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A Birthday Abroad (filled with all kinds of things)

Today I turned 19. In London. Yeah. Whoa. 

It’s kind of funny because I’m 8 hours ahead of my usual time zone, so even if I did feel different by being a whole year older, it’s still with at least an 8 hour delay. So that’s reassuring...

A lot of interesting things happened today.

For example, it started snowing. Not entirely unheard of in London, but unusual nonetheless. I felt kind of funny fending off the little snowflakes with my measly umbrella, but I guess there really isn’t a better way to do it. It’s not that cold here in the UK, though, so as soon as the snowflakes fall they melt. 

It was also raining earlier today before the snow started, so a lot of water got the chance to accumulate in the tube stations. The one by Hyde Park in particular. I can’t do justice to the amount of water by simply describing it...better yet, I’ll show you:

But the rain didn’t get in the way of anything for me, thankfully. I saw a wide variety of history today...starting with the exhibits at the British Museum, which is apparently one of the best (if not the best) museums in the world. So I just thought I’d casually mention that I got to see the Rosetta Stone today. Yeah. No big deal. 

Later on, when I went to visit another hotel on my list, The Dorchester, I got to see a bedazzled piano that Stevie Wonder has played upon many a time. Apparently, it could stand to be tuned...

Actually, when my hotel tour began, I had to wait a little more than expected to meet with my tour guide. She came up to me in the lobby, introduced herself, and asked me to wait a bit longer because the heel of her stiletto had cracked off. So she hobbled away and returned with an equally nice pair of heels that didn’t quite match her uniform. But in my rain boots, who was I to judge?

The highlight of my tour actually had nothing to do with the hotel:

On our way up to a higher floor via the elevator, we encountered an interesting woman who introduced me to the true meaning of impatience. You see, at the Dorchester, a hotel very high tech and ahead of its time, you need a room key in order to operate the elevator. My tour guide and I found ourselves in one of the lifts with an elderly couple, and neither of our keys would work, so we presumed the lift was at fault.

We waited outside to use the other lift, whereupon another elderly couple appeared. The wife was all flustered and too impatient to wait with us for the second elevator, so she rushed into the first, her husband in tow, and was fortunate enough to have a key that worked. So the doors closed and off they went. Presumably. Except that was when the other couple waiting with us pressed the up arrow, expecting the second elevator to finally open, but instead the first one did, and the impatient woman was there shouting, “Don’t press the button! Don’t press it until we go up!”

We all knew that, of course. But then the hotel security team arrived to get us access to the second elevator, and mindlessly, the security guy pressed the up arrow, whereupon the first elevator door opened again and the impatient woman now looked extremely irritated. 

“I said DON’T PRESS THE BUTTON UNTIL I GO UP!!!” She yelled. Her husband decided he wanted to take the stairs, and started to exit the lift, but she pulled him back in. “Get back inside, Frank. Now listen to me every one. If you press that button, I won’t be able to go up. And I need to make a phone call.” 

Then the doors closed again and we thought that was the end of her. But NO. Another bystander approached the now rapidly growing crowd of people needing access to an elevator, and without thinking, this dude pressed the up arrow. When the doors opened again, I couldn’t help but laugh. 

Thankfully, there wasn’t a fourth time we had to endure that woman’s yelling, and she, presumably, made it to her room to make that “very important phone call.” Of course, the other woman who came up in the elevator with me and my tour guide muttered as we all parted ways, “Hasn’t she ever heard of a cell phone?”

Apparently not. 

After my hotel tour my host asked if I might like some coffee or tea. I wanted to avoid going back out into the rain as long as possible, so I was more than happy to enjoy a cuppa. 

Except it was a lot more than just one. 

I didn’t realize that I’d be getting my own complimentary pot of tea and biscuits while basking in the lavish Dorchester Promenade, taking in the scent of the fresh flowers in the enormous bouquet directly to my left, and listening to the live piano music gently wafting from the back of the room. I was given free reign to stay as long as I liked, so I took the opportunity to enjoy the atmosphere and just sit and write. 

A very good way to spend an afternoon if I do say so myself. 

 Of course, my friends and I did a little more celebrating later on by seeking out a comedy club. We found one known as the “Top Secret Comedy Club,” which was actually so secret we walked right past the entrance on our first time round the block. But when we got there, we discovered an audience of almost entirely college kids, and almost half of them American. Perhaps that’s why we all understood the humor so well. In other words, it was funny. 

In other words, we had fun!  

And since there was a really quaint little pub just down the street from the comedy club, we decided to, you know, stop by. I’ve discovered that I am partial to the kind of alcoholic beverages that have the most minimal alcohol content possible. Good stuff. 

And when the bartender heard it was my birthday, he and the rest of the staff lit a bunch of tea lights and put them on a platter and sang happy birthday to me. So it may not have been a birthday cake, but I got to blow out some candles anyway. And if the good times one has on her birthday are anything to go by, I think this will be a very good year, indeed.  

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Meet Me at the Savoy

The real reason for this latest European adventure is to earn credit for a research project. So as great as it is to see well-known sights and attractions, I had to crack down on some actual “work” today. 

I’ll admit, the work wasn’t very hard. All I had to do was snoop. 

Being a storyteller at heart, when I saw the list of suggested research topics for this course, I wasn’t a big fan of any of them. Studying water currents for the estuaries in London? Parliamentary buildings? Railroad stations? Sewage systems? Um...not much to work with.

So I came up with my own idea. 

Hotels.

More specifically, luxury hotels.  

Thousands of people stay at these places each year, and have been doing so for over a century. That means there has been a myriad of opportunities for notable guests to visit, for special events to take place, for secrets to remain only somewhat secret behind closed doors. In other words, that’s thousands of stories that have accumulated over time. 

The first true luxury hotels came into being at the end of the 1800s, and the Savoy is considered by many to be one of the best.  

I got to do a fair bit of poking my nose around the place before getting my own private tour. I’ve discovered that so long as you’re acceptably dressed and seem to look like you know where you’re going, you can just march right through the front doors of even the fanciest hotels and no one will question it. 

That’s precisely what I did, making a beeline for the staircase. 

I can’t say walking down the halls is particularly exciting after the first floor, because they all look more or less the same. But it’s the part of the hotel most outsiders never get to see, so for that reason, it was pretty exciting. 

After casually sauntering back into the lobby, I was fortunate enough to be able to meet with the Savoy’s archivist, who was more than happy to show me around. In fact, she gave me a bit of a behind the scenes tour, where I got to see the Royal Suite, a procession of rooms all merged into one that takes up half the length of the building with a view of the Thames. It costs a mere 14,000 pounds a night, and is where many a Maharaja and family have stayed for entire summers at a time. 

I also got to visit the Savoy Suite, only slightly less grand than the Royal one, and for only a fraction of the cost at 10,000 pounds a night. This suite is special, however, because the bedroom used to be the room frequently occupied by Monet, and its view is the exact angle of the bridges over the Thames that Monet so loved to paint.    

Apparently, high end luxury hotels like the Savoy will do virtually anything you ask them to. If you want to have a jacuzzi in your suite, they’ll install one. If you’d rather the walls were crimson instead of pink, they’ll re-paint them. If you want to cook your own meals instead of having a private chef cook them for you, they’ll ensure that your kitchen is stocked with everything you need. You’ve got to pay for all this, of course, and pay the cost of restoring everything back to the way it was before, but there are very few limitations to what the hotel staff can procure. 

I wouldn’t be surprised if they could get a pet tiger. 

That’s the Savoy.

Being surrounded by such grandeur inspired me to seek out room service for dinner when I got back to my own hotel. Perhaps I was also tired from walking more than usual today on account of the tube being closed due to a workers’ strike. I could have taken a bus more than just once today, but after trying the bus the first time this afternoon in the heavy traffic and watching pedestrians zoom past, it became clear that walking was the fastest route. 

Regardless, room service was justified. 

But when I stepped into the hall to leave the tray outside the door as instructed, I neglected to prop the door open and was faced with a real dilemma when it slammed shut behind me. There I stood in the middle of the hall in my nightgown and bare feet, realizing that without a room key, all was lost. 

So I scurried into the elevator and down to the lobby, self conscious in my pajamas as I passed well-dressed guests on their way to their rooms. The guy at the desk saw me coming and chuckled. 

“Excuse me,” I said, “But I’ve just done a very silly thing and locked myself out of my room.”

“No...don’t say that. It’s not silly,” he said with perfect sincerity while setting up a new room key for me. 

I guess it happens quite a lot. 

Perhaps one of the most awkward moments of my life was when I had to get back into the elevator--this time with some of those well-dressed people. 

I’ve definitely learned my lesson, and I’ve certainly had enough of hotels for one day. 

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Strong Capitalist Urges

According to my new friend Rick Steves and his travel guidebook, it’s best if one sets aside a designated day for buying souvenirs.  

Camden Market is an excellent means of adhering to that advice.

It’s a labyrinth of enterprise. A wonder emporium. A souvenir sanctuary. It’s so full of vendors it’s virtually impossible to see everything in one day. So many colors and textures and scents. It all mixes together into one glorious melee of a multicultural market. 

And the best part of all? No prices are fixed. Bartering reigns supreme.   

Pictures don’t do it justice, of course, because taking photos while actually inside the place is risky business, on account of all the bodies shoving and bustling about. But even the most frugal spenders can’t help but feel some strong capitalist urges upon seeing all the treasures for sale. I wholeheartedly admit that I most certainly did...

One of the best stands was that of a rather eccentric antique dealer. He was going on about how the guy who ran the record stand next door was keen on coming to the antiques stall to flirt with his neighbor’s customers. Of course, Mr. Antiques wasn’t frustrated with the fact that his neighbor was scaring away potential business. Rather, in his own exasperated words, 

“I’m the only one that gets to flirt with my customers.”  

I suppose it’s one kind of sales tactic....

Anyway, we had decided to visit Regent’s Park after doing some shopping, and one of the gals in my group (who had been flirting with a bartender at a nearby pub) said he recommended taking the scenic route by walking along the water. The guy neglected to mention, of course, that it was a bit more than a “bit” of a walk...though perhaps the true distance was lost in translation...

It was most assuredly very nice to walk along the water and see the houseboats docked along the way. 

It was even pretty cool to see the Austen-esque mansions further down the bank of the waterway.

But by the time we had walked a few miles, it became evident that we were nowhere near our destination. It took a kindly father and his kids to point us in the right direction, and a lot more walking to get to the actual place. 

I won’t say that Regent’s Park was disappointing, because it most certainly wasn’t. There were black swans in the lake and expansive green hills, and architectural marvels all around. But if one wants to truly enjoy this park in all its glory, it is probably best to go during the spring. 

You see, save for one single flower in all of the expansive and elaborate gardens, everything else was dead. 

I suppose that rose could be a testament to resilience and perseverance against tremendous odds. But after walking all that way to see that little flower, we decided it was time to go home. 

We walked a grand total of 20 miles this weekend. Not bad for tourists, I suppose... 

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Chronicles of a Saturday

We hopped on the Tube on Saturday morning, and it was packed with people. One guy in the middle of the huddle started talking, you know, in the way that some people talk to themselves. But as his voice got louder, it became clearer that he was directing his comments towards other people and not just himself. If I had been able to get past his accent, I might have understood what he was preaching about—his style did seem to be rather preachy—but then he resorted to a more universal form of communication.

Tap dancing.

Yup. In the middle of the metro car this dude started tapping away. People were afraid to make eye contact with him but also afraid to miss any of the show. And before the train got to the next stop, he made his rounds through the passengers present and held out a plastic bag asking for tips before getting off at the next station with the words, 

“Thank you all. You’re beautiful.” 

An interesting venue for a street performer, I’ll admit, but an innovative one nonetheless.

We were taking the Tube to get to Hyde Park, a vast expanse of greenery that contrasts the general grayness of the the buildings in the city. It seems that every one goes there on the weekends. And with good reason: it’s a pretty place, especially on a somewhat misty day. 

But in the evening, Katie and I had tickets to see an orchestra perform at St. Martin-in-the-Fields, a 300 year old church in Covent Garden. Of course, we happened to be on the opposite end of the city and had to make a mad dash for the tube in order to get to the concert on time. But when we asked the ushers where “will call” was, they gave us a funny look.

We saw a sign pointing to the “box office” downstairs, and successfully made our way there, and when we returned, one of the ushers asked,

“So…what’s a “will call” then? Where’s that come from?”

I realized I didn’t know where it comes from…still don’t. But we made some friends with those guys in the process. Cultural differences are an excellent way to start a conversation.

And as far as the concert went…it was in a historic church, accented with candlelight. What’s not to love?

Apparently some audience members’ love of the solo violinist was nonexistent. His interpretation of the pieces he was playing didn’t exactly gel with the rest of the orchestra, and when you see the cellists looking to the conductor in confusion, you know something’s up. 

We were sitting next to a couple that made their dissatisfaction very apparent, so much so that they left before the concert was over. Katie presumed that they were either critics or fellow musicians, and when we snuck a look at the program they left behind, we saw that they had written “Murder” across the soloist’s picture. Huh. 

But I still enjoyed the music. There’s just something about how much more authentic it feels to have music that’s withstood the test of time played in a hall that’s endured just as much history. Even if it had been a kazoo quartet taking center stage, that venue was a once in a lifetime opportunity. 

We by-passed the over-crowded pubs on the way back to the hotel. Those may be where all the locals hang out on Saturday nights, but after walking at least 10 miles, it was time to go to bed early. 

And as Katie so eloquently said, “It doesn’t really matter what we do or what goes on. We’re in London. That’s cool enough as it is!”

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Feminism and the Fault of Facial Hair

Today we were introduced to the wrath of the the self-proclaimed Travel Nazi, who also happens to be one of the teachers leading this grand historical tour of a trip. He gave us strict instructions: under no circumstances are we to be late to any group events. Otherwise, our grade gets deducted a whole ten percent.

Aside from enforcing such strict (though understandably practical) rules, he’s actually a pretty nice guy. And he gave us some food for thought in a cultural, historical, and architectural sense.

We were paraded through the streets of Greater London until we reached the actual “City of London,” (AKA, the part of town every foreigner knows…sort of, because it’s filled with all the iconic landmarks). It was once blocked off by a wall built in the time of the Romans, which means, basically, that the place is pretty darn old.

For example, there’s a very large and very elegant brick building on the outskirts of the Inner City, a keystone of Victorian architecture. It looks like something out of a 19th century fantasy. A place where secrets were kept and mysteries revealed. And the place certainly is a historical relic.

But it’s actually a meat market.

Yes. The place where the stench of raw meat pervades the air, because that structure has been the site of a meat market for over a thousand years.

Ah, yes, London. It’s been around forever. And that’s only a slight exaggeration. For nearly 2,000 years this place has been a bustling city, taking on the name “London�� from "Londinium,” as it was called under the Roman occupation. It occurred to me that my home, sunny little Sierra Madre, which just celebrated its centennial not so very long ago, is a mere hiccup of existence by comparison.  

Today was really a melange of past and present. It entailed attempting to understand the underground transit system and exploring the historic district of Covent Garden. It’s both strange and amazing to see high-end retail and restaurants like Christian Dior fashion and Chipotle Mexican Grill occupying the places of really really old and really really elaborate buildings. 

But if there’s anything I’ve learned about the European way of life, it’s that the past lives in harmony with the present.

It’s also apparent that there is a LOT to do in this city, but in retrospect, my little group was probably the most ambitious set of tourists London has seen in awhile. Today was filled with museums. Three of them, in fact.

The museum of London was a blast from the past. From its contents, I learned that there were hairnets in the 1400s and garters for men during that time weren’t uncommon either. It was also brought to my attention that the fire that ravaged London centuries ago was in 1666. Coincidence there? Not so sure…

My favorite part of that place, however, had nothing to do with the interior, despite it being the best city museum in the world: 

The second museum, The Photographer’s Gallery, had a showcase on the 1970’s Avant-Garde Feminist movement, and considering my group consisted of six girls, that stop was practically a necessity. Many of the pictures were both unusual and enlightening, but all the works were created by women who challenged assumptions about gender, and, of course, assumptions about art. Combined with the Museum of London’s exhibit on Woman’s Suffrage, there was a whole lot of women empowerment going on today.

The final museum was the National Portrait Gallery. It was full of…

Portraits.

I came to see the 18th century portraits in one particular room with a new perspective after eavesdropping on one art-guru’s particularly engaging conversation:

“This room is filled with emaciated old men who need a shave. Just look at that five o’clock shadow.”

I suppose he wasn’t wrong.

Facial hair seemed to be a hot topic among the locals this afternoon for some reason. While eavesdropping on two guys as they very exuberantly embraced each other, I heard the first one say to the second, “Whoa, I’m liking the new look! Is that a beard of style or a beard of convenience?”

“Style, actually.” Replied the second guy. And they continued to have a conversation about beards for no less than ten minutes.     

The highlight of the evening, however, was a spontaneous event in the heart of the portrait gallery.

An up-and-coming band, Cerian, put on a live performance in one of the halls. And while that was super cool in and of itself, the fact that the mini-concert was free was an added bonus. A large crowd of people huddled into the little hall, which had surprisingly impressive intonation. There were, however, too many tall shoulders ahead of my group, which prevented us from actually being able to see the performance, so we sat on the floor instead.

But hey, how many people can say that they were allowed to get cozy on an internationally renowned museum floor, underneath pieces of priceless art, while listening to some indie music with London locals? 

Good stuff.

The end of the evening had to end where all Friday nights in London seem to: a pub. Sort of because it was the only kind of place that was really open after 9:00pm, but also because the name “The Moon Under Water” was very intriguing, and also also because…why not?

Had I been more knowledgeable in the realm of Marvel movies, I might have revered one of the inhabitants of this place with much more acclaim. Apparently, the actor starring as the latest Spider Man is a London resident, and he was two feet away from us in the pub. So I guess today was by no means tainted with the fact that we were in the presence of a minor celebrity.

All and all, just another day in the UK.

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The Grand Pancreas  (And Other Jet Lag Delusions)

Apparently, the art of flushing toilets is a skill I do not possess. 

Granted, with a grand total of 5 hours of real sleep these past 48 hours, there are quite a few common faculties I do not currently possess.

There is, of course, only one truly good explanation for my foibles.

Traveling. Enough said. Truly. 

And my first destination this time around? London.

I love traveling, of course, for the cultural enlightenment it showers upon all who make the pilgrimage, but it’s not just the profound revelations one has while diving into another culture that make the experience so memorable.  

You see, it’s all about the little things. For example: 

The moss growing on the iconic red telephone booths on account of London’s ever-lingering humidity.

The urban soccer ���fields” nestled into alleyways that really do express the UK’s love of the sport.

The fact that every one walks with a sort of distressed conviction, because the “walk” signals at intersections are so unpredictable one can’t afford to dally.

But my first introduction to London was at King’s Cross Station, home of Harry Potter’s Platform 9 3/4, which, unfortunately, was very impractical to access. The modern additions to the station’s architecture, however, made up for it. 

But at this vast and historic relic, I was confronted by an imposing figure storming towards me through the throngs with the most determined look of determination.

My compatriot Katie and I were just about to exit the station—and attempt to avoid this intimidating perpetrator—when he blurted, “I saw your sweater and just wanted to introduce myself.”

I looked down at my Chapman University pullover.

“We went to Chapman, too.” That was when the guy’s slightly less intimidating friend stepped into view. “Go Orange!”

And that was that. 

What were the odds of two Chapman graduates encountering two current Chapman students in the middle of the UK? I don’t know. Perhaps the world isn’t SO big after all...

But while we’re on the subject of large things, I ought to mention that upon exiting the station, I was confronted with the world’s largest pancreas.

When you step out of King’s Cross, to your immediate right is another train station, Saint Pancras. Or as I initially though, Saint Pancreas.

I like my version better.

Admittedly, I was feeling a little drowsy, as a person is wont to do when thrust into a new time zone. And with the goal of staying up until at least 8:00pm London time to avoid worse jet lag later on, maintaining consciousness was feeling like a very daunting prospect, indeed.

Such confusion left me pondering a great many elements of British society:

Why do they drive on the other side of the road? Or is it that they had the idea first, and we’re the ones who’ve been driving on the wrong side this whole time? 

Why is it so difficult to flush the toilets? I was forewarned by Rick Steve’s travel guide that Great Britain’s “pump toilets” have a “flushing handle that doesn’t kick in unless you push it just right.” It took me a good five minutes to discover what “just right” meant.

And what’s the deal with the dental commercials? They’re very…um…how shall I put it? Abundant. What’s up with Britain and teeth?

There is, however, one element of the British lifestyle that I wholeheartedly understand and might even love almost as much as they do. 

Tea.

In the battle to fight jet lag and stay awake, I resorted to desperation and the necessity of caffeine.

On our way to the hotel, I explained to Katie, “I’m not a coffee drinker. Do you think they’ll have tea?”

She just looked at me. “Why wouldn’t they? This is England.”

“Good point.” 

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Nobody Walks in LA

I have seen many mountains of varying heights and substances throughout my travels this summer, and while all of them were beautiful, captivating, and just generally glorious, none elicited as much excitement as those San Gabriels in Southern California.  Seeing that mountain range, I couldn’t help but reflect on all that I had experienced before that point, and everything I saw, everything I did, all the people I met…well, it was the ultimate experience! 

I knew my adventure abroad had come to an end as soon as I saw those desert mountains from the plane window, but any longing I had to continue my travels was remedied by my eagerness to return home. 

I love traveling, but I don’t typically enjoy the process of going through all the tedious airport protocols.  By the time I had made it to the Edmonton Airport for my 8:45 am flight back to LA, I was getting ready to board my seventh airplane on the trip.  I was ready to tune out all the safety procedures and regulations that the flight attendants are required to go over before every flight, but once the guy on the airplane speakerphone began to give his spiel, I realized that this final plane ride was actually going to be entertaining. 

A few of his supplemented anecdotes are as follows: 

“Has any one lost a roll of hundred dollar bills wrapped in a red elastic?  Because we found the elastic.” 

“If any one has any objections to these safety regulations while we’re in the air, then please exit the aircraft.” 

[in Darth Vader voice as flight attendants demonstrate how to put on oxygen mask] “Luke, I am your father.”

[in Darth Vader voice over French audio explaining how to put on oxygen mask] “Luke, je suis ton père.”

“As we prepare for landing, keep your table trays closed and your seats up, locked, and in their most uncomfortable position.”

“Here at West Jet, we strive to meet and exceed your expectations every day, and if we haven’t done that, then we suggest you lower them.” 

With these wonderfully sarcastic renditions on the typical monotonous announcements, the flight went by rather enjoyably (though granted, I was asleep for most of it).  In fact, the only hiccup was when a woman sitting across the aisle from me began freaking out because she couldn’t find her bag. 

“Excuse me,” she said rather harshly to the nearest flight attendant, “Someone has stolen my bag.  It’s not here and I never touched it!”

“Well the compartments haven’t been opened since we took off,” the flight attendant said, looking a little miffed. 

“Well then how can my bag be missing?!  I never touched it!”

While the flight attendant tried to calm the woman down, I realized what had happened, but my revelation was about a second after the man sitting behind the woman came and opened the second door of the luggage compartment—lo and behold, the bag was there!  Apparently this poor lady hadn’t ever taken physics that touched on the study of gravity, because since our flight was rather empty of passengers, she had a whole two door luggage compartment to herself, and her bag had slid to the other end upon the plane’s descent.  She snatched up her bag with a peeved expression and left the plane with a scowl.  Such was my first experience upon returning to LA. 

And speaking of this city, have you ever heard the phrase “Nobody walks in LA?”  I came to realize only recently that this phrase is all too painfully true.  The ratio of motorized vehicles to pedestrians and bicycles in Los Angeles is radically different from the lifestyle in Europe.  And this was exemplified perfectly at the LAX Airport.  You see, when in a European airport, or a Canadian airport, or even airports in other American cities, you have the option to take the escalator or the stairs to get to your next-level destination.  But in LA, at the exit I passed through at least, there was only an escalator.  Figures. 

I still love where I live despite the fact that I don’t approve of the unnecessary excess driving.  Maybe I’m a hypocrite for referring to it as such, because I, too, am one of the many drivers.  But I like to think I’m a little more eco-friendly with my transportation habits at home, because I supplement my driving by riding my bike to places too.  Perhaps I even utilize my two-wheel drive more often than the four-wheel drive, but I am in the minority in that respect. 

It is good to be home, but after venturing abroad, I’m starting to think my lifestyle is a little more on the European side…

…Guess where I plan on going next summer!        

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The Only Violin Store in Town

There are few things in the world that make you feel like it’s never changed.  One such thing is classical music. 

Being an avid—or perhaps maybe only a competent—musician in the string instrument department, it was only natural to take a trip to the violin store with my grandparents while I was visiting them.  They know a place on the outskirts of town (a little shop owned by one such PJ Tan) that sells string instruments—only string instruments. 

I’m not sure what one is supposed to have in mind when going to a “violin store”, but I had been excited about the prospect for a while.  Obviously I’d be trying out a few instruments, but was I supposed to be doing so with purchasing one in mind?  I suppose that’s what most people would be going over in their heads, but I was in rather a special predicament:  if I found something I liked—I mean something I really liked—then would I really be bringing an instrument—the equivalent of an additional piece of baggage—all the way back home with me?  It’s not an impossible thing to do, and really, it’s not an improbable prospect at all, because conveniently enough, I am only currently able to play those string instruments that are small and weigh only a few pounds; thus, they are easy to transport (the cello and bass, which currently elude me) are another story, though, because transporting one of those requires purchasing an extra ticket). 

Anyway, I quickly learned upon entering Mr. Tan’s shop that it’s not only the music produced by the instruments that’s a form of art; making the instruments and mending the instruments and understanding the instruments is an art form too.

I was shown into the “practice room”, which consisted of a music stand and a table lined with violins of various varnishes.  In no time I placed a page of music on the stand—a simple little waltz—and grabbed the first instrument (the darkest violin there).  No pun intended when I say that hearing the sound of that instrument was music to my ears (both literally and figuratively) and none of the other violins sounded quite as rich as that first one.  I played about five or six violins (each one progressively lighter in color) before Mr. Tan popped his head in the door.  My grandmother, who had been contentedly listening the whole time, took the moment to inquire—merely out of curiosity—as to how much one of these violins might cost. 

Mr. Tan noticed how lovingly we were staring at the beautiful instruments and said proudly, “That one you’re holding right now costs about $14,ooo.”

After hearing that price, the violin suddenly became painfully delicate in my hands and I laid it back down on the table with the utmost care.  It was just a little bit out of my price range. 

Mr. Tan proceeded to show us a couple other violins that were nestled securely in a nearby case as well.  He carefully picked up one with a reddish tint to the wood and held it out to me.  I only got the chance to run my fingers across the surface of that one before he said that it would cost more than the mere sum of $100,000. 

That’s when we asked if I could try out a viola instead. 

Now I’m not afraid to admit that my skills on the viola are considerably lacking (considering I only first laid hands on one a few months ago and have since attempted to teach myself only the basics) and so it was with no profound skill whatsoever that I simply played the same violin waltz on its instrumental cousin by reading the song as written and not mentally transposing the notes into alto clef (for those of you who don’t understand the details of how to read music, perhaps I will explain sometime in the not-too-distant future).  And ironically enough, we all agreed that the song sounded better when played on the viola, because our ears were apparently more partial to the deep, rich tone of the violin’s cousin. 

In case you’re wondering, I never bought one of the instruments...it was enough just to be able to play them all (and I’m not just saying that because I couldn’t afford any of them).  There’s just something about the magic of running a bow across the strings and producing a beautiful sound (mind you, it does take practice to be able to produce a good sound, or even to simply generate minimal screeching) that suddenly motivates one to excel in playing one’s instrument.  I’m not sure if this means I’ll be practicing my music a lot more, but I’m definitely inspired.  For the moment.  

[amadeatanner]

What We Do When the Weather Man is Wrong About A Rainy Day

When the Tanner children are at home together, we have to come up with ways to amuse ourselves, and if I might be so bold as to say so, we’re very good at defeating the adolescents’ enemy:  boredom. 

“I’ve got a great idea Alixx!” my cousin, Max, shouted out to his sister as she rode past on her bike.  He had his remote-control car out and was driving it around the block.  “Let’s have a race!” 

Max is full of wonderful ideas. 

It started off well with car against bike, until he decided to test the battery-operated toy’s reaction time, and in this case that meant directing the vehicle between Alixx’s bike tires. 

In theory, the concept would be a remarkable feat of perfectly-timed precision, but in practice it ended with the death of the car.

“She was going too fast,” Max declared.  “Otherwise I could have done it.”

So the fatally wounded vehicle went back on the shelf and we decided to take out the remote-controlled boat instead.  Conveniently enough there is no shortage of aesthetically-positioned lakes in the suburbs of Edmonton, and so we set off for the nearest one with high hopes for our second vessel of miniature transportation.

This one, too, ended ultimately in failure due to the fact that algae grew rampant in this body of water and lodged itself in the miniature motor of our poor little battery-operated boat.  Rescuing the boat, however, was none-too-convenient, as it required Max to jump into the lake (he was wearing his pajamas, mind you) and brave the algae-infested water in order to safely bring back his vessel. 

Once he emerged from the lake soaking wet though triumphantly holding the boat aloft, we agreed that our playtime was done for the day.  Maybe this was the universe’s way of saying that we’re a little too old for such ventures…  

…which is why we ended up baking in the kitchen instead. 

The idea was to use up a few ingredients in the pantry that were getting to be a bit on the “overly-ripe” side.  A few boxes of Rice Crispies cereal and some jumbo marshmallows that expired in February?  No problem!  Rice Crispy squares it would be! 

None of us had ever attempted to make such a thing before (if you can believe it) and for all intents and purposes, the original recipe for such well-loved sticky treats is as follows: 

-          3 tbsp. of butter

-          10 oz. of miniature marshmallows

-          6 cups of Rice Crispy cereal

[Melt the butter and marshmallows together in a large saucepan and combine with the cereal.  That’s it.  That’s all you have to do.]

Of course, one could take the cheater’s way out and utilize the microwave to do some serious melting, but I once had a bad experience that involved an explosion of white goo in such a heating device, so I figured it would probably be best to do things the old-fashioned way.   

We had to do a little compensating though… the saucepan became a regular skittle and the marshmallows we had were far from mini, but each one was lovingly placed in the pan that was already coated with the melted butter.  The marshmallows, actually, were so big they looked like little albino steaks sizzling away on the stove, and we soon realized that the melted butter they were sitting in was acting like more of a frying agent, turning them into a lovely golden brown instead of melting them into pale-colored goop.  So out came the spatula, which was used to chop the marshmallows in half in the hopes of preparing them for the melting process…eventually they did sort of melt, forming a coagulated mound of off-white-colored stuff.  Looking at our sticky mess in the pan, my cousins and I realized that this couldn’t be the right way to make rice crispies, but we added the cereal to the goop all the same. 

The sweets didn’t turn out looking too pretty, but at least they tasted like they were supposed to. 

I find it a bit ironic that the one dessert we haven’t been able to master is the one that requires no time in the oven…

There’s still time to master it, of course, but I’m sure us kids will be tackling a new (and more successful) adventure tomorrow.      

[amadeatanner]

The Annual Glory of K-Days

When I think of amusement parks, a few things usually come to mind:  dizziness, body odor, and cholesterol.      

“You’re gonna be disappointed,” my cousin’s significant other said most sincerely as we were on the bus that would take us towards one of these centers of organized chaos.  “This is nothing compared to LA.” 

Okay, so maybe the Edmonton K-Days annual amusement park is a little bit smaller than the LA County Fair, but I’m no ride adrenaline junkie, so it’s all the same to me.

These kinds of places are pretty universal as far as what they have to offer, especially when it comes to sustenance, if you could even call it that:  over-priced beverages, fried meat dripping in grease, and sweets dipped in bins of powdered sugar so vast you might even believe it’s snowing as something more fattening than a doughnut is handed to you with a flourish and a cloud of white powder.  I suppose the one thing that individualizes the Canadian fairground from the American one, however, is the abundant presence of poutine vendors (there were at least 14 scattered around the K-Days vicinity).  Indeed, no matter how hard you search at an amusement park, the one thing you’ll never find is something as simply nutritious as a salad. 

But the food is only part of the experience, of course.      

To be perfectly honest, I discovered while at K-Days that being spun around in perpetually faster circles is not my definition of fun…I’m more of the kind of person who enjoys the non-adrenaline-enhanced attractions, which means you’ll probably find me in the exhibition halls of amusement parks more often than not.  So while others were testing the effects of physics on the human body, I was getting acquainted with the animals.  Not only was I privileged enough to be able to pet the delightfully furry coat of a baby kangaroo, but I also made the acquaintance of some wonderful spotted American horses known as X, Y, and Z (though Z’s name has legally been changed to “Zed” upon his arrival across the Canadian border). 

My little group of fairgoing companions probably wasn’t the liveliest one of the day, though; despite the fact that most of them were game for the rides on a more epic scale, we all decided that we needed to take a nap halfway through the evening, because that’s obviously what the smartest people do.  And so—I kid you not—we found a nice grassy patch along a fence somewhere at the back of the fair and took a nice little cat nap to rejuvenate us in time for the remaining attractions of the evening.  For me, it was an afternoon snooze, but for some of the others it was a chance to settle the stomach before disrupting its natural chemistry on some crazy ride once again.      

But I did muster up the courage to tackle some rides.  My favorite, despite my aforementioned claim, is one that spins you in circles (otherwise known as the ferris wheel). 

Actually, being at the top of a ferris wheel is a good place to be if you want to be able to determine the current state of the local weather, and from such a height, we were able to see the makings of an alleged storm off in the distance.  Streaks of lightning flashed across the sky many miles away—that was also when we realized that perhaps being at the top of a ferris wheel wouldn’t be such a good weather monitoring station in the event of a thunder storm in the immediate vicinity. 

Actually, if you’re anywhere among the huge metallic attractions that constitute an amusement park, then you’re certainly not in any safe zone in the event of a thunder storm.  Seeing that lightning in the distance was like watching an attacking army approach—you see, the weather man had warned us earlier in the day that there might (emphasis on might) be a little thunder shower around 11:00 pm.  Of course I hadn’t believed him because if I looked up at the sky, there was nothing but a vast expanse of blue. 

That was when I remembered that I’m a resident of Southern California, an individual who isn’t entirely accustomed to the possibilities of dramatic turns for the worse in the weather department, and boy, oh boy did the weather take a turn for the worse! 

The only reason we were at the amusement park so late was because we wanted to see the fireworks that were supposed to take place at 11:00, but 10 minutes beforehand, the sky went from black to purple on account of the lightning that frequently electrified the atmosphere.  The fireworks, understandably, were cancelled, and all the rides were immediately shut down in order to minimize the risk of electrocution.  So we did what any logical people would do and sought shelter indoors before the crowds of remaining fairgoers barged their way in as well.  Oddly enough, no one was following us inside, and it took a few minute of consideration to realize that everyone else was making a mad dash to the exit while they still could.  So we had to psych ourselves out to run into what had become a torrential downpour as we stepped back into the tempest, which meant that we had to run across a fairground in the pouring rain.  And would you believe that again, again I didn’t have my umbrella with me? 

Of course, there were a few vendors who magically produced umbrellas for sale once the rain kicked in, and one called out that you could get one for 100 dollars—I’m pretty sure he was joking, but I think that was a perfect example of the supply and demand sales tactic.  Any poor, weak soul could have succumbed to the temptation of such primitive shelter, and I could understand why, because within seconds, one was soaked to the skin and those of us with glasses were blinded by the water cascading down our lenses.  It was cold, hard, heavy rain, made more intense by the blustering wind that splashed in our faces and the vibrations of the ground as thunder rumbled not so very far away.  And I mustn’t forget to mention the perpetual lightning, which was now lighting up the sky so frequently it felt like we were trapped in the glass dome of an evil scientist’s twisted experiment. 

It was the most fun I’ve ever had at an amusement park!  Especially since we made it home safely...

 And for the record, that light show was better than any fireworks I’ve ever seen! 

[amadeatanner]

POUTINE!!!

That’s one legendary dish that is uniquely Canadian.  And if you haven't tried it while in Canada, then you certainly haven't had the whole Canadian experience! 

If the Earl of Sandwich is accredited with the brilliant concoction known as the sandwich, then who can be given credit for the equally brilliant flavor combination that is poutine?  ‘Tis a simple recipe, really:  French fries covered in curd cheese and gravy.  I know it might sound appalling both to the mind and to the colon—and I’ll readily admit that it doesn’t necessarily look all that appetizing either—but was not the Earl of Sandwich also scorned for his scandalous discovery?

Poutine may not be entirely good for the body, but it is good for the soul.  

   “Is poutine considered one of the traditional Canadian foods?” I asked my cousin. 

“Uh, well…I guess it’s traditional in Quebec.  But it’s not like people here eat it every day.  It’s more of an indulgence, I suppose.”

“Okay…then what are some traditional Canadian foods that aren’t only indulgences?  I’ve been trying to come up with some, but so far the list is none-too-nutritious.”

“Well…"

“I know there’s poutine, beaver tails, butter tarts, and Nanaimo bars…”

“What’s a Nanaimo bar?”

“Wait a minute!  You’re the actual Canadian here!  And you don’t know what a Nanaimo bar is?!”

“Nope.” 

“Wow.  I guess we’ll never figure out what nutritious things Canadians really eat…”

“Well what’s your idea of typical American food?”

“I guess a hamburger is the first thing that comes to mind…”

[amadeatanner]

The Island of Montreal.  Such a wonderful city!   The perfect mixture of old and new, filled with a varied mélange of international eclectics.  For example, there’s a grand cathedral across the street from Best Buy and another church with towering spires right across from McDonalds.  As you walk down any street, you’ll hear snippets of conversations in at least 5 different languages, and if you look around at the restaurants lining these streets, you’ll find that they are just as proportionally diverse. 

There is an unspoken code of conduct, though—one the locals enforce pretty strictly.  You see, one must not walk at a pace slower than speedy, and if one is traveling below the pedestrian speed limit, well…the left side of all walking areas is designated as the passing lane (this is even true on escalators, because even if people aren’t in a hurry, they like to travel efficiently—good thing I can walk fast).  There seems to be another unspoken rule—enforced exclusively on the metro—that people shouldn’t talk to each other, let alone look at each other.  So when one takes public transportation, one usually falls under the same dim lighting-induced trance that keeps all the other passengers completely absorbed in their own thoughts—or their own reflections, depending on where one is standing.  Thankfully, being the nonconformist that I am, I was able to rather enjoy myself with the simple pleasure of watching the interesting specimen that is the metro-traveler.  If my gaze happened to catch the eye of one of the people I studied, I’d simply smirk with a knowing smile, and that, I soon learned, is how you get a person to quickly look in a different direction.  It doesn’t seem to matter how out of it people are, though, because no matter what, they always get on the metro via the left or right side of the open doors, and exit through the center—I would have loved to simply try doing the opposite, but no amount of nonconformity can make up for the wrath one must face when dealing with an angry French person. 

Of course it’s not like people are angry or self-absorbed all the time—I think people are generally pretty friendly, especially if you know their language.  Most of the time that language will be French, so if you don’t know that, you might have a little trouble getting around (all the signs are in French, which is rather ironic, really, because I’ve seen more English influence in France!)  Even the majority of bookstores offer almost entirely French books, and the ones that are in English can be found under the “Anglophone” sign.  Yes, the two most important words I’ve been able to add to my vocabulary would be Francophone (French speaking) and Anglophone (English speaking)—two very clear distinctions that divide the majority of the population here, such that employees in the customer service and hospitality departments must greet you first in French, then English.  I couldn’t help chuckling a little bit to myself when the waitress at a well-known poutine restaurant greeted us saying, “Bonjour, hi!” 

Some people might even be too friendly, though…or at least that was certainly the case with one of the entrepreneurs at a kiosk in the mall.  Since I don’t like being roped into conniving sales tactics, I usually avoid the free samples these vendors give out, but just for the heck of it, my cousin (who was my tour guide for the day) suggested we see what the guy had to offer.  After hearing I was from California, the salesman became particularly interested in us…or perhaps I should clarify that he was particularly interested in my fingernails. 

He procured a nail-buffing device and said, “I’ve got a present for you.  Do you believe in magic?”

“Um…yes?” I replied uncertainly, because by that time he had already stolen my hand away from me and had started rubbing the buffer over one of my nails. 

“Good, good!”  He chuckled, grinning a creepy little grin.  “This buffer is covered with 100% silk from an area by the Dead Sea.  Do you know where that is?”

“Uh, yes?” I couldn’t give this guy any very serious answers because he was still rubbing my nails and thus standing awkwardly close, still with that strangely unsettling grin. 

“So…uh, how long have you two been together?” He asked, dramatically changing the subject as he gestured between my cousin and me. 

That was when I could no longer keep a straight face.  While I was laughing, my cousin Corey explained to this over-presumptuous entrepreneur that we were actually related, at which point the salesman stopped buffing my fingernail and tried to make up for his blunder by saying “Voila!  Look how shiny it is!  And 100% natural!  It will last you at least two weeks, cooking, washing dishes, singing, and all!” 

In actuality, I now had a dazzling middle finger.  And if I had been a different kind of person, perhaps I would have used it…

We very quickly left, because there was, after all, so much more of the city to explore!   

I guess if there’s one thing I’ve learned about Montreal, it’s that the city is in a time and culture warp…it’s like a little Europe, and having just returned from Europe, I’m not exaggerating.  It looks like Europe, from the narrow streets to the classical architecture; it feels like Europe, from the crazy drivers to the population preference of going places on foot or by bicycle; and it even smells like Europe, due to the ever-present aroma of cigarette fumes.  Indeed, if one cannot afford a trip across the Atlantic, why not go to Montreal instead?

Just avoid the people giving out free samples in the mall. 

And for the record, my shiny nail didn’t even last 2 days.    

[amadeatanner]

I jinxed the weather today.  I said casually on the way to Knowlton that it looked like it might rain—never did I actually expect my mediocre weather predicting skills to be so entirely accurate!  Maybe I should consider a career in meteorology…or maybe I’m simply in possession of psychic powers…

I suppose I should admit that it didn’t actually rain…oh no, today’s storm was so much more than just water falling from above!  It was like the sky was at war with the earth, pelting the ground with liquid machine fire, blasting through the atmosphere with nonstop cannon fire, and sending bombs in no particular direction that exploded into bursts of blinding brightness.  Yes, the sky was incredibly angry today—totally over-reacting, though, because what has the earth ever done to provoke such a fit of rage?  There must be some sort of ongoing rivalry between those two (I blame Global Warming), and perhaps it is like the alleged rivalry I just learned has been going on for centuries between Sweden and Denmark (though that is, of course, an entirely different matter).

On the subject of Denmark, however, I think I must have some sort of subconscious special allegiance to it, because that happens to be the place where many of my ancestors came from.  Yes, all the way back to the Viking days, even (well, my light-colored hair and blue eyes had to come from somewhere, didn’t they?)

Of course, the most direct affiliation I have to the Danish would be through my great-grand parents, who actually were from Denmark (that’s about as Danish as one can be), and though I was born too late to ever actually meet either of them in person, would you believe that I got to stop in on them today? 

I say I never knew them, but I’ve heard enough about them to feel as if I’ve at least made their acquaintance before.  Every family has a story, and I’ve just had the revelation now, as I type this, that I’m well on my way to piecing mine together.    

The only tragedy regarding the story of my great-grandparents is that I’m still missing quite a few of the pages.  But traveling to the little town of Knowlton today, I was pleasantly surprised to see that the house they used to live in is still very much intact.  This house is somewhat on the edge of a hill, hence its former affectionate title, Edgehill House.  And my great-grandparents used to run a summer camp on this property, which was known, most appropriately, as Camp Edgehill House.  Now the property’s current owners have given it the rather less intriguing title of Bog Farm, and while that may be what the sign says today, it still looks like an Edgehill to me. 

I say that because you can still see the maple trees that my great-grandparents tapped to make maple syrup.  There’s still the little shack where my grandmother, when she was my age, would trudge at 5:00 each morning to milk Patsy the Cow before school.  You still drive on the same winding dirt road that she and so many other children in the family walked in order to catch the school bus off of the main road.  The front lawn is well-manicured now, but once upon a time the pigs escaped and dug it up.  But you can still see the barn which housed the ponies my dad and all my aunts and uncles learned to ride on, and where little performances were held in the loft at night during the summer camp days.  And while I’m not sure if the pen is still there, I could imagine Peter the naughty horse jumping over the fence and then obediently jumping back in upon hearing the deep-voiced and disapproving command of my great-grandfather, Axel Carstensen, as he smoked his ever-present pipe on the front porch.

Where he and his wife live now is not so very far from Edgehill—just a little ways down the road, in fact.  Paying them a visit was made exceptionally difficult by the ongoing battle between the earth and the sky, but somehow the car made it over the flooded, muddied battleground. 

If any spectators had been present, I wonder what they would have thought of the ambitious girl who trudged determinedly through the mud under the scant shelter of a broken, borrowed umbrella in order to stand precariously in front of a tombstone.  Her wet hair and soaking dress blew wildly in the violent wind, though she did not so much as quiver when thunder wracked the air as she gently placed her hand on top of the grave.

The stone was lifeless, but the air was alive. 

That was enough.       

[amadeatanner]

Oh, Canada!

You know, I really love European airlines.  They definitely excel in the hospitality department.  And Swiss Airlines, the benefactor for the latest plane I traveled on, is one of the best!    

The seats are comfortable and luxurious even in economy class, the aisles are spacious, and one needn’t worry about suffering from hunger, thirst, or boredom. 

I know a lot of people complain about airplane food, but I actually really enjoy it…maybe that’s because I’m really not picky when it comes to all things edible, or maybe it’s because European food is fantastic even on the airplanes…

Whatever the case, there are few feelings in the world greater than the delight one experiences upon waking up from a nap over the Atlantic due to the enticing aroma of steaming sustenance two aisles away and quickly approaching because of the masterful efficiency flight attendants have when it comes to taking care of passengers. 

Yes, oh, how I love European airlines! 

In other words, I was completely rejuvenated and ready to take off running (perhaps even literally) as soon as my plane touched down in Montreal.  I’d say I felt almost at home once I was immersed in a French-speaking place again, but then I realized that I didn’t well understand this French that people were speaking…according to some of the locals I met during my stay in France, Canadian French isn’t really French at all (that could just be a French sentiment, though).  Rather, the French regard Canadian French as an entirely different language (AKA, Quebequois).

Perhaps that’s why going through customs at the Montreal airport was a little confusing…the customs officer spoke in something vaguely resembling Franglish, so I wasn’t entirely sure how to respond…his questioning me went something like this: 

“Bonjour.  Hello, Madame.”

“Uh, hello.”

“What is votre raison for this trip?”

“Um, personal?”

“Who are you visiting?”

“Family.”

“Do they know that you are coming?”

“Uh, yes.”

“D’accord.  You’re free.” 

 And just like that I was out of the limbo land of the airport and in the land of Quebec! 

But there definitely is a big French influence here.  For example:  one must go to the coiffure for a haircut, one must faire attention regarding the Canadian geese that end up near the roads, and one must ârret at every stop sign.       

Of course, there are quite a few uniquely Canadian culture concepts I’ve experienced as well, ones I have always been familiar with (due to my family heritage) and some that remain true to the pre-conceived notions one might have regarding the country:

·         “Eh” is a prominent word in every one’s vocabulary (I figured out that it’s used in the similar context of “don’t you agree?”)

·         Poutine is a widespread delicacy; there are entire restaurants that serve nothing else (and apparently there is a whole smorgasbord of different variations)

·         Vinegar is the preferred condiment for French fries

·         There actually is bagged milk at the grocery store (though the concept is a surprisingly efficient one, because people bring the milk home and have special containers for it in the fridge) 

·         The wonderful Canadian accent is, of course, the norm

·         There is a lot of maple syrup (although it is not eaten with everything, contrary to popular belief)

·         The maple syrup is unprecedentedly delicious

·         Even the money smells like essence of maple syrup

Since practically my entire family lives in Canada, since I come here every year, since I’m a registered Canadian citizen in addition to being an American one, I’d say I’m well accustomed to the lifestyle up north.  Besides my lack of adaptation to snowy weather (I do live in Southern California, after all) I’m basically a bona fide Canadian.   

[amadeatanner]

My last night in Italy was filled with entirely unprecedented feats, things no typical tourist would get the chance to partake in.  I also got to see the fantastic Boboli and Bardini gardens (which one simply must see while in Florence), but while every other visitor was still trapped in the heart of the city at sunset, Ella and I ventured to the outskirts of downtown Florence.  And what lies just outside one of the most world renowned historical cities of all time?  A park. 

But it’s not just a patch of grass with a swing set and a sandbox—this park is a vast network of trails and attractions, encompassed by endless green trees that stretch up into the sky.  This is where the locals come:  to go for a jog, to bask by the pool, to watch a concert, to visit the racetrack, to simply sit down and chat.  Just walking under those huge trees on that wide trail is enough to transport any one into a period of timelessness, where anything is possible. 

And certainly anything is possible—all you have to do is muster up a little courage.  Ella showed me one of her favorite views of her city, which is only accessible from the very top of the outdoor theatre which belongs to the city’s new opera house, a building that towers over its surroundings.  To get there, you climb up, up, up an endless flight of stairs—you have to climb into the sky to get to the top.  And once in the sky, you can see Florence from the perspective of the heavenly characters the city's famous churches were built for.  You can’t see everything, exactly, but no one ever will be able to truly see everything all at once, now will they?

The dreaminess of the view continued as we found ourselves next at the empty turf of the racetrack, slowly wasting away in its own isolation.  Maybe I was crazy for slipping under the rail and taking off my shoes, maybe it was strange for me to take off running down the  grassy stretch in a dress with the wind blowing my hair into my face, but maybe one has to be a little crazy in order to experience a perfect little moment of absolute bliss.  Grass beneath my feet, the sunset veiling everything in gold, the distant harmony of an ever-present summer concert in the distance—that is the perfect way to say goodbye to a place, experiencing just enough to fill you with the thrill of wanting to return. 

Of course, such a wonderful, golden moment couldn’t last forever, and it was with a slight pang of both regret and panic that Ella and I realized we had to get to the grocery store before 21:00 (which is when it closes) in order to pick up some risotto ingredients for the Last Supper (or at least the last authentic European one I’ll be having for a while, that is).  We left the park in a flurry, only half-confident that we could travel the 2 mile distance on foot in less than 20 minutes—it didn’t help that the sunrise was so mesmerizingly beautiful we had to stop and watch it along the way.  We soon came to realize that speed-walking wasn’t going to get us there in time, and so we broke into a run. 

Now as far as what people thought upon watching two American girls, all dressed up for a day in the garden, racing along the cobblestone streets at top speed, I have no idea—but when dinner is at stake,  said girls really couldn’t care less about what people thought of them.  All that mattered was that we made it to the grocery store with minutes to spare—sure, we were a little more than a little sweaty and out of breath, but the situation could have been worse… 

Still panting as we returned home, we saw a couple in the midst of a terribly public photo shoot—that was just one of the many newly-weds-to-be I’ve seen being trailed through the city by a photographer, just one of the couples entranced by the romance of the city.  The fact that they were wearing matching jeans and t-shirts for wedding photos was of little consequence to me, and so I didn’t have much of an opinion towards them until Ella and I returned to the streets 30 minutes later under the instructions of going out to find an infamous street musician at the Ponte Vecchio while the risotto was cooking (such a masterful dish as that takes a great deal of time to reach its full potential).  As we made our way onto the street again, the same couple was still there, this time decked out in sequined fancy stuff that glittered blindingly under the spotlight beaming over them—I think they sort of symbolized the profoundly acceptable craziness of city life.  Only during the summer.  Only in Italy.

And also only in Italy do you encounter a drunken clown almost literally raining on the local parade.  In this case it was an intoxicated balloon-making street artist with white painted face and green jumpsuit, but he was in the middle of interrupting the coherence of the aforementioned street musician’s repertoire when Ella and I entered the scene, one of her friends (and my new acquaintance) accompanying us. 

You know a situation is verging on problematic when a musician who’s supposed to be giving a show is forced to resort to calling out to a clown in a level of Italian unworthy of being translated by my Italian-speaking friends…thank goodness the police were prepared (though apparently this kind of situation doesn’t happen often), as they are always on stand-by to shut down the merry music—and any other local excitement—by 23:00.  But despite all the confusion, the music was great!  And now I can finally say that I’ve seen and listened to the infamous performer we looked out for almost every night in Florence, the one whose name escapes me, but whose music has been stuck in my head for hours. 

The evening didn’t end there, though:  I went with Ella to walk her friend home after dinner (which was a sinfully delicious meal, by the way—well worth the hassle in procuring its ingredients).  On the way, we crossed through a piazza still buzzing with people even though it was getting near midnight (the nights come alive in Florence because the heat makes people so lethargic during the day).  Among the many things contributing to the general chaos in the piazza was a circle of people semi-immersed in a round of Greek dancing.  It was a pleasant enough sight from afar, though after we said goodbye to Ella’s friend at her house, Ella and I were stricken with a spontaneous urge to join the dancing.  Whether or not we were allowed in didn’t seem to be an issue, because a lot of people didn’t seem to know what they were doing…we entered the circle just in time to receive a 30 second tutorial on how to do the next dance.  Before we could even be sure our feet were stepping even slightly in the right pattern, the music started and we were thrust into a dance that exchanged partners after every 8 measures of the song.  Ella and I were quickly separated (in case you hadn’t already guessed) and ended up moving in opposite directions along the circle; we danced with young and old, experienced and uncertain—the main relief was the fact that at least half of the people in the group were just as confused as we were.  That being said, we felt a pang of regret as the music ended and the dancing stopped, but I can’t think of a better way to end this leg of my journey.              

Time has a remarkable way of passing by much too quickly.  Here I’ve been away from home for over 2 weeks and it hardly feels like I’ve ever left…to think that one can travel thousands of miles and still feel like she’s in the same place only attests to the fact that time never stops.  It just keeps going and going and going with little regard for anyone in the mundane world trying so desperately to keep up with it.  That’s why it gets harder to feel exited or scared or any other emotion fraught with anticipation—the moment you’ve been waiting for arrives faster than you have time to realize, and before you know it, that moment is gone. 

Perhaps I’m feeling a little forlorn because half my journey is over.  In just 2 short weeks I’ve already encountered innumerable adventures, some so wonderfully fantastical that they might even seem impossible, and yet possible they were!  I suppose there’s no reason for me to feel any sort of sadness, though, because my travels have only confirmed that I will return in the not-too-distant future.  And besides, while half my trip may have come and gone, there’s still so much in store!

The adventure has only just begun!     

[amadeatanner]

Hidden Gems in Unexpected Places

I usually don’t like shopping, but when in Rome… (or Florence, I should say)

Florence is the leather hub of Italy, or at least it certainly seems that way, because on every street corner, throughout every market, in every little shop, leather goods line the shelves.  Sheepskin, goatskin, calfskin, pigskin; jackets, backpacks, purses, shoes, wallets, boxes, eyeglass cases, bracelets, bookmarks—there certainly aren’t many vegans in this city. 

But the only leather item I was looking for, however, was a leather-bound journal—something every writer ought to have. 

In my quest for a glorified notebook, I encountered many a desperate entrepreneur.  They called out greetings like, “Ciao!”, “Buona Sera!”, “High Five!”, and “I give you good price!” 

But they’re all so pushy.  Have you ever noticed that?  I understand that they want customers and may even be desperate to make a sale, but even still, I tend to head towards the vendors who don’t necessarily behave as though they expect me to buy from them.  And in doing so, I made some friends.

For example, the tapestry-seller in the middle of the leather quarter let me in on the secret that not all his tapestries are made in Italy, and that certainly none of them were made by him.  He proceeded to give me a brief history of some of the well-known areas of Florence, pointing them all out on his numerous woven images as he talked.  According to him, Florence is a small city in which everything can be easily reached on foot, and when he discovered I was from LA (where nobody walks) he was immediately impressed because I wasn’t bent over with exhaustion like the other Los Angelinos he’s smirked at before...

Another kindly merchant was the scarf-seller at the very end of the leather quarter, the one who probably doesn’t get much business due to his unfortunate location (not to mention the fact that there are at least a hundred other scarf vendors all competing with each other to sell these things during the hottest time of the year).  Even though I was sweating from the heat, I couldn’t stop myself from approaching the stand because the colors were just so enticingly mesmerizing!  The vendor’s face literally lit up into a smile to see that he finally had a potential customer.  And because I was his only customer, I was privileged with the “special deals” everyone else was missing out on, which meant that a luscious piece of hand-woven Florentine cashmere and silk that would normally cost beyond 20 euro elsewhere was now offered at the tantalizing price of 5 euro instead...you know you’re an American when the gears of Capitalism start turning in your head upon the mention of reduced prices.  But I am not so easily swayed by a bargain!  True, I did walk away from that vendor with a bag filled with more scarves than I could ever possibly need for myself, but I also had a scarf wrapped around my neck (a present from the merchant who was so grateful for my patronage).  And while it was probably 40 degrees Celsius in Florence, I sported the scarf with pride, because I’d made somebody else’s day too. 

That all said and done, it was awhile still before I found the journal I’d been searching for.  On an obscure corner of the leather quarter is a precariously perched stand manned by Antonio, a bookbinder who carefully makes all his journals by hand.  Some are bound with Florentine leather, others are covered with pressed Italian paper, but all are genuine and not too expensive.  Antonio doesn’t try to catch people’s attention or pressure them into a purchase—instead, he’s perfectly content to enjoy the shade of his stand and continue binding his pages in leather while waiting for the right customer to come along, and he has unyielding faith that buyers will come.  I was one such buyer, and having seen my new journal practically bound before my eyes, I was reassured with the fact that it will likely last a lifetime.  But of course one journal certainly isn’t enough to sustain a writer for her entire life.

I gathered up my purchases and proceeded to the nearest quiet space where I could sit down and write.         

I’ve discovered that if you don’t immediately go right up to a merchant and ask what he’d charging for his goods, if you instead just take the time to scan over what’s for sale and pick out what you like without looking for a price, then the right price comes to you, and you might end up making a new friend in the process (which is better, I think, than simply finding a good bargain).          

[amadeatanner]

"We're Taking a Selfie, Mate!"

The Australian accents stand out the most amidst the hordes of people mingling around Florence every day.  But despite the distinctiveness of their dialect, the Australians are just like everyone else, which means I wasn’t at all surprised—and perhaps that’s why I was so fervently amused—when I heard, “We’re taking a selfie, mate!” coming from the general direction of some very sun-tanned Aussies. 

Some stereotypes are just so true :)

And on the subject of stereotypes, I took the time today to just sit and admire the complexity of the international network trudging over the Florentine cobblestones:

1.  A young British woman called out to her friend, saying, and I quote, “I’m just dying for a cup of tea!” 

2.  A French couple was engrossed in an intense argument that was almost instantaneously resolved (presumably because the subject up for debate was nothing more than the choice of cuisine for their evening meal)

3.  A group of German dudes was hunched over platters of predominantly meat-topped pizza

4.  The innumerable Americans were being downright obnoxious

5.  And the Italians…well, this is Italy, after all…  

I don’t know what it is about watching people, but the concept is just so utterly fascinating.  Sometimes I’ll find myself watching a single person, but I’ve mastered the art of switching my gaze in the opposite direction just before he or she can figure out who’s been staring.  What takes real courage, though, is allowing your gaze to linger on the person even after one has spotted you staring…and you can tell a lot about people based on the response they give upon discovering that they’re being watched by a complete stranger. 

I’m not trying to sound like a downright creeper of course!  But I’d dare anyone to go out and people-watch—oftentimes it’s much more fascinating than visiting a world renowned museum.  For example, while one might be viewing hallways filled with the well-manicured products of a taxidermy expedition (as I also saw in La Specola this afternoon), consider, instead, the human species in its unnatural habitat (i.e. on vacation):

-          One throws it’s head back in a fit of uncontrollable laughter

-          Another struggles to consume an impossibly large ice cream cone as it melts in the blaring heat

-          Still another runs frantically, calling for a bus to stop

-          Another shoves more people to the side in an attempt to get somewhere in a hurry

-          Many are often laden, like pack mules, with an exorbitant load of shopping bags

-          Many more wobble drunkenly in the streets at night, unable to stand up straight (these ones ought to be observed from a great distance, of course) 

-          The best, though, are the people who stop dead in the middle of a walkway just suddenly enough for someone to run into them from behind, such that a commotion is caused and (usually) resolved right away.  It's almost comical... it is comical. 

I’m sure I’m a hypocrite in all my judgement of the average foreign vacationer, but I’m content with my own observations for now.  The major benefit of people-watching, of course, is the fact that it’s probably the most affordable exhibition one will ever come across while traveling. 

Enough said.