, in fact, a matter of opinion. There are plenty of fans for either side. Actually, tonight the city was host to a very important match: Manchester City v. Manchester United. Of course, everyone was out in support, meaning I could hardly get a plot of space on the sidewalk, let alone a seat in a restaurant tonight. There are even places that forbid patrons from entering wearing their team's colours on such a night--the bouncer asked my company to unzip his jacket before we got in to ensure he wasn's sporting any particular shade or hue implicitly announcing where his loyalties lie.
Manchester United 3 - Manchest City 1 ...but I was with a United fan, so thank the stars because football is serious over here and I didn't want the game's outcome to affect the ride on Manchester's giant wheel we were about to embark on.
(By the way --it's Manchester's version the London Eye and the laugh of the city is that the wheel is shy in height of the actual buildings surrounding it, which wasn't entirely true. But really--how exciting can riding a giant wheel be?)
Back to football--hopefully diehards and anyone else scouring my blog for football inaccuracies will excuse the digression...
The rival between United and City: not so much of a rival considering United almost always comes out on top. From what I've had the opportunity to take in as a completely unbiased and partisan observer, the rivalry is really more about what type of club you support, and how it's a direct reflection of the type of person you supposedly are. To generalize and in short:
City fans: diehard to the bitter end, which is usually the type of end it is; rougher around the edges (but that is a massive generalization because it implies that all the other football fans are not a little rough around the edges); stick-it-to-the-man types with a little guy's mentality. City fans say: it's only their payroll.
And United fans are: loyal; obnoxiously, undyingly, hopelessly proud; diehard in every sense of the word; defensive and a member-of-the-aristocracy types with the hero's mentality. United fans say: the history is proof.
I was in United territory on Wedesnday night at the team's stadium, Old Trafford, which is impressive in itself. It has a capacity of something near 76,000 spectators--it is massive. I mentioned the pilgrimmage to Old Trafford beforehand, and it is an accurate description. What with 76,000 people making their way to the same destination, the effect is accurately compared to some long journey to some sacred place as an act of religious devotion.
An example of how football in England is comparable to religion:
In Scotland, there are two main football clubs: the Rangers and Celtic. Both are historically supported by Protestants and Catholics, respectively.
Another football-religion example: the permenant MSN name of my friend is "MUFC - THE RELIGION." Do you think he supports the Manchester United Football Club as defiantly as he does his catholic religion? I'll tell you, if his enthusiastic participation in United chants at the match, in all their riddled-with-not-so-inconspicuous-versions-of-the-word-shit glory, the answer might be yes, and then some.
We set out from Castle Irwell, about fifty minute's walking distance. But once you're within twenty minutes of OldTrafford, the traffic that was heavily moving in one direction is then almost at a crawl, and you're joined with ranks of more and more fans--mostly decked in some form of United garb and not uncommonly in possession of a can of beer.
But before I go any further, I have to stomp on the angry-mob-of-maniacal-murdering football fans image I'm sure my can of beer statement just conjured. It was entirely civil--or perhaps I've been living in England for four months and I just didn't notice the brawls breaking out overhead or the punches being thrown to my right. Granted, you won't see thousands of fans congregating for hours before a sporting match to "rally" and consume beer in Canada, at least not on a regular basis (Stanley Cup finals exempt), but I was perfectly safe at all times. And I will dare say, disappointed at the lack of frightening football-fan mêlée.
But it wasn't a sleeper either. Benfica scored the opening goal, which put United fans even further off the edges of their seats. The home squad looked jittery off the bat and there were pensive "I know what you're thinking because I'm thinking it but don't you dare say it" looks on everyone's faces that a Portuguese club would oust the all-mighty United from the Champions League in a repeat of last year's apparently shocking and bitter defeat.
However, as always, United came through once they found their groove, obviously dominating the other team offensively. I was surprisingly close to the pitch, probably within 50 yards and just to the right of the net, and so I was close enough to take in all sorts of interesting details I wasn't expecting:
- the field is, believe this or not, just the size of a regular soccer field, exactly like the ones I've been playing on all my life (the same ones I think I'm going to die on if I have to run another length), but the same size nonetheless.
- unlike hockey fans that hold up caught pucks like gold at the end of a rainbow, football fans dutifully throw wild balls escaped into the stands back to the pitch.
- Ronaldo's footwork really is that impressive.
- Wayne Rooney's backside is larger than you would think a professional athlete of any sort should ever have, exempting sumo wrestlers. I guess he's as much a fan of the UK's Galaxy chocolate as I've become...
Other noteworthy observations from the match:
- the level of sound 76,000 fans can make, without interruption.
- the variation of chants in the United fans' repertoire--well exceeding "ole, ole ole ole!"
- the number of curse words in the United fans' repertoire, and that they are mostly nasty versions of nursery rhymes or children's songs, or similar to such
- there isn't an endless progression of mascots, vendors, volunteers, charity and/or organization and/or company representatives plying free t-shirts or chances to win $10,ooo or dream vacations during half time. The players walk off the feild; maintenance fixes divots in the feild; players walk on the feild. And there is a welcome absence from anyone on a loudspeaker.
In general, there is a lot less "official-ese" about a football match than there is a hockey game. For example, there wasn't an exchange of anthems at the beginning, only about 20 seconds of the chorus of the UEFA Champions League Anthem--technically, it's actually a hymn.
You know you're in England when hymns are preludes to sporting events.
- the spectators are mostly men, which leads me to assume that going to the football match isn't as commonly thought of as a nice date activity or night out for a couple the way catching the hockey game is in Canada.
Afterwards, everyone (civilly) filed out--but I attribute much of the civilty to the fact that United won and there were only about several hundred Benfica fans present and all relegated to one corner in the very attic of the stadium.
At the end of the day, the live version far outdid any professional football match I've seen on tv. Despite this very obvious observation: live, the game is far more real and alive. And 76,000 fans might help.
I have never wanted to play soccer and realized how limited my soccer ability is to such an extent and at exactly the same time as I did on Wednesday. But I suppose that's what they pay professional athletes/our heroes the big money for--something to idolize and aspire to be at the same time.
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
Scotland
I completed my tour of the United Kingdom this weekend with a four-day trip up to Scotland. I've heard Scotland is similar to Canada a few times: the vast expanse of countryside, the smaller population, the chip on the shoulder due to the bigger, obnoxious neighbour it's always being confused with ...
So perhaps that explains my affinity for Scotland; but whatever it was, I loved it and my company. Scots, much like the Irish, have a unique quality that sets them apart from the English. The three different cultures are without a doubt different from each other. And from what I've heard about the Welsch, they too are a little bit different --like a Newfie to other Canadians.
Embarassingly enough, my idea of a Scottish person was only what I had barely scraped together from popular culture--think Austin Powers' Fat Bastard and the Scottish school groundskeeper on the Simpsons (Simpsons' buffs, fill his name in here _______). And sure enough, such stereotypes weren't exaclty fulfilled. Although, there was plenty of tartan (yeah, it's tartan--not plaid. Plaid is the Canadian lumberjack wear you find at Mark's Work Warehouse; tartan is Scottish). So, for technicality's sake: a tartan is a specific woven pattern that symbolizes a particular Scottish clan.
My mother's maiden name being McLean, I most definitely have roots in Scotland somewhere. However, the Mac denotes the Scottish heritage--and Mc is Irish. Although, Scotland and Ireland have a long history together, going back further than the Irish Potatoe Famine of the 1840s ...so most people with one background, almost inevitably has roots in the other.
And with my last name being Young, obviously English--it has definitely been a trip to the motherland...
I took the train to Scotland from Manchester, which took about three and half hours. By train, it's a relatively comfortable and easy trip to make, although I've heard from a few Brits about how they can't be bothered to go "all the way up there." I went with Nicola, a girl from my program who is from Perth in central Scotland. But we were headed to Glasgow, Scotland's biggest city, to attend her friend's ceilidh.
It's pronounced kaylee, and it's essentially a Scottish party--Scottish dancing and all. It is the traditional Gaelic social dance in Scotland, and Ireland as well. And my first ceilidh was probably the best night out I've had since I've been here thanks to the dancing. If you're Scottish, you've attended plenty of ceilidhs, as in "a couple a year." And although there are specific dances, everyone familiarizes themselves with each dance as the night goes on. Fortunately, it makes being a beginner a little less obvious.
To my delight, the first dance the band called for was called the Canadian Barn Dance--yeah, I was actually delighted. And it made for an impossible opportunity to find a dance partner:
Excuse me, do you know the Canadian Barn Dance?
"Aye, course I doo."
Wonderful, would you be so kind as to teach a Canadian how to do her own barn dance?
"AYE o'course!!"
Before you get too excited: he was about 65 years old. But that didn't mean he left anything to be desired as a dance partner. He guided me skillfully through several dances, including the Dashing White Sergeant. And another of the names I recall, and could pick up through the mic and accent static, was Strip the Willow. The last one consisted of endless spinning and being whipped about by enthusiastic Scottish men who hoot and hollar whenever the fancy catches them. Reference the Scottish/Irish immigrants throwing a good ol' fashioned party in the hull of the Titanic ...leading to Leo and Kate's romantic romp, steaming up windows and hiding from security.. My ceilidh didn't end this way, but at least we know there is the possiblity...
And yes, there were kilts. I made sure to find a dance with a true-blue Glaswegian boy, Bryan McCann, who confirmed that true-blue Scots do indeed wear their kilts sans underwear (he told me so, and nothing more because I took his word for it).
I actually caught a bad case of the giggles several times that night--I think it was a combination of the spinning and trying to remember the names of the dances and their steps, hops, spins and kicks...or maybe it was the haggis.
Haggis is the traditional Scottish dish I think most people are familiar with. It is famous for its ingredients: sheep's heart, liver, lungs and minced onion, oatmeal and spices. Traditionally, it's boiled in the stomach of the sheep, although the person sitting beside me at the ceilidh happily allayed my fears, saying that today it is most often prepared in a casing of some other less natural matter. And without further buttering it up, no pun intended ...
It really wasn't that bad. I've already mentioned that I'm not the pickiest food critic--but haggis is pretty good. I think I prefer it to meatloaf.
What a shock.
Haggis: It's meaty, almost like a beefier hot dog. Now I realize that the longer and more intensely I try to describe haggis, the more harm I will do its reputation. So take my word for it: try it.
There is even a meat-free recipe specifically for vegetarians; I tried it too--also prettty good. The haggis at the ceilidh was served in little balls as appetizers, but normally it is served with "neeps and tatties," or turnips and potatoes that are mashed. Other Scottish food I encountered: tablet, which is a sugary confection served, well, in sugar cubes. Scottish whiskey of course and kangaroo.
I'll let that one sink in because I had to look once or twice too....
Now, to be fair, the kangaroo was being served at Walkabouts, an Australian restaurant/bar/club that has locations thoughout the UK, but technically I did come across it IN Scotland.
And I'm sorry to report, but I didn't have the nerve to try kangaroo and went for an always safe chicken caeser burger instead. But in case there is interest:
Myself and Nicola, along with our host Mhairi (pronounced very) also took the train to Edinburgh, the capital of Scotland and its second largest city. Edinburgh's architecture is the most impressive I've seen, moreso than London. There are endless amounts of impressive buildings in London, but none that match the beauty of Edinburgh's architecture, with the exception of the Scottish parliament. Apparently billions of pounds went into designing and building the Scottish parliament buildings that resulted in what I witnessed as one of the most hideous displays of post-modernismsomething-er-other ...it was awful.
As per usual in the United Kingdom, there were people everywhere. There is probably a scientific diagnosis for experiencing claustrophobia around people, but I'll just call it human-claustrophobia. I've developed, or realized my tendency for suffering this panic attack. Both Glasgow and Edinburgh were full of people, but I'm told that's where everyone is in Scotland and otherwise it is considerably deserted.
For some reason, probably due to all the English comments about the country, I was expecting a much more rural Scotland. Granted, I did spend my time in the two most populated cities in the coutnry, but those two cities were certainly comsmopolitan by my standards and in comparison to my own home city.
I will definitely visit Scotland again. It was wonderful, aside from the fact that it rained the entire time I was there--which didn't strike anyone out of the ordinary but still earned several bitter remarks. The English are the same: oh, it's raining again!?
Well surely, if it doesn't surprise me after four months --after an entire lifetime you can't genuinely be caught off guard by the fact that it's "pissing it down." --a wonderfully tact phrase, no? Given the weather patterns and the local vernacular, it's as common as a Canadian "he shoots, he scores!"
So perhaps that explains my affinity for Scotland; but whatever it was, I loved it and my company. Scots, much like the Irish, have a unique quality that sets them apart from the English. The three different cultures are without a doubt different from each other. And from what I've heard about the Welsch, they too are a little bit different --like a Newfie to other Canadians.
Embarassingly enough, my idea of a Scottish person was only what I had barely scraped together from popular culture--think Austin Powers' Fat Bastard and the Scottish school groundskeeper on the Simpsons (Simpsons' buffs, fill his name in here _______). And sure enough, such stereotypes weren't exaclty fulfilled. Although, there was plenty of tartan (yeah, it's tartan--not plaid. Plaid is the Canadian lumberjack wear you find at Mark's Work Warehouse; tartan is Scottish). So, for technicality's sake: a tartan is a specific woven pattern that symbolizes a particular Scottish clan.
My mother's maiden name being McLean, I most definitely have roots in Scotland somewhere. However, the Mac denotes the Scottish heritage--and Mc is Irish. Although, Scotland and Ireland have a long history together, going back further than the Irish Potatoe Famine of the 1840s ...so most people with one background, almost inevitably has roots in the other.
And with my last name being Young, obviously English--it has definitely been a trip to the motherland...
I took the train to Scotland from Manchester, which took about three and half hours. By train, it's a relatively comfortable and easy trip to make, although I've heard from a few Brits about how they can't be bothered to go "all the way up there." I went with Nicola, a girl from my program who is from Perth in central Scotland. But we were headed to Glasgow, Scotland's biggest city, to attend her friend's ceilidh.
It's pronounced kaylee, and it's essentially a Scottish party--Scottish dancing and all. It is the traditional Gaelic social dance in Scotland, and Ireland as well. And my first ceilidh was probably the best night out I've had since I've been here thanks to the dancing. If you're Scottish, you've attended plenty of ceilidhs, as in "a couple a year." And although there are specific dances, everyone familiarizes themselves with each dance as the night goes on. Fortunately, it makes being a beginner a little less obvious.
To my delight, the first dance the band called for was called the Canadian Barn Dance--yeah, I was actually delighted. And it made for an impossible opportunity to find a dance partner:
Excuse me, do you know the Canadian Barn Dance?
"Aye, course I doo."
Wonderful, would you be so kind as to teach a Canadian how to do her own barn dance?
"AYE o'course!!"
Before you get too excited: he was about 65 years old. But that didn't mean he left anything to be desired as a dance partner. He guided me skillfully through several dances, including the Dashing White Sergeant. And another of the names I recall, and could pick up through the mic and accent static, was Strip the Willow. The last one consisted of endless spinning and being whipped about by enthusiastic Scottish men who hoot and hollar whenever the fancy catches them. Reference the Scottish/Irish immigrants throwing a good ol' fashioned party in the hull of the Titanic ...leading to Leo and Kate's romantic romp, steaming up windows and hiding from security.. My ceilidh didn't end this way, but at least we know there is the possiblity...
And yes, there were kilts. I made sure to find a dance with a true-blue Glaswegian boy, Bryan McCann, who confirmed that true-blue Scots do indeed wear their kilts sans underwear (he told me so, and nothing more because I took his word for it).
I actually caught a bad case of the giggles several times that night--I think it was a combination of the spinning and trying to remember the names of the dances and their steps, hops, spins and kicks...or maybe it was the haggis.
Haggis is the traditional Scottish dish I think most people are familiar with. It is famous for its ingredients: sheep's heart, liver, lungs and minced onion, oatmeal and spices. Traditionally, it's boiled in the stomach of the sheep, although the person sitting beside me at the ceilidh happily allayed my fears, saying that today it is most often prepared in a casing of some other less natural matter. And without further buttering it up, no pun intended ...
It really wasn't that bad. I've already mentioned that I'm not the pickiest food critic--but haggis is pretty good. I think I prefer it to meatloaf.
What a shock.
Haggis: It's meaty, almost like a beefier hot dog. Now I realize that the longer and more intensely I try to describe haggis, the more harm I will do its reputation. So take my word for it: try it.
There is even a meat-free recipe specifically for vegetarians; I tried it too--also prettty good. The haggis at the ceilidh was served in little balls as appetizers, but normally it is served with "neeps and tatties," or turnips and potatoes that are mashed. Other Scottish food I encountered: tablet, which is a sugary confection served, well, in sugar cubes. Scottish whiskey of course and kangaroo.
I'll let that one sink in because I had to look once or twice too....
Now, to be fair, the kangaroo was being served at Walkabouts, an Australian restaurant/bar/club that has locations thoughout the UK, but technically I did come across it IN Scotland.
And I'm sorry to report, but I didn't have the nerve to try kangaroo and went for an always safe chicken caeser burger instead. But in case there is interest:
Kangaroo is a versatile, mouthwatering, lean red meat. It's regarded as a healthy alternative to more traditional red meats and is a part of a low-fat diet. Kangaroo is especially good at reducing cholesterol and is particularly delicious when served pink --apparently.
Other Walkabout meat selections (really, this lunch alone was an experience in itself):
Springbok --the small South African antelope. It, again apparently, has a unique taste and is consdiered a prized venison in Europe. I had no idea, but I did find it interesting that the idea of Springbok and kangaroo seemed barbaric to me only because I had never heard of it before.
But cow, pig, lamb, moose, even rabbit ..I've tried them all, and only the rabbit seemed a little tough to swallow (pun intended)...but only for a moment.
Glasgow--all food oddities aside, is a brilliant city. It's city centre is entirely paved with cobblestones and slate-like material. It has, and then some of the impressive architecture much of the UK has, and all the buildings reach the same height--making long, level lines up and down the streets. A perfectionist's dream..
The Glaswegians, and their local dialect of the same name, are friendly and impossible to understand all at the same time. Actually, I was expecting a more difficult time deciphering the accent, but it was still a task, especially when they were talking amongst themselves.
Myself and Nicola, along with our host Mhairi (pronounced very) also took the train to Edinburgh, the capital of Scotland and its second largest city. Edinburgh's architecture is the most impressive I've seen, moreso than London. There are endless amounts of impressive buildings in London, but none that match the beauty of Edinburgh's architecture, with the exception of the Scottish parliament. Apparently billions of pounds went into designing and building the Scottish parliament buildings that resulted in what I witnessed as one of the most hideous displays of post-modernismsomething-er-other ...it was awful.
As per usual in the United Kingdom, there were people everywhere. There is probably a scientific diagnosis for experiencing claustrophobia around people, but I'll just call it human-claustrophobia. I've developed, or realized my tendency for suffering this panic attack. Both Glasgow and Edinburgh were full of people, but I'm told that's where everyone is in Scotland and otherwise it is considerably deserted.
For some reason, probably due to all the English comments about the country, I was expecting a much more rural Scotland. Granted, I did spend my time in the two most populated cities in the coutnry, but those two cities were certainly comsmopolitan by my standards and in comparison to my own home city.
I will definitely visit Scotland again. It was wonderful, aside from the fact that it rained the entire time I was there--which didn't strike anyone out of the ordinary but still earned several bitter remarks. The English are the same: oh, it's raining again!?
Well surely, if it doesn't surprise me after four months --after an entire lifetime you can't genuinely be caught off guard by the fact that it's "pissing it down." --a wonderfully tact phrase, no? Given the weather patterns and the local vernacular, it's as common as a Canadian "he shoots, he scores!"
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
