This past week Monday night I went to the beach armed with the last hundred pages of the seventh book of Harry Potter. Evenings at the beach in Florida are great, the hot humid Florida weather keeps you toasty while ocean breezes cool you off, some gusts what I would even call chilly (you midwesterners keep quiet now!). As I finished up the last pages of the book, my mind raced with excitement at the completion, yet it also dreaded those last few words whence the land of muggles and wizards would close.
I guess that is what I would consider my last days in Europe in London. The English countryside, Stonehenge, flashes of those many places I visited are sweet in my memory, but the bitterness of having to leave stays in my mouth. Although my last post was a little on the down and lonely side, it wasn't an aspect of my trip I didn't expect, not to say it was great fun. Those days of self wandering and discovery are also part of the sugar coated memories. I think sugar-coating memories is great, it helps alleviate the post-bitterness remains of time well-spent, people well met, places well visited, and friends and family well worth it all.
Just as time always seems fastest once it's over, so too now, do I lie expectant every night for the next day that brings me closer to Beijing. There are always different lonelinesses lying in wait, whether space decides to come between a family member, a friend, a place, or even a memory.
I tried with all my brain juices to pump out some poetry during my trip in my journal, but my Chinese is not up to standard still. However, since I did talk of having written, I guess I should show some proof. The following two attempts at something like poetry are here for your pleasure, and if they can make you laugh, at least I can say that I helped you crack a smile. They were both written on my way from Bordeaux to Paris, but I couldn't type Chinese til now.
車上田飛過 湖中游孤鵝 麗景連環處 欲再幾時可
踏進野林採鮮莓 見其夏景惜其雪
隨心渡河跨幾關 看破山崖登高闕
月過尖塔日纔輝 人忙備店車尚缺
佳肴美酒經數地 獨酌孤行望明月
I'll continue to post up here wherever I head, so come by anytime. Give me your blogs as well so I can keep track of all your pursuits as well. Hope all is well. And just as I had to depart the company of Harry, Hermione, and Ron, they'll always be on my shelf waiting for me to visit, so also the many times I've had to say good-bye in more than one way do I hope that one day you'll come visit too.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Friday, August 10, 2007
Land of Eternal Clouds...?
The train rolled on to London Waterloo as the clouded French skies saw me off. I like to think that the heavens were weeping for my departure. The posh train service from Paris to London is done up with a full meal service and everything, well, I guess they better have with the price they charge :p
I made random notes in my journal that day, notes on choices we make and places we go to. The paths that we follow and the lines that we draw for ourselves, or that we at least have been taught to draw for ourselves. I hate the linearity of it all. The hills and slopes and loops that the passing countryside and forest were a nice break from it all, as was my great Western Europe circle. The only thing that irked me were the patches of forest that were planned, with neat rows all running down the line, but I wonder what trees are planted like fields for...do they maybe sell them to cities to use?
The skies finally cleared in the oddest of places, as we drove under the tunnel that connects England and France, the skies opened up to a clear British heaven. I was shocked and surprised, and again I like to think that England was welcoming me to her shores, or subterranean pits in my case.
I found my relative at the station, and within all of 2-3 hours, we went on the London Eye, saw all the centrally located attractions, and had time for a coffee before setting off for dinner with more family.
London Chinatown is quite small actually, just one main street and two smaller ones that are nowhere near the crowded dirty Chinatown of New York. The food was real good there, actually, probably something that could vie with Vancouver for good Chinese outside of China. The streets of London are just as well for straggling around and exploring as any other old city in Europe. There is one important lesson for anyone going to London though, never convert pounds into dollars, just think of them as dollars when you're spending, otherwise you'll never enjoy yourself there.
I made random notes in my journal that day, notes on choices we make and places we go to. The paths that we follow and the lines that we draw for ourselves, or that we at least have been taught to draw for ourselves. I hate the linearity of it all. The hills and slopes and loops that the passing countryside and forest were a nice break from it all, as was my great Western Europe circle. The only thing that irked me were the patches of forest that were planned, with neat rows all running down the line, but I wonder what trees are planted like fields for...do they maybe sell them to cities to use?
The skies finally cleared in the oddest of places, as we drove under the tunnel that connects England and France, the skies opened up to a clear British heaven. I was shocked and surprised, and again I like to think that England was welcoming me to her shores, or subterranean pits in my case.
I found my relative at the station, and within all of 2-3 hours, we went on the London Eye, saw all the centrally located attractions, and had time for a coffee before setting off for dinner with more family.
London Chinatown is quite small actually, just one main street and two smaller ones that are nowhere near the crowded dirty Chinatown of New York. The food was real good there, actually, probably something that could vie with Vancouver for good Chinese outside of China. The streets of London are just as well for straggling around and exploring as any other old city in Europe. There is one important lesson for anyone going to London though, never convert pounds into dollars, just think of them as dollars when you're spending, otherwise you'll never enjoy yourself there.
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
Parisian Delights
As the train rolled from Bordeaux to Paris, I wondered how the city of lights would be. Would I see many earthly and carnal delights walking the streets? Or perhaps riots would be flaring all around. Whatever the case, I arrived to see a friend of 6 years, the same amount of years that we had not met up for either.
I guess it is appropriate now to talk of the loneliness of traversing the European continent alone. The people I met were usually nice, and there was no shortage of companionship. But for some reason, meeting compatriots made the trip even more lonely. Communication was one point that I had brought up earlier, but when you can communicate but not appreciate the thoughts being shared, then there really is no sense in trying.
Many backpackers came in search of parties, boozing, and meeting up with other backpackers. I really didn't understand this as I would have stayed right in the US if I wanted to talk to another American. Not to say that all backpackers came from the same place, but if we are all travelling to see and experience Europe, then joining each other as companions sometimes felt detracting from any goal in experiencing. Or maybe it was my goal of relaxation in Europe rather than jumping from tourist spot to tourist spot. Don't get me wrong, I wanted to party and did so, but the drove fashioned pub crawl to meet other foreigners didn't work out for me quite well.
In Paris, I had a local guide, and also it was a place I had been to in the past. All the great sights I had seen before, and this time was to fill in the gaps and add to my degustation. Sacre Coeur was a pretty grand sight, but it's view of Paris was probably my favorite part. There, I sat among friends and had an interesting drink dubbed the 'Monaco.' Part beer, part grenadine, part lemonade, the concoction tasted of grenadine with a slight lemon tartness, finishing with a brief hoppy flourish at the end. Sweet and red, it was a little bit much, but maybe you should try one for yourself and see.
Who would have known that Paris has such great Vietnamese and Cambodian food? Vietnamese crepes, fried rice with beef, and glutinous rice balls roasted to crispy and tender perfection. I won't go into detail, but the flavors delight my tum for a long while. And this is but one meal, Croques-Madames (I cross-dressed), crepes filled with ham, cheese, mushroom, tomatoes, and onions, spring rolls, roast pork, fried beef, and sugar cane shrimp were all part of the smorgasbord. Needless to say that I think I will be back to try some more of these tasty morsels in the future.
I also had the honor of barring and clubbing in Paris. The exclusivity of clubs here are awesome. Gotta have the nice shoes, no t-shirts, and no blue jeans. Of course, when we showed up there, many had those things on, and it really wasn't that spiffed as thought. At least I can say that I've been into a club in Paris, where the scene changes faster than you can blink.
I am indebted to my friend there, and hopefully wasn't too much of a burden. Though I think my untouristy ways confounded them at first, it was all for the greater good of relaxation and taking it easy. I am now, however, a little sick from smoke and fatigue, so relaxing obviously didn't go far enough. Next stop, London.
I guess it is appropriate now to talk of the loneliness of traversing the European continent alone. The people I met were usually nice, and there was no shortage of companionship. But for some reason, meeting compatriots made the trip even more lonely. Communication was one point that I had brought up earlier, but when you can communicate but not appreciate the thoughts being shared, then there really is no sense in trying.
Many backpackers came in search of parties, boozing, and meeting up with other backpackers. I really didn't understand this as I would have stayed right in the US if I wanted to talk to another American. Not to say that all backpackers came from the same place, but if we are all travelling to see and experience Europe, then joining each other as companions sometimes felt detracting from any goal in experiencing. Or maybe it was my goal of relaxation in Europe rather than jumping from tourist spot to tourist spot. Don't get me wrong, I wanted to party and did so, but the drove fashioned pub crawl to meet other foreigners didn't work out for me quite well.
In Paris, I had a local guide, and also it was a place I had been to in the past. All the great sights I had seen before, and this time was to fill in the gaps and add to my degustation. Sacre Coeur was a pretty grand sight, but it's view of Paris was probably my favorite part. There, I sat among friends and had an interesting drink dubbed the 'Monaco.' Part beer, part grenadine, part lemonade, the concoction tasted of grenadine with a slight lemon tartness, finishing with a brief hoppy flourish at the end. Sweet and red, it was a little bit much, but maybe you should try one for yourself and see.
Who would have known that Paris has such great Vietnamese and Cambodian food? Vietnamese crepes, fried rice with beef, and glutinous rice balls roasted to crispy and tender perfection. I won't go into detail, but the flavors delight my tum for a long while. And this is but one meal, Croques-Madames (I cross-dressed), crepes filled with ham, cheese, mushroom, tomatoes, and onions, spring rolls, roast pork, fried beef, and sugar cane shrimp were all part of the smorgasbord. Needless to say that I think I will be back to try some more of these tasty morsels in the future.
I also had the honor of barring and clubbing in Paris. The exclusivity of clubs here are awesome. Gotta have the nice shoes, no t-shirts, and no blue jeans. Of course, when we showed up there, many had those things on, and it really wasn't that spiffed as thought. At least I can say that I've been into a club in Paris, where the scene changes faster than you can blink.
I am indebted to my friend there, and hopefully wasn't too much of a burden. Though I think my untouristy ways confounded them at first, it was all for the greater good of relaxation and taking it easy. I am now, however, a little sick from smoke and fatigue, so relaxing obviously didn't go far enough. Next stop, London.
Monday, August 6, 2007
Bourdelais(e?), The Frenchies are here
The train hopped into Hendaye from Donostia, and their I bought a quiche for my journey onwards to Bordeaux. I spoke to the lady in Spanish which she understood well, but replied in French. After asking which country I was in, I found that it was time to switch on the Frenchy Jason that makes no sense.
I was desolated that I could not speak French better, and my mood was a little down since my body felt like it should be hosed down with an extinctor. However, that I was on to a new journey perked me up a bit.
Though I say perked, I was quite unhappy that I would be reduced to a semi mute once again. In Spain, being able to speak to anyone and understand most of what was going on was quite refreshing compared to most of my trip thus far. Communication is such an important and dear part of life that it does leave one stranded among the thickest crowds.
Arriving into Bordeaux, I waited to exit the train, and an older French lady with a bonnet like hat, flowered dress and did up hair and a husband stepped in front briefly, paused, then jumped back and gave me the Frenchiest hand-to-mouth “Pardon!” and please go first gesture. I knew I was definitely in the Frenchy France now.
The wine tour was the one and only goal here, so I will go into it briefly though there is not much to say. We went to two Chateaux (wineries, not castles) that were classified Grand Cru Classe. They were of the 5 level, which is the lowest. However, in Bordeaux, this classification was given to only 61 out of 800 wineries, so that should say alot about the quality... Unfortunately I was disappointed by both of them. They both started you off with a young vine grape which is in any case going to be less tasty. The second wine they both let us taste was of decidedly better quality, though my taste buds aren’t the best, I knew it was better. However, the young vine wine cost 11, and the better one cost 31. Now, for the quality of the young vine in the US, I wouldn’t pay anything more than 2 or 3 USD, and the better one might get at most 10 or a little more. The prices they asked for what they were putting up were a little bit scandalous to me, so I’ve been thinking about the situation.
Could it be that Bordelais wine can be put away and aged to better perfection, and for that reason it costs more? Or perhaps there are subtle flavors that I’m missing? If anyone has any idea I’m all ears. Whatever the case, that night I had a heavy dinner of foie gras and toast, sauteed duck breast with pasta a l’Italienne, and creme brulee, all for 16 (I forgot to ask for tap water and got a 3 euro bottle of evian :P). It wasn’t the top place, but the duck and foie gras pleased me well enough. The creme brulee gets thumbs down for being a jello concoction that was not creamy or smooth, but like consistency of slightly softer jello. I was glad to have a lighter creme brulee though, since a real one would have downed me flat after all the other heavy food I had.
I was desolated that I could not speak French better, and my mood was a little down since my body felt like it should be hosed down with an extinctor. However, that I was on to a new journey perked me up a bit.
Though I say perked, I was quite unhappy that I would be reduced to a semi mute once again. In Spain, being able to speak to anyone and understand most of what was going on was quite refreshing compared to most of my trip thus far. Communication is such an important and dear part of life that it does leave one stranded among the thickest crowds.
Arriving into Bordeaux, I waited to exit the train, and an older French lady with a bonnet like hat, flowered dress and did up hair and a husband stepped in front briefly, paused, then jumped back and gave me the Frenchiest hand-to-mouth “Pardon!” and please go first gesture. I knew I was definitely in the Frenchy France now.
The wine tour was the one and only goal here, so I will go into it briefly though there is not much to say. We went to two Chateaux (wineries, not castles) that were classified Grand Cru Classe. They were of the 5 level, which is the lowest. However, in Bordeaux, this classification was given to only 61 out of 800 wineries, so that should say alot about the quality... Unfortunately I was disappointed by both of them. They both started you off with a young vine grape which is in any case going to be less tasty. The second wine they both let us taste was of decidedly better quality, though my taste buds aren’t the best, I knew it was better. However, the young vine wine cost 11, and the better one cost 31. Now, for the quality of the young vine in the US, I wouldn’t pay anything more than 2 or 3 USD, and the better one might get at most 10 or a little more. The prices they asked for what they were putting up were a little bit scandalous to me, so I’ve been thinking about the situation.
Could it be that Bordelais wine can be put away and aged to better perfection, and for that reason it costs more? Or perhaps there are subtle flavors that I’m missing? If anyone has any idea I’m all ears. Whatever the case, that night I had a heavy dinner of foie gras and toast, sauteed duck breast with pasta a l’Italienne, and creme brulee, all for 16 (I forgot to ask for tap water and got a 3 euro bottle of evian :P). It wasn’t the top place, but the duck and foie gras pleased me well enough. The creme brulee gets thumbs down for being a jello concoction that was not creamy or smooth, but like consistency of slightly softer jello. I was glad to have a lighter creme brulee though, since a real one would have downed me flat after all the other heavy food I had.
Friday, August 3, 2007
Basque Roast Chicken
I fell asleep quickly on the night train over to Donostia (San Sebastian in Basque), the day at the Prado and the park having worn me out sufficiently. The sun had just risen in the slumbering city, most likely everyone had just gone home from partying not 2 hours before. 8 in the morning was too early for the hostal to answer the door, so I walked to a cafe that had just opened and had a coffee and Napolitan (chocolate filled croissant), kind of sweet for the morning but balanced off alright with the small but rightly bitter and saltylike coffee.
Whiling my time away with journal writing and looking at whoever else was up at such an ungodly hour, I finally made it to 9. At the hostal, I dropped off my bag, changed into trunks, and went off to the beach, my one and only goal. I laid in the sun with my mat from Nice at the larger beach. The tide comes in rather far, so sand was hard and packed, not really conducive to form fitting comfort on the beach, but going to sleep is never a problem. Actually, the hardness was an advantage. Once it woke me up, I could turn over to be sure I didn’t cook one side too well-done.
After having done this for most of the morning, the clouds began to roll in. I hadn’t seen clouds since Switzerland, and they were quite a welcome sight for nostalgia’s sake. At about 3 I decided that if I didn’t go to the other beach, it would be too late or too cold. The transition to San Sebastian also brought cooler weather that contrasted from my home in the old world. At the surfer beach, the sand was much softer and I almost felt like kicking myself for not coming here first. But I made good use of time and slept another couple of hours there, a much more restful sleep. The waves pounded in far into the sand, and surfers rose and fell like history. The lifeguard at this side was equipped with about 4 to 5 people, and they even had a amphibian machine to carouse the beach and surf. I wondered briefly about how many surfers have been carried out to sea, beamed by their own board, or smashed against the far side of the beach where a rock wall stood.
When it was about time to head back to the hostal, it was already early evening. At this time, I looked at my tumtum and legs, and found them a glowing red color. I seem to have misplaced my faith in my melanin count and gotten what I’ve heard so many complain about, something called a sunburn or whatever. At the hostal, the aches had begun so I just slept more to recuperate some.
At night I went out to dinner with five other friendly folks from my hostal, but alas my faith in fellow travelers is misplaced. I gave up a night of supposedly some of the best Spanish cuisine to go to a fast food paella joint, eating my dinner with gusto since I was hungry, but plotting my return at some future date already. The charm of smaller towns in any place really catch me, and this was no exception. Plus, how could I not come back for food after the fast food paella wasn’t horrible, though nothing compared with a proper one, as if I knew what a proper one would be like.
That evening, most places were closed after 2, the clubs giving their clientele a well deserved break in order to juice up for the rest of the week. I went to sleep at an early 3, only to have to wake at 6 for my continuing journey to my wine destination, Bourdeaux.
Whiling my time away with journal writing and looking at whoever else was up at such an ungodly hour, I finally made it to 9. At the hostal, I dropped off my bag, changed into trunks, and went off to the beach, my one and only goal. I laid in the sun with my mat from Nice at the larger beach. The tide comes in rather far, so sand was hard and packed, not really conducive to form fitting comfort on the beach, but going to sleep is never a problem. Actually, the hardness was an advantage. Once it woke me up, I could turn over to be sure I didn’t cook one side too well-done.
After having done this for most of the morning, the clouds began to roll in. I hadn’t seen clouds since Switzerland, and they were quite a welcome sight for nostalgia’s sake. At about 3 I decided that if I didn’t go to the other beach, it would be too late or too cold. The transition to San Sebastian also brought cooler weather that contrasted from my home in the old world. At the surfer beach, the sand was much softer and I almost felt like kicking myself for not coming here first. But I made good use of time and slept another couple of hours there, a much more restful sleep. The waves pounded in far into the sand, and surfers rose and fell like history. The lifeguard at this side was equipped with about 4 to 5 people, and they even had a amphibian machine to carouse the beach and surf. I wondered briefly about how many surfers have been carried out to sea, beamed by their own board, or smashed against the far side of the beach where a rock wall stood.
When it was about time to head back to the hostal, it was already early evening. At this time, I looked at my tumtum and legs, and found them a glowing red color. I seem to have misplaced my faith in my melanin count and gotten what I’ve heard so many complain about, something called a sunburn or whatever. At the hostal, the aches had begun so I just slept more to recuperate some.
At night I went out to dinner with five other friendly folks from my hostal, but alas my faith in fellow travelers is misplaced. I gave up a night of supposedly some of the best Spanish cuisine to go to a fast food paella joint, eating my dinner with gusto since I was hungry, but plotting my return at some future date already. The charm of smaller towns in any place really catch me, and this was no exception. Plus, how could I not come back for food after the fast food paella wasn’t horrible, though nothing compared with a proper one, as if I knew what a proper one would be like.
That evening, most places were closed after 2, the clubs giving their clientele a well deserved break in order to juice up for the rest of the week. I went to sleep at an early 3, only to have to wake at 6 for my continuing journey to my wine destination, Bourdeaux.
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