I know, this is the third post entitled "the end." But this time, it really is, I'm going home.
I've found this trip to be landmarked by alternating feelings of uncontrollable homesickness and never wanting to go home. They sound like opposite extremes, and they are. Although through every adventure and every country, I found that the more I explored, the less I wanted to leave. No two places were remotely similar, yet they were all equally different from home in their own ways. I know this sounds cheesy and cliche, but it's 100% true. Having been a newcomer to Europe, my eyes have been opened to the fact that, well, there are other places in the world. And while Europe is probably most similar to the States compared to other continents, I've loved every minute of every place. I love being so completely lost, without a language and without a map, I love being stranded in an airport waiting for EasyJet's token 5 hour delays, I love going from 3 feet of snow in Switzerland in February to 75 degree sunshine in Spain the same weekend, I love the comfort of feeling, well, comforted, by a road sign in English (and Gaelic) when I haven't seen English in a month straight, I love crazy, irrational, lunatic home-stay families and home-stay families that get so much joy out of my stupid love for apples and coffee.
I love to travel. And I think if I had to pick one thing to change about these past 6 months, I wouldn't. Sitting in the madness of Heathrow, sure, I'm excited to come back, to see friends and family, but there's something different and something that I'll miss about these people here that I've spent literally all day, every day with for so long. I'm sad, even angry to be leaving. Angry because I've found things here, whether in Bosnia or England, to be so much more logical in so many ways than the US. And angry that now I know this and have to leave it.
But it's ok, because I know that I will be glad to be home, and that one day, not too long from now, I'll be back.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
GLASTO
Soon we were off to King's Cross yet again. But this time, we were taking the train to a little stop called Castle Cary for Glastonbury festival. It had been described to me as a modern-day Woodstock, the biggest music festival in Europe, but I was also told that it was simply impossible to describe or imagine until I had been. 300,000 people, 4 days, hundreds of bands.
We arrived at the station to see hundreds of young people, hustling and bustling towards the train specifically designated for Glastonbury Festival. Many were wearing wellies, and most were carrying huge camping backpacks, stuffed to the brim with food, sleeping bags, tents, and the kitchen sink. We filed on to the train and set off into the country side. The festival was on a huge, privately owned farm, and must be postponed every 5 years for the fields to recover and grow.
Arriving at Pilton Farm, I began what has thus far been the most surreal experience of my life. We waited in line for about an hour at the train station to board buses that would take us to the campgrounds. In the meantime, a bluegrass band started playing, and someone walked around selling popsicles and bottled water. People wear wellies because it inevitably rains every year, and there's no shelter, but this year there was not a drop. On the contrary, it was HOT. Oh, did I mention you don't bathe for 5 days? Eek.
We finally get to the campgrounds what we thought was early, with the intention of catching most of the World Cup game England was playing that day, but apparently everyone else had the same idea, and our campsite ended up being less than ideal. a good 15 minute walk to the bathroom or the tap. Which brings me to a sidenote: since we were quite far from the taps, we would fill up our water bottles each night to have over night and to make coffee with the french-press that we brought. However, this, being England was a place where you were also allowed to bring your own alcohol. Keep in mind that vodka is clear...One morning we were looking around our massive 8-person tent (complete with pods for sleeping) for spare water for coffee, and someone found a full bottle on the ground. A few minutes later, the coffee was brewed and poured into cups. This was only after the kettle to boil the water shot its cap off as if it were about to explode rather than just whistling. One of the friends we were with took a few sips, commenting that it tasted a bit funny, but kept drinking anyway. I held my cup to my mouth, about to take a sip, when I noticed that something sort of burned my throat as I smelled it. Upon first sip, I spat the coffee in to the grass. It was definitely NOT coffee. Turns out that extra bottle of "water" was really someone's bottle of VODKA. We had coffee brewed in boiling vodka.
Aaaaanyway, the whole 4 days were an experience unlike any other and truly were unimaginable. I saw bands that I never dreamt of being able to see live (Muse, Stevie Wonder, Phoenix, the list is much much longer...just go to the webiste), along with comedians, circus performers, and fire-breathing metal spider DJ booths. The food was to die for (they had just about every ethnic cuisine you could ever imagine-the Moroccan Lamb Tagine was among my favorite meals), and the Brothers pear cider was even better. There were vintage clothes shops, tons of different stages (4-5 main ones, and other peripheries, main stage being shaped like a giant pyramid), a "healing field" and people from every walk of life, from A-list celebrities to hobos to lawyers to small children. For the atmosphere that it was, I was shocked and amazed at how family-friendly everything was. Those were certainly some lucky kids. Another thing was the fashion. It's a bit unrealistic to make a fashion statement when you haven't showered in 4 days, but somehow, people succeeded wonderfully. It was hard to keep up...
To save breath, I won't try to describe the rest of the festival, as to repeat myself, you really can't imagine how unbelievable the whole extravaganza was, and I certainly know that my words won't do it justice...I'll just put up a few pictures and leave it at that.
We arrived at the station to see hundreds of young people, hustling and bustling towards the train specifically designated for Glastonbury Festival. Many were wearing wellies, and most were carrying huge camping backpacks, stuffed to the brim with food, sleeping bags, tents, and the kitchen sink. We filed on to the train and set off into the country side. The festival was on a huge, privately owned farm, and must be postponed every 5 years for the fields to recover and grow.
Arriving at Pilton Farm, I began what has thus far been the most surreal experience of my life. We waited in line for about an hour at the train station to board buses that would take us to the campgrounds. In the meantime, a bluegrass band started playing, and someone walked around selling popsicles and bottled water. People wear wellies because it inevitably rains every year, and there's no shelter, but this year there was not a drop. On the contrary, it was HOT. Oh, did I mention you don't bathe for 5 days? Eek.
We finally get to the campgrounds what we thought was early, with the intention of catching most of the World Cup game England was playing that day, but apparently everyone else had the same idea, and our campsite ended up being less than ideal. a good 15 minute walk to the bathroom or the tap. Which brings me to a sidenote: since we were quite far from the taps, we would fill up our water bottles each night to have over night and to make coffee with the french-press that we brought. However, this, being England was a place where you were also allowed to bring your own alcohol. Keep in mind that vodka is clear...One morning we were looking around our massive 8-person tent (complete with pods for sleeping) for spare water for coffee, and someone found a full bottle on the ground. A few minutes later, the coffee was brewed and poured into cups. This was only after the kettle to boil the water shot its cap off as if it were about to explode rather than just whistling. One of the friends we were with took a few sips, commenting that it tasted a bit funny, but kept drinking anyway. I held my cup to my mouth, about to take a sip, when I noticed that something sort of burned my throat as I smelled it. Upon first sip, I spat the coffee in to the grass. It was definitely NOT coffee. Turns out that extra bottle of "water" was really someone's bottle of VODKA. We had coffee brewed in boiling vodka.
Aaaaanyway, the whole 4 days were an experience unlike any other and truly were unimaginable. I saw bands that I never dreamt of being able to see live (Muse, Stevie Wonder, Phoenix, the list is much much longer...just go to the webiste), along with comedians, circus performers, and fire-breathing metal spider DJ booths. The food was to die for (they had just about every ethnic cuisine you could ever imagine-the Moroccan Lamb Tagine was among my favorite meals), and the Brothers pear cider was even better. There were vintage clothes shops, tons of different stages (4-5 main ones, and other peripheries, main stage being shaped like a giant pyramid), a "healing field" and people from every walk of life, from A-list celebrities to hobos to lawyers to small children. For the atmosphere that it was, I was shocked and amazed at how family-friendly everything was. Those were certainly some lucky kids. Another thing was the fashion. It's a bit unrealistic to make a fashion statement when you haven't showered in 4 days, but somehow, people succeeded wonderfully. It was hard to keep up...
To save breath, I won't try to describe the rest of the festival, as to repeat myself, you really can't imagine how unbelievable the whole extravaganza was, and I certainly know that my words won't do it justice...I'll just put up a few pictures and leave it at that.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Not Real Life
The finale of my travels were 2 of possibly the biggest celebrations I have been to.
After exploring London as sufficiently as possible in 4 days, we boarded the train (at King's Cross...where platform 9 3/4 was closed for construction, biggest disappointment ever) for Cambridge. Oli spent 6 years there so knew the ropes and thought May Ball season would be a nice time to see the town. In June (yes, May Ball is in June, you think Cambridge would have it together a bit more than that), every college at Cambridge throws what is essentially a huge black tie, $250 per ticket party. We didn't have tickets or black tie, but after having lunch with some old friends, Oli was convinced we should go. Or, rather, crash.
And so we took a friend's access card, went down to a bike shed in a parking garage, and shoved a heavy concrete block against a door. I was later informed that this door opened to a staircase that led to the outer "court" (Cambridge speak for lawn) of the Ball. When the guards come around to check that the doors are locked, they will push from the other side, and the door, blocked by the cement, will feel locked. Next, we made our way to the town to find proper attire. First stop was the OxFam store, where he bought a really REALLY fly double-breasted black suit for a whopping 12 pounds 50. Next stop was another charity shop where the purchase of a lady's white short sleeve button down shirt totalled one pound. Next door, the joke shop pulled through with an elastic bow-tie. All that was left were the shoes, because clearly navy blue Ked's wouldn't cut it for black tie. We thought that maybe black laces would help, so we went to the grocery store and bought some black socks as well, just for safe measure. However, when simply replacing the laces wasn't sufficient, we had the brilliant idea of just putting the socks OVER the shoes (obviously) and tying the laces around the bottom of the shoe. As you can tell, our slap-dash black tie for under 20 pounds was not too bad.
So after meeting people that had paid for tickets and spent endless time and money on dresses and in front of a mirror, they left for the ball, and we went in to the bathroom of the pub we were in to change in to our formal attire that had spent a few hours shoved into a backpack.
We ventured into the parking garage and bingo, the door into the first court was open. But this was only the first line of security. Our wristbands were checked again, and we were caught. After taking photos of both us and our IDs, we were kicked out...but the door was still unlocked. So mid-fireworks show, back through the door we went. However, this time, the only security past that was a poor little girl working the door alone. Looking very much otherwise occupied on the phone, we walked briskly past her and when she squeaked "wristbands please!" as we ran by, Oli threw up my hand to show the leather bracelet I had recently bought in Croatia that just happened to be relatively similar in width to the wristbands. And we were in.
What a spectacle it was. Stages, bands, lights, food, drinks, people, decor, and everything was free. We stayed until it was light (for the survivor photo) and in typical British fashion, were served biscuits and tea in the Hall (yes, also like Harry Potter). Back on the train it was at 6 am to London. Still in formal wear. The rest of the city was going to work, and we were going to bed.
But, we were going to bed because we had a later train to catch up to Durham, where Oli's family lives. Upon arriving at the cutest house I'd ever seen, we had toothbrushes, soaps and towels laid out for us on the bed like a hotel and a full lunch buffet and tea set up in the perfectly kept garden. Durham is a quaint northern town with all the charm you would expect of a quintessential British city. We rode bikes and walked up and down (and up and down) the hills. I think the best part was definitely feeling at-home again. Plus, the Durham Cathedral is certainly a sight worth seeing (plus, they filmed parts of Harry Potter there, which completely made up for Platform 9 3/4 being closed).
One of the days while in the north, we took another train up to the coastal town of Stathes, where Oli's aunt owns a B&B and beautiful guest house (or, as she calls it, love nest...). Turns out that she used to run an antique store as well, so the entire place was decorated with vintage antiques from all over the world. But before we could enjoy any of this, we hiked 9 miles (literally) in the strongest winds I have ever encountered. The type of wind that you can put all of your body weight in to and stay upright. Utterly. Exhausting. This is not, however, to take away from the breathtaking scenery...I forgot to mention that the entire trail was along the edge of the coast. And the reward for the hike was a huge home-cooked meal of lasagna in the B&B dining room, hot shower, and a cider at the village pub amidst live folk music. Picturesque doesn't even begin to describe this place.
Upon return to Durham, we ventured into Scotland for a day to see the sights of Edinburgh. Oli had been to the Edinburgh Festival (theatre) a few years ago so knew all of the insider spots and streets. And while on my Harry Potter world tour, we saw the pub where JK Rowling began writing her saga. Huge. Edinburgh was a lovely city. Very liveable and lively, while not seeming overwhelming. The day ended with a glimpse of the world cup USA game before heading back to Durham and then to London. (side note-I don't think i mentioned this previously, but that USA-England game that we were supposed to get killed in? We tied. And actually ended up staying in the Cup longer than England.)
After becoming sufficiently relaxed, we left Durham and it was back to London for a day for a final hot shower and night in bed before the extravaganza that was Glastonbury...
After exploring London as sufficiently as possible in 4 days, we boarded the train (at King's Cross...where platform 9 3/4 was closed for construction, biggest disappointment ever) for Cambridge. Oli spent 6 years there so knew the ropes and thought May Ball season would be a nice time to see the town. In June (yes, May Ball is in June, you think Cambridge would have it together a bit more than that), every college at Cambridge throws what is essentially a huge black tie, $250 per ticket party. We didn't have tickets or black tie, but after having lunch with some old friends, Oli was convinced we should go. Or, rather, crash.
And so we took a friend's access card, went down to a bike shed in a parking garage, and shoved a heavy concrete block against a door. I was later informed that this door opened to a staircase that led to the outer "court" (Cambridge speak for lawn) of the Ball. When the guards come around to check that the doors are locked, they will push from the other side, and the door, blocked by the cement, will feel locked. Next, we made our way to the town to find proper attire. First stop was the OxFam store, where he bought a really REALLY fly double-breasted black suit for a whopping 12 pounds 50. Next stop was another charity shop where the purchase of a lady's white short sleeve button down shirt totalled one pound. Next door, the joke shop pulled through with an elastic bow-tie. All that was left were the shoes, because clearly navy blue Ked's wouldn't cut it for black tie. We thought that maybe black laces would help, so we went to the grocery store and bought some black socks as well, just for safe measure. However, when simply replacing the laces wasn't sufficient, we had the brilliant idea of just putting the socks OVER the shoes (obviously) and tying the laces around the bottom of the shoe. As you can tell, our slap-dash black tie for under 20 pounds was not too bad.
So after meeting people that had paid for tickets and spent endless time and money on dresses and in front of a mirror, they left for the ball, and we went in to the bathroom of the pub we were in to change in to our formal attire that had spent a few hours shoved into a backpack.
We ventured into the parking garage and bingo, the door into the first court was open. But this was only the first line of security. Our wristbands were checked again, and we were caught. After taking photos of both us and our IDs, we were kicked out...but the door was still unlocked. So mid-fireworks show, back through the door we went. However, this time, the only security past that was a poor little girl working the door alone. Looking very much otherwise occupied on the phone, we walked briskly past her and when she squeaked "wristbands please!" as we ran by, Oli threw up my hand to show the leather bracelet I had recently bought in Croatia that just happened to be relatively similar in width to the wristbands. And we were in.
What a spectacle it was. Stages, bands, lights, food, drinks, people, decor, and everything was free. We stayed until it was light (for the survivor photo) and in typical British fashion, were served biscuits and tea in the Hall (yes, also like Harry Potter). Back on the train it was at 6 am to London. Still in formal wear. The rest of the city was going to work, and we were going to bed.
But, we were going to bed because we had a later train to catch up to Durham, where Oli's family lives. Upon arriving at the cutest house I'd ever seen, we had toothbrushes, soaps and towels laid out for us on the bed like a hotel and a full lunch buffet and tea set up in the perfectly kept garden. Durham is a quaint northern town with all the charm you would expect of a quintessential British city. We rode bikes and walked up and down (and up and down) the hills. I think the best part was definitely feeling at-home again. Plus, the Durham Cathedral is certainly a sight worth seeing (plus, they filmed parts of Harry Potter there, which completely made up for Platform 9 3/4 being closed).
One of the days while in the north, we took another train up to the coastal town of Stathes, where Oli's aunt owns a B&B and beautiful guest house (or, as she calls it, love nest...). Turns out that she used to run an antique store as well, so the entire place was decorated with vintage antiques from all over the world. But before we could enjoy any of this, we hiked 9 miles (literally) in the strongest winds I have ever encountered. The type of wind that you can put all of your body weight in to and stay upright. Utterly. Exhausting. This is not, however, to take away from the breathtaking scenery...I forgot to mention that the entire trail was along the edge of the coast. And the reward for the hike was a huge home-cooked meal of lasagna in the B&B dining room, hot shower, and a cider at the village pub amidst live folk music. Picturesque doesn't even begin to describe this place.
Upon return to Durham, we ventured into Scotland for a day to see the sights of Edinburgh. Oli had been to the Edinburgh Festival (theatre) a few years ago so knew all of the insider spots and streets. And while on my Harry Potter world tour, we saw the pub where JK Rowling began writing her saga. Huge. Edinburgh was a lovely city. Very liveable and lively, while not seeming overwhelming. The day ended with a glimpse of the world cup USA game before heading back to Durham and then to London. (side note-I don't think i mentioned this previously, but that USA-England game that we were supposed to get killed in? We tied. And actually ended up staying in the Cup longer than England.)
After becoming sufficiently relaxed, we left Durham and it was back to London for a day for a final hot shower and night in bed before the extravaganza that was Glastonbury...
Quite Quaint
London, alone. I've always wanted to travel alone, and I feel like this was the perfect place to do it. I check in to my slightly last-minute-booked hotel across the street from Paddington Station (yes, there's a giant statue of Paddington Bear) to find that there is no internet and 3 TV channels. NO TECHNOLOGY!?! But, much to my relief, there was of course, in typical English fashion, a tea kettle. So I promptly made myself some tea and went to bed.
Day 2, I'm still not quite sure where this "London Fog" that everyone talks about comes from. This was day 1 of a very sunny and pleasant 3 weeks. I began my day with a cold and soggy breakfast in the hotel after being woken up at 7 am by what sounded like the children of the housekeeping staff (is that allowed?) since the supply closet was NEXT DOOR to my room. Which was in the basement. With a cot for a bed. But enough complaining. I set off for Hyde park and arrived to find a brigade of costumed soldiers on horseback toting cannons. Only in London, I thought. Of course all other forms of traffic through the park would be shut to a brigade of horses. In to the park I went down along to the Serpentine lake to find a sign that read "gun salute, noon." There was no way I was going to miss this. Sure enough, at 11:45 I wandered to the middle of the hugely expansive park to find a brass band blowing out Sinatra tunes and at 12:00 on the dot, a cannon salute was continuously fired off for about 20 minutes.
After my pre-20th century war experience, I ambled down the road in search of the Science Museum. London streets make absolutely no sense. If you think that the cross-cutting states of DC confuse the block system, come to London. There IS no system. So, I eventually gave up after an hour and a half of walking to a museum that supposedly should have take 20 minutes. Instead, I went shopping. Enter, Oxford Street-a wonderful zoo of upscale and discount stores combined with boutiques and restaurants all on one glorious thoroughfare. And then there is Primark. The greatest and most horrible department store ever. I would say that nothing I bought was more that 15 pounds, but then, you get 4 tops for 5 pounds each, plus some shoes, dresses, etc...You get the the picture. Plus, don't even bother waiting half an hour for a fitting room, there are people all over the store throwing on (and off) clothes in the middle of aisles.
After a long and tiring day of shopping and walking, I was starving. Per suggestion of someone who's opinion I trusted (...) regarding cheap food in London, I set off to find Gregg's pie shop on Edgeware Road. Needless to say, there is no Gregg's on Edgeware Road. Only ethnic markets, signs that I couldn't read, and old men giving catcalls in languages I couldn't understand. Not that I'm not in to new and cultural experiences, just not by myself in London at sundown. After finding reprieve at Starbucks and some nail polish at the drugstore, I made my way back to the hotel and called it a night.
Day 3, I decided to set out for the Science Museum once again. For those of you who know me, anything that sounds remotely like a whole museum FULL of science things is not to be missed. I finally found it (along with about 3 other museums within 2 blocks) and went right in. Aside from the school children (who somehow seemed a TINY bit more tolerable when wearing British school uniforms, think Harry Potter for 8 year olds-but still, I wanted to hit them all) and tourists (probably worse than the school children), the science museum was brilliant. Exhibits ranged from the invention of the steam engine to space exploration, and they had a kids center that was completely hands-on (unfortunately, I couldn't be bothered to go in because of all the kids that were there...go figure). Having had enough of the crowds, I ventured up a back staircase to the fourth floor where I found the Wellcome Trust (a name I only knew from brain stuff at NIH) museum of the history of medicine. PERFECT. I was dark, quiet, and fascinating. They had some of the earliest medical and surgical tools, history of all sorts of procedures and medications, everything. And no kids or tourists. That occupied the next 2 hours of my time.
Walking home, I passed a quilting museum that also advertised a Grace Kelly exhibit. Why anyone would want to go to a quilt museum while they could instead see an exhibit all about Grace Kelly that was put on by Van Cleef and Arpels is beyond me. But, to each her own. Aaaanyway, walking home, I somehow managed to happen upon the entire city block that is Harrods and promptly entered the food hall-an experience that is like no other and cannot be summarized in words. Just go. After becoming sufficiently starving with $0 to spend, I went to the clothes area and was serenaded by a rousing rendition of Ave Maria on a grand piano as I browsed through collections of designers like Versace and Chanel.
Over the years (part and parcel thanks to Facebook) I have kept in relatively close contact with an old friend from elementary school. Her family moved to the Netherlands 3 years ago, she moved to London...and never moved back. These reunitings can often be quite awkward, especially when so much time has passed (10 years, we worked out) since we'd last seen each other, but I had the good fortune of meeting up with her and could not be happier that I did. She works at a charity shop on Portobello road, and our "meeting plan" was to walk down the street and hopefully just run into each other...and so we did. She hadn't changed a bit and was instantly recognizable. We spent the day wandering about, browsing the charity shop, visiting pubs, and catching up on the past ten years of life. Her words summarized the evening pretty accurately. After a few hours, she said "wow, I'm really glad this wasn't awkward. Cause it could've been."
The next morning after a much more adequate night's sleep (having moved hotels to the Hilton at Paddington Station), I took the Heathrow Express to meet the Brit on his home turf. The instant he arrived, we dropped bags at his friend's house (on Warwick Avenue, Duffy song anyone??) and hit the town. The rest of the day was filled with Museums, Trafalgar Square, cream tea, walking, Tube rides, and World Cup MADNESS. You see, today was the England vs. USA game in round 1. Needless to say, I was a bit outnumbered. The only other people cheering for the State were an odd group of Argentineans in the Pub we went to (and part of me thinks that had nothing to do with their love of the states, but rather their hatred of the Brits). The next night after another day of sightseeing (including a picnic in Regents Park and a failure at buying the wrong tickets to the London Eye-no, we are not over 65 and thus do not qualify for senior tickets), we dined at one of the "top 50 best restaurants of the world", St. John in Spittalfield, where their motto was "head to tail eating"...meaning they used EVERY part of the animal. Among our samplings were pig's face, foie gras, potted pork (still not quite sure where that came from), and offal (yes, intestines, which were surprisingly not that awful, as it were). Following dinner was a pub with an in-house cat which, undoubtedly, was the largest cat i have EVER seen. And it took my seat.
Mixed in to all of this were drinks at the British Film Institute, a visit to the Tate Modern, curry wars on Brick Lane, Pimms, a day at Camden Yard, and so on...London is a simply unbelievable city (and for all you skeptics, it only rained once).
Day 2, I'm still not quite sure where this "London Fog" that everyone talks about comes from. This was day 1 of a very sunny and pleasant 3 weeks. I began my day with a cold and soggy breakfast in the hotel after being woken up at 7 am by what sounded like the children of the housekeeping staff (is that allowed?) since the supply closet was NEXT DOOR to my room. Which was in the basement. With a cot for a bed. But enough complaining. I set off for Hyde park and arrived to find a brigade of costumed soldiers on horseback toting cannons. Only in London, I thought. Of course all other forms of traffic through the park would be shut to a brigade of horses. In to the park I went down along to the Serpentine lake to find a sign that read "gun salute, noon." There was no way I was going to miss this. Sure enough, at 11:45 I wandered to the middle of the hugely expansive park to find a brass band blowing out Sinatra tunes and at 12:00 on the dot, a cannon salute was continuously fired off for about 20 minutes.
After my pre-20th century war experience, I ambled down the road in search of the Science Museum. London streets make absolutely no sense. If you think that the cross-cutting states of DC confuse the block system, come to London. There IS no system. So, I eventually gave up after an hour and a half of walking to a museum that supposedly should have take 20 minutes. Instead, I went shopping. Enter, Oxford Street-a wonderful zoo of upscale and discount stores combined with boutiques and restaurants all on one glorious thoroughfare. And then there is Primark. The greatest and most horrible department store ever. I would say that nothing I bought was more that 15 pounds, but then, you get 4 tops for 5 pounds each, plus some shoes, dresses, etc...You get the the picture. Plus, don't even bother waiting half an hour for a fitting room, there are people all over the store throwing on (and off) clothes in the middle of aisles.
After a long and tiring day of shopping and walking, I was starving. Per suggestion of someone who's opinion I trusted (...) regarding cheap food in London, I set off to find Gregg's pie shop on Edgeware Road. Needless to say, there is no Gregg's on Edgeware Road. Only ethnic markets, signs that I couldn't read, and old men giving catcalls in languages I couldn't understand. Not that I'm not in to new and cultural experiences, just not by myself in London at sundown. After finding reprieve at Starbucks and some nail polish at the drugstore, I made my way back to the hotel and called it a night.
Day 3, I decided to set out for the Science Museum once again. For those of you who know me, anything that sounds remotely like a whole museum FULL of science things is not to be missed. I finally found it (along with about 3 other museums within 2 blocks) and went right in. Aside from the school children (who somehow seemed a TINY bit more tolerable when wearing British school uniforms, think Harry Potter for 8 year olds-but still, I wanted to hit them all) and tourists (probably worse than the school children), the science museum was brilliant. Exhibits ranged from the invention of the steam engine to space exploration, and they had a kids center that was completely hands-on (unfortunately, I couldn't be bothered to go in because of all the kids that were there...go figure). Having had enough of the crowds, I ventured up a back staircase to the fourth floor where I found the Wellcome Trust (a name I only knew from brain stuff at NIH) museum of the history of medicine. PERFECT. I was dark, quiet, and fascinating. They had some of the earliest medical and surgical tools, history of all sorts of procedures and medications, everything. And no kids or tourists. That occupied the next 2 hours of my time.
Walking home, I passed a quilting museum that also advertised a Grace Kelly exhibit. Why anyone would want to go to a quilt museum while they could instead see an exhibit all about Grace Kelly that was put on by Van Cleef and Arpels is beyond me. But, to each her own. Aaaanyway, walking home, I somehow managed to happen upon the entire city block that is Harrods and promptly entered the food hall-an experience that is like no other and cannot be summarized in words. Just go. After becoming sufficiently starving with $0 to spend, I went to the clothes area and was serenaded by a rousing rendition of Ave Maria on a grand piano as I browsed through collections of designers like Versace and Chanel.
Over the years (part and parcel thanks to Facebook) I have kept in relatively close contact with an old friend from elementary school. Her family moved to the Netherlands 3 years ago, she moved to London...and never moved back. These reunitings can often be quite awkward, especially when so much time has passed (10 years, we worked out) since we'd last seen each other, but I had the good fortune of meeting up with her and could not be happier that I did. She works at a charity shop on Portobello road, and our "meeting plan" was to walk down the street and hopefully just run into each other...and so we did. She hadn't changed a bit and was instantly recognizable. We spent the day wandering about, browsing the charity shop, visiting pubs, and catching up on the past ten years of life. Her words summarized the evening pretty accurately. After a few hours, she said "wow, I'm really glad this wasn't awkward. Cause it could've been."
The next morning after a much more adequate night's sleep (having moved hotels to the Hilton at Paddington Station), I took the Heathrow Express to meet the Brit on his home turf. The instant he arrived, we dropped bags at his friend's house (on Warwick Avenue, Duffy song anyone??) and hit the town. The rest of the day was filled with Museums, Trafalgar Square, cream tea, walking, Tube rides, and World Cup MADNESS. You see, today was the England vs. USA game in round 1. Needless to say, I was a bit outnumbered. The only other people cheering for the State were an odd group of Argentineans in the Pub we went to (and part of me thinks that had nothing to do with their love of the states, but rather their hatred of the Brits). The next night after another day of sightseeing (including a picnic in Regents Park and a failure at buying the wrong tickets to the London Eye-no, we are not over 65 and thus do not qualify for senior tickets), we dined at one of the "top 50 best restaurants of the world", St. John in Spittalfield, where their motto was "head to tail eating"...meaning they used EVERY part of the animal. Among our samplings were pig's face, foie gras, potted pork (still not quite sure where that came from), and offal (yes, intestines, which were surprisingly not that awful, as it were). Following dinner was a pub with an in-house cat which, undoubtedly, was the largest cat i have EVER seen. And it took my seat.
Mixed in to all of this were drinks at the British Film Institute, a visit to the Tate Modern, curry wars on Brick Lane, Pimms, a day at Camden Yard, and so on...London is a simply unbelievable city (and for all you skeptics, it only rained once).
Thursday, August 19, 2010
End of the Line
So here I am, back in the States, settled in a new apartment, and wanting to be nowhere else in the world than back in Europe. Since I didn't really manage to write much whilst in the UK and was there for a considerable chunk of time, I'll try to split this up as best I can...here goes
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Back in English land
I’m sitting on the nearly 6 hour train journey from Cornwall to London, and it occurred to me that I haven’t written anything in 2 weeks. Again, my apologies to anyone who actually still reads this (my guess is that’s pretty much dwindled to mom and dad…if even), but luckily for the rest of the world, I wont be making a living off of professional blogging.
Since I last wrote, I’ve left mainland Europe and ventured across the pond to the land of Anglophones. First stop was Ireland. First let me just say that if you ever have to opportunity to fly Turkish Airlines, do it. I once again managed to get away with a bag 6 kilos overweight, and for lunch on the 4.5 hour flight to Dublin, we were served hummus, chicken, polenta, grilled vegetables, chocolate mousse, hazelnuts, and tea. And it was really, really good.
From the second we stepped off the plane in Dublin, a really strange feeling came over me. Then I realized it was just the realization that I understood what people around me were saying, without even having to process or think about it (ok, well, maybe a little…the Irish accent can be a bit strong). We weren’t exactly sure how to get to our hotel, but imagine our surprise when we discovered that if we just ASKED someone, they could tell us! In English! Ireland’s funny though, with an unassuming sense of national pride. Although almost no one actually speaks Gaelic, and those that do almost undoubtedly speak English as well, every public sign, road sign, information sign, everything, is written first in Gaelic first, followed by English. The primary language taught in Irish schools is also Gaelic. I don’t know how Irish kids feel (maybe they find the same almost charming pride in having such an old language so representative of a medieval culture?), but I know that if I were made to learn Gaelic in school, knowing that I could be learning French or Spanish instead…well, I think that speaks for itself.
We took a cab from the airport to our hotel with the friendliest cab driver ever, and arrived on Harcourt Street, just south of St. Stephen’s Green. Running the risk of sounding like a spoiled American tourist, after spending the last countless weekends since January and 3 weeks straight staying in hostels with communal bathrooms and snoring room mates, it was SO nice to be in a hotel room with hot showers, a tv (that played Friends, Scrubs, and the Discovery Channel), and-the best part-a kettle with a selection of teas and coffees FREE. Apparently this is pretty standard in these parts, and it’s definitely something I could get used to. Or already have. Although, before I give the hotel too much credit, I will say that having a bar and night club with lines our the door and down the sidewalk 4 out of 7 nights a week on the bottom floor certainly has its disadvantages (or some might say advantages…we could rage at any hour of the night just by walking down a flight of stairs-or staying in our room and listening to the beats from below…and as most of you know, Tatum and I are quite the club rats).
Dublin was simply splendid. It was foreign enough that you completely feel like you’re in a different country, but familiar enough (ex: we had bagels for breakfast) that you don’t always feel quite so uncomfortable and out of place, which, isn’t really a problem, it’s just exhausting. We even found that Ireland was the first place where we were ashamed and embarrassed to pull out a map because we felt like maybe, just maybe we looked like we could fit in (unless we spoke, then it was a different ballgame. Obvioulsly.) Our days were spent seeing 8723987543 churches (including one really bizarre Polish Catholic church that felt more like a cult or a courthouse than a sanctuary), drinking Guinness (luckily it’s like a meal in and of itself. As our funds are beginning to run low, a few nights were spent sharing a meal of beef pie or lamb stew for dinner…how romantic), taking day trips (I can say from experience that there is literally NO crystal in Waterford. Don’t even try to find it.), and walking miles and miles through the cobble stoned streets of Temple Bar, Grafton Street, St. Stephen’s Green. Everything you hear about the Irish being friendly and cheery (and ginger…seriously), is absolutely true, and passing pubs playing live Irish folk music and hearing jolly banter always seemed to put us in a better mood. AND, it didn’t rain ONCE over a course of 5 days, save for a half-hour period on the second night.
I wish I could say that the journey from Dublin to Newquay, our next destination in Cornwall, was as seamless as the others have been, but I suppose my luck had to run out eventually. We had booked a flight on Air Southwest (?), and from the second we approached the check-in counter, you could tell that the lady working was new, as she picked up her phone to call her supervisor at least twice with every customer. Bad sign # 1. Most NORMAL airlines allow you one checked bag, one carry on, and one personal item. But not Air Southwest. You’re strictly allowed ONE checked bag and ONE carry-on/personal item. Same thing. Oh, and overweight fees are a cool 10 euros per kilo over 20 kg. But here’s the kicker: if you do have to check a second bag (which I did, because I wasn’t allowed a backpack and purse), there’s not flat rate…they charge the ENTIRE second bag as extra weight PER KILO. I had my suitcase at 23 kg, a backpack at 16, and literally no other option. You do the math. And the worst part was, the woman made us stand in line every time after going over to a different counter to deal with the extra fees, and then acted all apologetic, like she really truly felt sorry for our ‘situation.’ I wanted to hit her. She could have easily been awesome like the rest of the airline world for the past month that I’ve been flying has been, but she just would. Not. Let. It. Go. For her own sake and sanity, I hope one day she’ll learn. Or find a different job.
Newquay is charming. We arrived on our Dash-8300 propeller plane and were greeted by Tatum’s friend who’s just finished university in Falmouth. On the drive to Falmouth we passed an abundance of cows, sheep, ocean, and farms with fields perfectly separated by trimmed bushes. I think the word that comes to mind when describing Cornwall is “quaint.” Everything is quaint, from the landscape to the houses to the people. Falmouth is a port, so there are lots of boats and water right by the main town. This past week, as my first week in the UK, has been one of firsts: my first cream tea (pot of tea with 2 scones, homemade jam, and clotted cream), first try at Capoeira (Brazilian tribal fighting/dancing/martial arts all rolled in to one. And a crazy workout-google it), first tea and lemon (you can figure that one out), first Aero bar and Maltesers (aerated mint chocolate, how DO they do it?), first custard crumble, first full English breakfast (also known as a ‘fry-up’), first garden party, and first Pimm’s (traditional and wonderful summertime drink with citrus, cucumber, and lemonade). And my first (and subsequent) experiences with the British people’s fondness for waiting in pointless lines (queues). Honestly, efficiency is key. Not that hard.
The first night, we went down to the nearby beach for a barbeque. The beach was filled with people gathered in little circles around disposable charcoal grills smoking hamburgers, sausages, and in our case, sea bass (and later, thanks to a stroke of brilliance, cookies). Night 2 was the garden party, and the next day, we ventured over to another beach on the north coast, donned wetsuits, and went surfing. I was almost as good at surfing as I was at skiing…
Night 4, we went over to our host’s girlfriend’s house for dinner, and, with 10 of us around the table, I became the target of 20 questions (or, take-the-mickey-out-of-an-American-as they would say…it was east to confuse the two). I’ve felt like a foreigner for about 6 months now, but this was the first time that it was blatantly pointed out to me. The accent, the politics, everything. It was kind of cool, but somehow I think it would have been a LOT cooler had I not had the whole American thing going for me…literally anywhere else.
And yet now, as I sit on this train next to a smelly woman eating a pungent Brie sandwich, I can’t help but feel a bit anxious but thrilled about going to a place where the people apparently aren’t so nice but is at the same time, supposedly one of the most amazing cities in the world. I’ll be alone for the next 2 days before I’m met by a local and, while my sense of being a completely foreigner will be far from gone, my plans are completely in his hands for the rest of the trip. Sigh of relief (maybe…).
Since I last wrote, I’ve left mainland Europe and ventured across the pond to the land of Anglophones. First stop was Ireland. First let me just say that if you ever have to opportunity to fly Turkish Airlines, do it. I once again managed to get away with a bag 6 kilos overweight, and for lunch on the 4.5 hour flight to Dublin, we were served hummus, chicken, polenta, grilled vegetables, chocolate mousse, hazelnuts, and tea. And it was really, really good.
From the second we stepped off the plane in Dublin, a really strange feeling came over me. Then I realized it was just the realization that I understood what people around me were saying, without even having to process or think about it (ok, well, maybe a little…the Irish accent can be a bit strong). We weren’t exactly sure how to get to our hotel, but imagine our surprise when we discovered that if we just ASKED someone, they could tell us! In English! Ireland’s funny though, with an unassuming sense of national pride. Although almost no one actually speaks Gaelic, and those that do almost undoubtedly speak English as well, every public sign, road sign, information sign, everything, is written first in Gaelic first, followed by English. The primary language taught in Irish schools is also Gaelic. I don’t know how Irish kids feel (maybe they find the same almost charming pride in having such an old language so representative of a medieval culture?), but I know that if I were made to learn Gaelic in school, knowing that I could be learning French or Spanish instead…well, I think that speaks for itself.
We took a cab from the airport to our hotel with the friendliest cab driver ever, and arrived on Harcourt Street, just south of St. Stephen’s Green. Running the risk of sounding like a spoiled American tourist, after spending the last countless weekends since January and 3 weeks straight staying in hostels with communal bathrooms and snoring room mates, it was SO nice to be in a hotel room with hot showers, a tv (that played Friends, Scrubs, and the Discovery Channel), and-the best part-a kettle with a selection of teas and coffees FREE. Apparently this is pretty standard in these parts, and it’s definitely something I could get used to. Or already have. Although, before I give the hotel too much credit, I will say that having a bar and night club with lines our the door and down the sidewalk 4 out of 7 nights a week on the bottom floor certainly has its disadvantages (or some might say advantages…we could rage at any hour of the night just by walking down a flight of stairs-or staying in our room and listening to the beats from below…and as most of you know, Tatum and I are quite the club rats).
Dublin was simply splendid. It was foreign enough that you completely feel like you’re in a different country, but familiar enough (ex: we had bagels for breakfast) that you don’t always feel quite so uncomfortable and out of place, which, isn’t really a problem, it’s just exhausting. We even found that Ireland was the first place where we were ashamed and embarrassed to pull out a map because we felt like maybe, just maybe we looked like we could fit in (unless we spoke, then it was a different ballgame. Obvioulsly.) Our days were spent seeing 8723987543 churches (including one really bizarre Polish Catholic church that felt more like a cult or a courthouse than a sanctuary), drinking Guinness (luckily it’s like a meal in and of itself. As our funds are beginning to run low, a few nights were spent sharing a meal of beef pie or lamb stew for dinner…how romantic), taking day trips (I can say from experience that there is literally NO crystal in Waterford. Don’t even try to find it.), and walking miles and miles through the cobble stoned streets of Temple Bar, Grafton Street, St. Stephen’s Green. Everything you hear about the Irish being friendly and cheery (and ginger…seriously), is absolutely true, and passing pubs playing live Irish folk music and hearing jolly banter always seemed to put us in a better mood. AND, it didn’t rain ONCE over a course of 5 days, save for a half-hour period on the second night.
I wish I could say that the journey from Dublin to Newquay, our next destination in Cornwall, was as seamless as the others have been, but I suppose my luck had to run out eventually. We had booked a flight on Air Southwest (?), and from the second we approached the check-in counter, you could tell that the lady working was new, as she picked up her phone to call her supervisor at least twice with every customer. Bad sign # 1. Most NORMAL airlines allow you one checked bag, one carry on, and one personal item. But not Air Southwest. You’re strictly allowed ONE checked bag and ONE carry-on/personal item. Same thing. Oh, and overweight fees are a cool 10 euros per kilo over 20 kg. But here’s the kicker: if you do have to check a second bag (which I did, because I wasn’t allowed a backpack and purse), there’s not flat rate…they charge the ENTIRE second bag as extra weight PER KILO. I had my suitcase at 23 kg, a backpack at 16, and literally no other option. You do the math. And the worst part was, the woman made us stand in line every time after going over to a different counter to deal with the extra fees, and then acted all apologetic, like she really truly felt sorry for our ‘situation.’ I wanted to hit her. She could have easily been awesome like the rest of the airline world for the past month that I’ve been flying has been, but she just would. Not. Let. It. Go. For her own sake and sanity, I hope one day she’ll learn. Or find a different job.
Newquay is charming. We arrived on our Dash-8300 propeller plane and were greeted by Tatum’s friend who’s just finished university in Falmouth. On the drive to Falmouth we passed an abundance of cows, sheep, ocean, and farms with fields perfectly separated by trimmed bushes. I think the word that comes to mind when describing Cornwall is “quaint.” Everything is quaint, from the landscape to the houses to the people. Falmouth is a port, so there are lots of boats and water right by the main town. This past week, as my first week in the UK, has been one of firsts: my first cream tea (pot of tea with 2 scones, homemade jam, and clotted cream), first try at Capoeira (Brazilian tribal fighting/dancing/martial arts all rolled in to one. And a crazy workout-google it), first tea and lemon (you can figure that one out), first Aero bar and Maltesers (aerated mint chocolate, how DO they do it?), first custard crumble, first full English breakfast (also known as a ‘fry-up’), first garden party, and first Pimm’s (traditional and wonderful summertime drink with citrus, cucumber, and lemonade). And my first (and subsequent) experiences with the British people’s fondness for waiting in pointless lines (queues). Honestly, efficiency is key. Not that hard.
The first night, we went down to the nearby beach for a barbeque. The beach was filled with people gathered in little circles around disposable charcoal grills smoking hamburgers, sausages, and in our case, sea bass (and later, thanks to a stroke of brilliance, cookies). Night 2 was the garden party, and the next day, we ventured over to another beach on the north coast, donned wetsuits, and went surfing. I was almost as good at surfing as I was at skiing…
Night 4, we went over to our host’s girlfriend’s house for dinner, and, with 10 of us around the table, I became the target of 20 questions (or, take-the-mickey-out-of-an-American-as they would say…it was east to confuse the two). I’ve felt like a foreigner for about 6 months now, but this was the first time that it was blatantly pointed out to me. The accent, the politics, everything. It was kind of cool, but somehow I think it would have been a LOT cooler had I not had the whole American thing going for me…literally anywhere else.
And yet now, as I sit on this train next to a smelly woman eating a pungent Brie sandwich, I can’t help but feel a bit anxious but thrilled about going to a place where the people apparently aren’t so nice but is at the same time, supposedly one of the most amazing cities in the world. I’ll be alone for the next 2 days before I’m met by a local and, while my sense of being a completely foreigner will be far from gone, my plans are completely in his hands for the rest of the trip. Sigh of relief (maybe…).
Monday, May 31, 2010
full fledged tourism
I've been abroad for about 5 months now, and I've felt like a tourist for about 96% of the time while travelling. I hate tourists, and I hate feeling like one even more. Many of you know my aversion to post cards for that very reason (sorry), and I'm not the biggest fan of maps either. So the following outlines some of my consternation regarding tourists-inspired in Istanbul but a compilation from the whole trip.
First off, tour guides. Where do they get off telling people all about things that frankly, you can learn for free on wikipedia (or, you know, those things...books)? We've gotten by just fine and had many an educational adventure sans tour guide in pretty much every place we've been to. Honestly, I give them credit. Make money reading a high school text book and being charming and friendly to people willing to pay you to herd them around like sheep. Well done. I'll admit, there are some people who are really good at this and could give an excellent tour, but on the whole, I'm not a fan. What's more is that most of the tour guides I've come across have this weird sense of entitlement. Like because they are so learned and wise in the bare minimum of information about whatever, they can take up side walks, yell in museums, cut lines, and be generally obnoxious.
Another thing that will never cease to intrigue me is the Asian contingent of tourists. The really serious ones at least. It's incredible; the parasols, the hats, the gloves, the cameras. They're like a perfectly constructed machine that runs like clockwork. Point A to point B in exactly 28.2 minutes and not a second more. In one spot, take pictures, scurry off to the next, etc. I'm not saying this is a bad thing at all. In fact, I'm all about efficiency, I just don't think it will ever quite make sense to me. The fault I have found with this method is the video taping. Are you really going to go home and watch 2.5 hours of footage from the coliseum or the Hagia Sophia? Really?? If so, you should rethink the excitement in your life. Although, come to think of it, maybe that's part of the method, video taping so you can see absolutely everything really fast and then ACTUALLY seeing it later via video? Again, I'll never get it. Oh, and last thing, please don't take pictures of me when I'm smiling for someone else's picture. Don't. It's just weird.
My last gripe deals with Americans. If people don't actually wear cowboy hats in America, why would you promote the stereotype by wearing one in Turkey? I'm pretty sure people will know you're not REALLY Turkish without the hat. This brings me to an interesting conversation I was having with someone the other day regarding Americans' impressions of somewhere new like Turkey. Personally, I was captivated every time I walked into a mosque, and it took more than a few minutes for the sight of pretty much every woman around me wearing a headscarf to not seem foreign. I loved hearing the call to prayer 5 times everyday over the loudspeakers, and I had a weird urge to take pictures of the prayer service we went to just because I thought it was 'cool'. I'll sadly admit that I am the epitome of a product of my environment. That is to say, I have lived in the same little bubble pretty much my whole life, and pretty much everything outside of that holds a certain splendor, no matter how ordinary. Now, the argument comes in when you relate this to other countries. Someone argued that this 'cool' part I found of the culture of Islam (I won't say religion because Turkey was an incredibly secular place, and I think my awe was more with regards to the everyday aspects, rather than just the religion), was uniquely American, and to an extent, I agree. It's just not something I've been exposed to, and now that I am, it's great. BUT, I could say the same thing about many aspects of life and culture in any of the other countries I've been to, and is it really something so American, or is it just something of foreigners in a new place? I would like to think of myself as an educated, informed individual who knows better than to judge things based on the news I see on tv, but this friend's argument was that a country wielding as much power as America (yes, I run the risk of sounding too chauvinistic) has a uniquely uninformed view on the rest of the world, and it's population is directly affected by that. Maybe part of this is geographical, but I think there's something to be said for seeing a culture so different from what I know. Part of me is almost ashamed to be so fascinated with peoples' everyday lives, but the other part of me thinks that it's normal, no matter what country you come from. I think I'd feel (and have felt) the same way in other countries, but is that the issue, or is there something more political involved? I'm still not really sure I've answered my own question, but those are just my thoughts...
Despite everything, in a city as huge, wonderful, and overwhelming as Istanbul, I've realized that sometimes, the best route is to accept being a tourist. Obviously I'll never fit in, so why not take out the map and camera and embrace it.
First off, tour guides. Where do they get off telling people all about things that frankly, you can learn for free on wikipedia (or, you know, those things...books)? We've gotten by just fine and had many an educational adventure sans tour guide in pretty much every place we've been to. Honestly, I give them credit. Make money reading a high school text book and being charming and friendly to people willing to pay you to herd them around like sheep. Well done. I'll admit, there are some people who are really good at this and could give an excellent tour, but on the whole, I'm not a fan. What's more is that most of the tour guides I've come across have this weird sense of entitlement. Like because they are so learned and wise in the bare minimum of information about whatever, they can take up side walks, yell in museums, cut lines, and be generally obnoxious.
Another thing that will never cease to intrigue me is the Asian contingent of tourists. The really serious ones at least. It's incredible; the parasols, the hats, the gloves, the cameras. They're like a perfectly constructed machine that runs like clockwork. Point A to point B in exactly 28.2 minutes and not a second more. In one spot, take pictures, scurry off to the next, etc. I'm not saying this is a bad thing at all. In fact, I'm all about efficiency, I just don't think it will ever quite make sense to me. The fault I have found with this method is the video taping. Are you really going to go home and watch 2.5 hours of footage from the coliseum or the Hagia Sophia? Really?? If so, you should rethink the excitement in your life. Although, come to think of it, maybe that's part of the method, video taping so you can see absolutely everything really fast and then ACTUALLY seeing it later via video? Again, I'll never get it. Oh, and last thing, please don't take pictures of me when I'm smiling for someone else's picture. Don't. It's just weird.
My last gripe deals with Americans. If people don't actually wear cowboy hats in America, why would you promote the stereotype by wearing one in Turkey? I'm pretty sure people will know you're not REALLY Turkish without the hat. This brings me to an interesting conversation I was having with someone the other day regarding Americans' impressions of somewhere new like Turkey. Personally, I was captivated every time I walked into a mosque, and it took more than a few minutes for the sight of pretty much every woman around me wearing a headscarf to not seem foreign. I loved hearing the call to prayer 5 times everyday over the loudspeakers, and I had a weird urge to take pictures of the prayer service we went to just because I thought it was 'cool'. I'll sadly admit that I am the epitome of a product of my environment. That is to say, I have lived in the same little bubble pretty much my whole life, and pretty much everything outside of that holds a certain splendor, no matter how ordinary. Now, the argument comes in when you relate this to other countries. Someone argued that this 'cool' part I found of the culture of Islam (I won't say religion because Turkey was an incredibly secular place, and I think my awe was more with regards to the everyday aspects, rather than just the religion), was uniquely American, and to an extent, I agree. It's just not something I've been exposed to, and now that I am, it's great. BUT, I could say the same thing about many aspects of life and culture in any of the other countries I've been to, and is it really something so American, or is it just something of foreigners in a new place? I would like to think of myself as an educated, informed individual who knows better than to judge things based on the news I see on tv, but this friend's argument was that a country wielding as much power as America (yes, I run the risk of sounding too chauvinistic) has a uniquely uninformed view on the rest of the world, and it's population is directly affected by that. Maybe part of this is geographical, but I think there's something to be said for seeing a culture so different from what I know. Part of me is almost ashamed to be so fascinated with peoples' everyday lives, but the other part of me thinks that it's normal, no matter what country you come from. I think I'd feel (and have felt) the same way in other countries, but is that the issue, or is there something more political involved? I'm still not really sure I've answered my own question, but those are just my thoughts...
Despite everything, in a city as huge, wonderful, and overwhelming as Istanbul, I've realized that sometimes, the best route is to accept being a tourist. Obviously I'll never fit in, so why not take out the map and camera and embrace it.
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