June 2008 Archives
(or, What Do These Three Items Have In Common? Hawaii.)
1. Last week, while on my usual morning break, I discovered Maui Wowi's downtown location had closed. At first, I thought I was on the wrong street, but careful inspection of the adjacent businesses told me otherwise. I peered through the glass, past my reflection (with its dismayed expression), and saw the interior had been gutted. All that remained were the brightly colored walls. I turned away with a sigh and moped all the way to the end of the block, contemplating where I could get the coconut mocha I was suddenly craving. (And to think, the place had only opened 18 months ago.)
2. Last night, I was feeling in the mood for some kalua pork and cabbage for dinner, so I hopped over to the new Ono Hawaiian BBQ in town. It has only been open three months, but if my counting is correct, last night was Visit No. 6. Besides the pork, I'm a sucker for the loco moco and the mahi mahi. It's also where I get my spam musubi fix. As far as I'm concerned, it's the only good thing that came from the arrival of the big-box shopping center on the edge of town.
3. To kick John Mayer's tunes out of my head, I've been listening to an unhealthy amount of Jason Mraz's music. (Imagine a dozen tiny Mrazs wailing on a half-dozen tiny Mayers, and you'll have an accurate picture of what has been transpiring in my mind.)
His latest single, "I'm Yours", is saturating mainstream radio at the moment, unfortunately. If I had my way, every station would only be allowed to play it once a day, so everybody could actually enjoy it.
While I like the upbeat, yet soothing vibe of the song, I like it more when it's accompanied by the video, which was filmed on the islands of Hawaii.
It brings a smile to my face every time I watch it. And from now on, whenever I hear that song, I going to be thinking of Hawaii.
If I were a place, I'd be Labrador: improbable, impossible, tempestuous, serene, thinly populated. I'd be smooth boulders carried by great rivers of ice, plopped down at random, and balanced, precariously against the odds of gravity for thousands of years. I'd be spired mountains, crumbling ridgelines, and winds that literally make the water smoke. I'd be purple sunsets, bedrock that looks like marshmallows, and relentless green waves beating against the shore... I'd be Windy Tickle, Slam Bang Bay, White Handkerchief, and Blow Me Down Mountain. I'd be sun one minute and rain like Ping-Pong balls the next, with rainbows that seem to span the world.
It has been two weeks since I finished Jill Fredston's Rowing to Latitude: Journeys Along the Arctic's Edge, which I posted a few quotes from a while back.
I've been letting it marinate to see if I would feel as strongly about it now as I did when I was in the midst of reading it; and I do.
I like it so much, I've been holding onto it for as long as I can, even renewing it once (two days late, so I owe fifty cents), well after I had finished it, just so I could sneak peeks at passages like the one above. In another week, I'll have to surrender the book to the library and then I'll have to make a journey to the bookstore because buying it would be easier than transcribing my own copy.
Rowing to Latitude is one of those books I would reread in a heartbeat and not feel like I was missing out on reading something new. It's not just the fascinating places Fredston visits (the Yukon River, the coast of Labrador, Norway), but the way she writes about them that keeps me engaged. Her passion for rowing, traveling, nature, and life are evident. She interlaces the narrative of her trips with other parts of her life -- her career as an avalanche expert, her marriage (her husband, Doug, is also her traveling companion), and her family (her mother's battle with cancer). Some pages are dedicated to describing dry topics like packing supplies or kayak specifications, but they're saved by the power of her writing.
One of the reasons I loved this book was that I could relate to it as somebody who enjoys exploring the outdoors. The feelings she describes while rowing (the joy, the fear, the pain, the ups and downs) are similar to the ones I feel when hiking. There's the feeling of entering a different world when one steps on the trail, just as when one enters the water. There's the beauty of rhythm, whether it be paddle strokes or footsteps. There's also the eagerness to return to nature at the end of the journey, to rush home, look at the map, and plan the next adventure. I have yet to undertake an expedition as long or dangerous as anything she has undertaken, but I hope to one day (and live to write about it).
In Rowing to Latitude, Fredston shares the full landscape of her life and it's a life well-lived. This is one of my Top 5 favorite books of 2008.
By the way, today is Bland Blog Entry Title Day.
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On the bus ride home yesterday, I kept thinking about how cool it would be to have a bus exchange program. The local transit authority could send part of its fleet to major cities across the country and would receive an eclectic fleet in return. It could be fun riding buses from New York City, Chicago, Seattle, Honolulu, San Antonio, or Philadelphia. Instead of the typical inside advertisements, signs would highlight each location's history, culture, and attractions. If the program was a success, it could go global. It would be inspiring to see buses from Beijing, Berlin, Madrid, Quebec City, and other international cities on the streets of Santa Clara County.
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From the bus station, I made a quick stop at the local grocery to pick up coffee filters. (We had run out the day before, but I didn't realize it until yesterday morning and had to resort to using paper towels as a substitute filter. Ugh!) As I was leaving, I paused in the mostly empty parking lot to admire El Toro to the west and the ridges to the east, with their upper halves hidden by smoke. For whatever reason, the sight of them made me say to no one in particular, "I will never live in a town bigger than this ever again."
I've lived most of my life in San Jose, a city of more than 900,000 people, and Morgan Hill, a big town of 35,000. I stood there and dreamed about where I wanted to live next (the key word being "dreamed"). It would be in a smaller town. On the edge of a smaller town, to be more accurate, and it would be a place with land. I've never lived on a lot larger than an eighth of an acre. Two acres would be nice. I envisioned a small home (with a wraparound porch) on a big lot. That's as far as I got before I remembered where I was and how strange I must have looked standing in the parking lot.
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I've been watching the first season of Angel on Hulu (before Gunn or Fred joined the cast). I forgot how much I liked the show. I was particularly fond of the theme music, which I would describe as cello rock. If I remember correctly, they tried to spruce up the song in later seasons, but I liked the original version best.
Inspired by Elke's word art. This is a screen capture of the word cloud produced by my Flickr tags using Wordle. For some silly reason, this jumbling of words makes me smile.
Song on my mind... "Say" by John Mayer
Walkin' like a one man army,
Fightin' with the shadows in your head.
Livin' out the same old moment
Knowin' you'd be better off instead
If you could only
Say what you need to say...
If I were being brutally honest, this wouldn't be a "song on my mind", but rather a "song drilled into my head". It is repetitious beyond belief. I can't stand the chorus, but I love the verses and the instrumentation. It also resonates with how I've been feeling lately. I've been so hung up on how I want to say things that I haven't been able to say anything at all. I need to get over myself and just say what I need to say.
Of the many projects I've been meaning to start, the one I've been most eager to undertake is the Sit Spot Challenge, which officially took place in February and March.
I first read about it a few months ago on Roundtop Ruminations. I don't know how best to explain it, so I'll describe the challenge as a series of steps...
1. Pick a place outside to sit. It can be anywhere... the woods, the park, the backyard. This will be your spot -- your sit spot or secret spot. I like the website's description...
Find one place in your natural world that you visit all the time and get to know it as your best friend. Let this be a place where you learn to sit still -- alone, often, and quietly -- as well as playfully explore beyond. This will become your place of intimate connection with nature.
2. Now sit in your spot for at least twenty minutes and don't do anything but look and listen.
3. Afterwards, feel free to photograph your surroundings and write about your experience.
4. Repeat this for thirty days -- returning to the same spot at different times of the day if possible.
I had been putting off the challenge, thinking I would save it as a reward for finishing my other projects -- an attractive carrot at the end of the stick, but lately, I've been feeling stuck. I don't need a carrot, I need a crowbar, and while I'm not absolutely certain, I'm optimistic this challenge can pry me loose.
In the next few days, I plan to scout out potential spots. The first two candidates are the backyard and the neighborhood park, with proximity taking priority over seclusion. Ideally, my spot would be nearby and off the beaten path, but I have a feeling the two are mutually exclusive.
On Friday, both of my feet were yearning for a long hike and I was, too. (Things usually work better when we're all in agreement.)
I wasn't sure where to go. I had been wanting to visit one of the many parks in the Santa Cruz Mountains, but with the still-burning Martin Fire, it seemed best to look elsewhere.
"We should knock another Healthy Trails hike off the list," I said to my feet, link and all. (It's called speaking hyperlinkally.)
They suggested Joseph D. Grant County Park, but I objected on the basis that it would involve driving during the morning commute.
Then I remembered passing the sign for Coyote Lake - Harvey Bear Ranch County Park on my way to Henry Coe a couple of months ago. It was only thirteen miles from home (opposite the flow of traffic) and classified as a "moderate" Healthy Trails hike, which made it perfect on what promised to be a hot, sunny day.
Thirty minutes later, I was standing in the gravel parking lot of the Mendoza Ranch Entrance and lacing up my boots. With the exception of a truck with a horse-trailer in tow, my car was the only vehicle in the lot.
The plan was a simple nine-mile out-and-back trek on the Coyote Ridge Trail. It would be an easy hike, something to satisfy my feet while giving me a few hours of much-needed solitude.
The first mile of the trail was flat, wide, and covered with rocks. It was a strip of gray running through a field of yellow.
Once the gravel gave way to dirt and the trail began to climb, the hike grew interesting. I came across my first group of cattle resting in a rare patch of shade.
I got my first view of the valley. Gilroy, San Martin, and Morgan Hill were all visible.
I also caught my first real glimpse of Coyote Lake, which had been hidden from sight up to that point.
Between the junctions of the Rancho San Ysidro Trail and Willow Springs Trail, I enjoyed the contrast of the peaceful lake to the east and the developed valley to the west; only a simple ridge separated the two worlds.
Beyond the Willow Springs Trail junction, the trail curved west, away from lake, and provided pleasing views of the rolling hills that either cascaded to the valley or surged to the ridge, depending upon your point of view. I photographed them obsessively.
I soon reached the turnaround point and couldn't bring myself to return the way I came. I'm a hiker who prefers loops whenever possible, so I wandered down the Harvey Bear Ranch Trail.
A half-mile later, I came across a signpost for the Townsprings Trail, a path not shown on the map, which meant I had to explore it.
All was going well until I encountered a group of cows grazing near the trail on both sides. I'm not sure why, but the sight of them paralyzed me.
"They're just cows. They're harmless," said my left foot.
"I know," I replied, annoyed. "But there's a dozen of them and only one of me and they're chewing rather menacingly."
"If you walk confidently, they won't bother you," said my right foot.
"And you know this how?" I said sarcastically.
"Wikipedia."
"Oh. Well then. Let's go."
With boldness I didn't feel, I marched towards the small herd, maintaining a steady rhythm by humming "If This Is It" by Huey Lewis and the News. Visions of the next day's newspaper headlines ran through my head, "Hiker Trampled To Death By Rare Breed of 80s-Rock-Hating Cattle".
I was within twenty feet of them when they retreated to a nearby oak tree where another dozen cattle were resting. One cow, a large brown one with a white head and horns, watched me warily as I went my way, but he did nothing more than stare at me (and shoot imaginary lasers with his gaze).
Clear of the cattle, I soon reached the Willow Springs Trail and began the steep climb back to the Coyote Ridge Trail. This was the toughest part of the hike.
From there, it was a pleasantly uneventful return trek to the car.
For a better and more factual trip report, be sure to read Two-Heel Drive. To see a few more photos from the hike, you can find them on Flickr.
The itinerary for our first full day in London was tight. The plan was to ride the London Eye, take a cruise down the Thames, and visit the Tower of London, the Tower Bridge, and St. Paul's Cathedral. Luckily for us, the day didn't go as planned.
What threw us off was what I hadn't done the night before, namely, I hadn't set an alarm. We were on vacation after all. In my head, I envisioned shutting my eyes at midnight and opening them at 8:00. Eight hours of sleep instead of the usual six? How decadent! Unfortunately, I forgot to factor in that we had just been up for 32 hours straight (7 AM Wednesday morning to 3 PM Thursday afternoon, Pacific Time).
When I opened my eyes the next morning, something felt off. It was my internal clock. The traveling and the time change had knocked it out of kilter. With apprehension, I checked my watch, my phone, and the room's clock. All of them said 10:30. Our reservations for the Eye were for 10:00.
I calmly woke M, brewed two cups of coffee, and then proceeded to freak out. "We've lost three hours! What if they don't let us on? What if I can't get a refund? Augh!" Luckily, my moment of melodrama passed.
We raced to the Tube, made the two necessary transfers, and walked briskly across the bridge from the Westminster station to the Eye. When the person at the ticket counter took my printed confirmation sheet and handed me two tickets without a glance or question, I realized I had stressed out for no reason.
The London Eye, built as part of the millennium celebration, is a giant ferris wheel overlooking the River Thames. Instead of benches, it has large egg-shaped glass capsules. Each can hold twenty people without them bruising each other's ribs with their elbows. It's a carnival ride with class. A standard "flight" (they're too good to be called rides, apparently) will set you back £14. While I was online, I contemplated purchasing the champagne flight, but champagne at ten in the morning and 440 feet above the ground didn't seem prudent.
A trip on the Eye lasts approximately thirty minutes. The wheel rotates so slowly, the operators can load and unload passengers while it's moving. The most impressive view of the city is near the top, but one gets great views throughout the flight.
Afterwards, we crossed the bridge and boarded a City Cruises boat for a ride along the River Thames. We got the Red Rover ticket (£10, but "free" with London Pass (LP)), which allows unlimited use of the boat for the day.
We took the cruise from the Westminster Pier to the Tower Pier. Seats on the boat were unassigned. A clear shell offered protection from the wind while still providing a view of the river (an impossible-to-photograph view thanks to abundant water stains). Snacks and beverages were available for purchase towards the boat's stern. One of the crew members acted as a voluntary tour guide, pointing out the notable ships, bridges, and buildings, including London's uniquely shaped city hall.
At the end of the cruise, our guide reiterated the voluntary nature of his narrative and casually mentioned the tip jar he would be holding as he and his crew mates helped us from the boat. I didn't have anything smaller than a five-pound note and it seemed wrong to make change from the tip jar, so it was an awkward disembarkation involving a lot of eye contact avoidance and mumbled thank yous.
Because of our late start, we decided to visit the Tower of London and the Tower Bridge another day and head straight to St. Paul's Cathedral. To reach it, we took the Thames Path, a scenic footpath along the riverbank. The section we walked was only lightly used, making it one of the most relaxing and peaceful places in the city.
We were soon at St. Paul's Cathedral, whose impressive exterior doesn't begin to hint at the magnificence of its interior. Christopher Wren, the architect, started design of St. Paul's in 1669. After several rejected drafts, a final design was agreed upon in 1675. Construction began June 1677 and was completed October 1708.
While we were touring the cathedral (£10 admission, "free" with LP), one of the canons approached the pulpit on the dome dais and asked us to pause and join him in prayer. In the moment it took to say amen, lift my head, and open my eyes, I came to realize and appreciate Wren's grand design. The feeling that I was standing in a truly holy place was palpable.
The most incredible feature of the church is its dome. After walking the length of the nave and quire, we took the stairs and climbed 259 steps to the Whispering Gallery, which offers a magnificent view of the paintings and sculptures that adorn the dome's interior. From there, we climbed another 117 steps to the Stone Gallery, which provided a beautiful view of the city.
Clambering up another 154 steps, we reached the Golden Gallery, which also offered wondrous views, but was too cramped and crowded to enjoy.
On the way up, we came across a six-inch porthole that gave us a bird's-eye view of the cathedral floor, more than 250-feet below.
Before leaving the cathedral, we grabbed a bite to eat at the Crypt Cafe, which is literally located in the crypt beneath the church. It was the strangest place I've ever eaten a ham and cheese sandwich.
We then wandered down Fleet Street and The Strand until we reached the Covent Garden Market and Piazza. This was the first and nicest shopping area we saw in London.
A while later, we ventured over to the Covent Garden station to meet L, M's friend who lives in London. It's a popular meeting spot. Everybody seemed to be waiting for somebody. After a few false starts, we spotted L, who took us to nearby pub called Maxwell's. Because I was set on trying beers I wouldn't normally find on an American menu, I had a Kronenbourg.
After eating what could be best described as nondescript food, we wandered towards the Thames and stopped in at The Wellington, a pub near the Waterloo Bridge. That's where I tried my first Stella and resisted the urge to yell out the name like an idiot.
After the sun set, L took us across the Waterloo Bridge and showed us the amazing night view of London.
We parted ways at the Waterloo station and returned to our hotel via the Tube. All in all, it turned out to be a great day in London. Thank goodness for days that don't go as planned.
Today is Day 4 of my grand experiment to eliminate the last remnants of driving from my weekday commute.
It was easy eradicating the biggest part -- the part involving the freeway. "Let's see, 35 minutes of stressful driving plus a gallon of gas that could be better used driving to a park for an enjoyable day of hiking? Or 30 minutes on the bus. Gosh, I just don't know."
It was also easy doing away with the bit between the bus station and the office. It's amazing how a lack of options simplifies decision-making. "I don't have a car or bicycle, and knocking that kid off his skateboard without suffering severe repercussions seems unlikely. That leaves my feet. I guess I'm walking."
The last (and hardest) part has been letting go of the idea that I need to drive from home to the bus station. "It's only a mile," I tell myself. "If I don't drive, I'll miss the bus. Besides, I'll need the car afterwards to grab groceries or drop by the library or [insert emergency errand of the moment]."
Two recent developments have led me to renew my efforts for a car-free commute.
First, the surging price of gas. The local gas station is now selling regular unleaded for $4.379 a gallon. Three weeks ago (the last time I filled up), it was a measly $3.819. (At its current rate, unleaded should hit the $4.999 mark by mid-July.) One week of not driving to and from the bus station means ten miles saved. Assuming my car gets 22 in-town miles to the gallon, the it's-only-a-mile mentality costs me $2 a week, or the price of a venti coffee at my favorite corporate cafe.
Second, there has been a recent rash of cars with smashed windows at the bus station parking lot and neighboring Gilroy has seen a recent rise in gas theft. My theory is if it's happening in the next town, it's likely happening in my town, too. I also prefer windows that aren't smashed. ("Bug splattered, not shattered" would be a motto of mine if I were the type of person who had mottoes.) Keeping the car at home seems like a smarter and safer choice.
So far, the experiment has been a success. I wake up five minutes earlier and make a concerted effort to get out of the house five minutes earlier so I don't have to run to catch the bus. As a hidden bonus, I get an extra twenty minutes of exercise every day. We'll have to see how this experiment goes when I'm faced with hot weather or rain.
The next experiment will be to run in-town errands without driving (unless absolutely necessary). Trader Joe's and the library (two of my frequent stops) are only 1.5 miles away and their respective routes have sufficient bike lanes. My backpack has ample carrying capacity and I finally have a bike lock, so, technically, I have no excuse not to try cycling to both locations.
But I think I'm getting ahead of myself. Let's see if I can get my car-free commute streak into double-digits first. Then I can look at expanding my car-free campaign. In the meantime, here's to Day 5 and that distant day when I lose count of the days.
Our trip to London started in San Francisco two weeks ago, on a Wednesday afternoon.
To avoid the nightmare of making connections, we took a direct flight. We left on time and were in the air for ten hours. During the flight, they served us two meals (dinner and lunch).
I think I slept all of thirty minutes on the plane. I was excited about the trip and too captivated by the entertainment available on the tiny screen embedded in the headrest in front of me to nap. There were more than 45 movies to choose from. I immediately dove in and watched Elizabeth (a destination-appropriate historical drama), The Chronicles of Narnia, I Am Legend (at 2x speed), and Hitman (Timothy Olyphant bald and bar coded? Bizarre).
Once we were at a low enough altitude, the view from my window became infinitely more interesting than the television.
By the time we deplaned at Heathrow's new Terminal 5, it was Thursday morning. (London is eight hours ahead of California.)
To avoid the nightmare of checked luggage, we packed light. M had a duffel bag and purse. I had a backpack and small messenger bag. We would be spending 10 days and 9 nights in London and Paris, but we only carried enough clothing for 3 days. We also came prepared to do laundry every other night or so.
We wove through the terminal by escalator, stairs, shuttle, and elevator until we reached the Underground. Because I had purchased Oyster cards a few weeks before the trip, we were able to hop right on the Tube without the hassle of buying tickets. (Each card had £20 on it.)
Oyster cards are similar to BART's EZ Rider cards. To enter or exit a station, one only has to wave the card over the disk at the fare gate. Unlike the BART card, it's a great money saver. Instead of paying a £4 cash fare for a single ride on the Tube, we only paid £1.50. It also had the added benefit of a 24-hour-period price cap. We could ride the Tube all day and the most it would cost was £6.50.
The ride into the city was long (roughly 50 minutes), but comfortable. The most amusing memory from that first ride was listening to the recorded announcements. In her ultra-pleasant voice, the announcer told us what line we were on, where the train was terminating, and what stop was coming up. She also warned us to mind the gap (between the train and platform). The warning wasn't repeated often; it was repeated ridiculously often. I was soon cracking up every time I heard it. On a sad note, the woman who recorded the announcements was fired last November for criticizing the Tube.
The train was relatively empty until we reached Acton Town. From then on, it was consistently packed (another reason I was glad we were traveling light). Two long escalator rides later (the Piccadilly Line is deeper in the earth than the Mines of Moria), we were standing in the center of Piccadilly Circus.
Our first stop was the Britain and London Visitor Centre on Regent Street, where we picked up our London Passes. If we visited half of the places on my spreadsheet, the pass would save us several pounds. (At the time, one pound equaled $1.97.)
From there, we went to our hotel. Even though we weren't carrying a lot, we were carrying more than the typical Londoner, so we thought it best to unload our bags before sightseeing. By this time, it was 13:00, two hours before our official check-in time. We figured if our room wasn't ready, the hotel might at least store our bags until we returned.
While it would have been easier to hop back on the Tube, I thought it would be more fun to walk and get a feel for the city. We had been sitting for hours and my legs needed a stretch. I pulled out what would become my trusty pocket map and tried my best to navigate London's streets.
We crossed the roaring rapids of motor traffic (look right!), drifted by the statues, monuments, and fountains of Trafalgar Square, and let the current of pedestrians carry us down the Strand and Kingsway, until we reached the safe harbor of our accommodations on High Holborn.
It was all nearly too much for me -- the number of people, the height of the buildings, the narrowness of the streets, the speed at which everybody moved. I didn't realize just how anxious the city had made me until we stepped into the hotel lobby, where I felt instant relief. I could finally stop and breathe without being rushed, brushed, or shoved. (Luckily, it didn't take long to get acclimated to the crowd or speed of the city. By Day 2, I was at ease.)
The feeling of relief grew when we learned we could check in. We dropped our bags off and took a quick tour of our modest-sized room. Besides the typical bedroom/bathroom setup, we had a kitchenette, which came with an electric kettle, microwave, refrigerator, stove top, and dishwasher. How they fit it all into such a tiny alcove still befuddles me. The cabinets were fully stocked with dishes (including a pan and drainer), while the drawers were stocked with eating and cooking utensils. Paranoid, we inspected everything to make sure it was clean.
From the hotel, we took the Tube to Embankment, a station along the River Thames. The ride involved a transfer, but thanks to smartly placed maps, signs, and arrows, we were able to make it without trouble. (It was nice to feel comfortable with the transit system my second time through.)
A peaceful walk along the Thames brought us to the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben. The lighting was poor, but I tried my best to photograph the clock tower.
I also got a chance to photograph one of the statues on my list: Boadicea. She and her chariot are located at the corner of Westminster Pier.
From there, we circled the parliament building (it was closed to visitors) to reach Westminster Abbey.
Upon entering the church, I was disappointed to learn that photography wasn't allowed inside, but I soon grew to appreciate the restriction. The lack of cameras added to the solemnity and sanctity of the shrine.
After visiting the altar and choir, we slowly toured the various chapels and tombs. Statues and memorials dominated the Abbey. Aristocrats and monks throughout the ages are buried at Westminster. Several monarchs are also entombed there, including Mary I, Elizabeth I, Mary Queen of Scots, Anne of Cleves, three Henrys, and five Edwards. Seeing their names made me wish I had made more of an effort to study my British history.
Just before we reached the tomb of Elizabeth I and the Henry VII Chapel, we came upon the Coronation Chair, which has been used in every crowning ceremony since 1296. The last time it was used was in 1953, for the coronation of Elizabeth II. I still have a hard time wrapping my head around that fact.
We then visited the Poets' Corner, where I had greater success recognizing the names of the buried: Geoffrey Chaucer, Charles Dickens, George Frederick Handel, Rudyard Kipling, and Laurence Olivier.
We took a detour through the Cloisters and visited College Garden, which was refreshingly free from the weight of history. (I love history, but taking in several centuries all at once was too much.)
We returned to visit the nave and found where Charles Darwin, David Livingstone, and Isaac Newton were buried. Afterwards, we took a peek at the gift shop, which seemed absurd and out of place in the context of its surroundings.
From Westminster, we went searching for 10 Downing Street, the home of the Prime Minister. We toddled past the Winston Churchill Museum and through the Horse Guards Parade before coming upon the street, which was gated and closed to the public. Several policemen guarded the entrance, but I caught a glimpse the black front door of the residence. I'm sad to say I didn't spot Gordon Brown. Maybe next time.
After a brief stop at the hotel, we went hunting for dinner. We passed a number of pubs, pizza parlors, and Indian restaurants before settling on a place called Sway, which was quiet compared to the other places we had seen. The interior was dark, but the decor was sophisticated. I found the faux windows amusing.
As soon as we sat down, I knew what I wanted. I ordered the tiger beer battered fish and chunky chips (£7). The fish was tasty. I only wish they had given me more chips because those were the only vegetables on my plate. (The tiny container of mushy peas didn't count.) To complete the meal, I had a pint of Beck's (£3.50) because a glass of wine seemed wrong somehow.
It had been a long day, so we returned to the hotel to shower and sleep. The last thing I remember watching before dozing off was an episode of The Weakest Link. By some minor miracle, Anne Robinson and her creepy wink didn't give me any nightmares and I slumbered peacefully.
I'm only halfway through Rowing to Latitude: Journeys Along the Arctic's Edge by Jill Fredston, but there are already a few quotes I want to jot down before I forget them...
Each year, I look back and wonder how I possibly knew enough to survive the year before. But it is not so much that I have acquired knowledge over the years as that I have learned to strip away the clutter, to recognize what is most important. - p. 46
Our progress the first few weeks seemed infinitesimal, but that was only because I was using the wrong scale. I kept sneaking glances at our big-picture map to see how far we'd come in relation to how far we had to go. Gradually I began to focus on taking the measure of each day, not so much in miles as in moments -- warm apple pie with a lighthouse keeper, naked baths in clear creeks, seal noses in the kelp beds, a Tlingit legend told in a lilting Native accent by a man who insisted upon taking us for a ride in his truck. - p. 69
By the time I reached the sea, I knew that I could do far worse than to live life like the Yukon: Keep moving but find places to slow down. Don't go straight at the expense of meandering. Nurture others; accommodate both change and tradition. Savor the element of surprise. Be gracious, accepting, resilient. - p. 87
(Title discovered thanks to a mention by Adventure Journalist back in April.)
Now that we've been there and back again, I feel free to officially mention that we just returned from a week-and-a-half-long trip in London and Paris.
It was something M and I had talked about doing ever since we visited Vienna nearly four years ago. The conversation had begun broadly, while we were still on the plane.
"We have to go back to Europe," I said, or she said, or we might have both said at the same time, still on a traveling high.
Once home, the discussion quickly became a brainstorming session of European countries we wanted to visit. Since neither of us are seasoned international travelers, I suggested we start with a place that didn't require a book of common phrases. Visiting a country with different currency, customs, and culture would be difficult enough without the added challenge of a language barrier. That's how England (generally) and London (specifically) ended up at the top of the list.
I would have been content with only visiting England, but M wasn't keen on the idea of seeing just one country. With the crazy cost of air travel, she thought we should aim for a multinational adventure. That's how France (generally) and Paris (specifically) came to be second on the list.
I agreed to it wholeheartedly since it would finally justify the French classes I took in high school. I wouldn't be able to say much more than, "Pardon, garcon, je voudrais un sandwich au poulet." But at least it would make me feel better about not choosing Spanish like everybody else.
Fresh from Austria, I thought it wouldn't be more than two years before our passports would be inspected and stamped again, but then came M's graduate program, a lack of funds, and a shortage of vacation leave. The desire to travel abroad was relegated to the back burner, left to simmer until conditions were right. In the meantime, weekend getaways would have to satisfy our wanderlust.
Everything finally fell into place two months ago. In the span of a few days, we went from simmer to boil as we purchased plane tickets, booked hotels, and started researching each city in earnest.
Planning the trip was probably the most stressful part of the whole process for me. Trying to figure out what places to see or skip was agonizing. It was also difficult to balance the competing interests of exploration and relaxation.
To make things easier, instead of planning the entire trip together, we each took a city. M was lead in Paris, while I was primary in London. That method worked well and relieved some of the pressure.
Still, the planning process revealed something I didn't know about myself: when it comes to travel itineraries, I'm detail-oriented to a fault.
The Excel spreadsheet I created had more rows and columns than I'd care to admit. It included admission prices (in dollars and pounds), map coordinates, nearest underground stations, hours of operation (each day of the week), and page references (for both books: Eyewitness Travel and Lonely Planet). Besides landmarks, churches, and museums, it included statues (Boadicea, Wellington), famous streets (The Strand), and famous stores (Harrods). I didn't realize the extent of my need for detail until I printed it. The endless grid came as a nasty shock. Apparently, my ability to wing things isn't as strong as I'd like to believe.
Because I'm not a savvy world traveler, every new place I visit leaves an embarrassingly deep impression on me. It's silly, really, but I fall in love with everywhere I go. Salzburg? Smitten. London? Lovely. Paris? Paradise! Vienna? Vonderful! I'm a complete dork when it comes to globe trekking. I would make a horrible travel guide, which is why I strongly discourage people from using the travelogue I plan to write and post in the coming days as a planning tool.
Today is my first day back at work. It's also my first day back at blogging, which is my excuse for the rambling nature of this entry. My head is still spinning from the trip (due to either the incredible experience I had or the jet lag -- it's hard to say which). The spinning sensation isn't helped by my inbox, mailbox, and RSS feed reader. All are overflowing.
I'm feeling a bit overwhelmed and I have a feeling I'll be walking around for the next few days with a giant question mark floating above my head, asking the same thing over and over, "Now, where was I?" So, please, pardon me while I get back into the swing of things. It will happen, I promise... eventually.
