Life carried on as it aught. I got to know more people at work, spent some entertaining evenings with them in the city, got to know the girls that I lived with, experience some over wrought drama’s in the house, finally had the windows in my room changed so that they would open and I could get some fresh air in there. The weather improved and Nigel was still in Australia sorting out everything to go on the three month Biblimun Track Walk. I would have preferred he come and see me in London, and – though being the supportive girlfriend over the phone – I decided to go on my own little adventure and arranged to head to Barcelona for a few days.
I researched, obtained some cheap flights, booked the Youth Hostel (never again) and wrote a very strict itinerary that would result in completely waring myself out, but at the same time would ensure that I had the full Barcelona experience, no holes bared.
He wasn’t the only one who could have an adventure, I thought to myself, and although it would be rather intimidating being in a different country all by myself and not speaking the language, I was always prepared and felt confident in my touring abilities.
I took a journal on my trip, so rather than retelling an already told story, I’ll write what was written while I was there:
Hola! I’m in Barcelona! Al on my lonesome – yay me! I feel a bit lonely, but the weather is bad and its been a very long day, so lets put the loneliness down to being over tired.
My day began at Laura’s – my manager, she let me stay at her house as she lives close to Victoria Station which is where I needed to catch my train to Gatwick. I couldn’t sleep and when I did I had constant and rather bizarre dreams. I was worried that I’d miss my plane or that they wouldn’t let me on or that… well, too many ‘what ifs’ really. This was my first lone adventure since I’d landed in England and I had no one to meet me on the other end. I always find getting to a place far more nerve racking than being in the place.
I was ready to go at 4am… I didn’t need to leave for another hour, but better early than never (my rendition of the quote!). I ordered a taxi and waited outside for 45 minutes… I kept trying to call the taxi company, but they wouldn’t answer the phone, so I decided to hot foot it with my baggage to the high street and hailed a cab from there.
‘Victoria Station, please’
‘You seem like you’re in a rush? You want the Gatwick Express side then?’
‘oh! Yes… exactly. I’m going to Barcelona’, I said,
‘oh aye’, said the taxi driver, ‘hen do?’
‘No’, I said almost proudly, ‘Just by myself, thought I’d check it out’,
‘Brave then’, he replied, ‘wont be a jiffy and I’ll have ya there’.
Finally I was on the Gatwick Express, I couldn’t relax and read, I was too anxious that I’d miss the booking in time. I was straight and alert, my inner Meer cat making itself known. Inside Gatwick by 5.40am, I dashed about in search of the appropriate cue and finally found the line for Easy Jet… behind what must have been another 100 or so people, all tugging their baggage and looking anxious – it seemed fear of not getting on the plane was a regular occurrences with this airline (you just have to watch the TV show to know why!).
It took til 6.15am before I got to the check-in. I was stamped, baggage weighed and told to go ‘there’, though I had no sense of where ‘there’ was, so I followed a couple that I’d been eavesdropping on into the departure lounge. There was no time to eat and I needed to get to the plane by 6.25am.
Ahh and the plane was delayed! I could have had something to eat. It was then that, looking around me, I realised that you could TAKE food on the plane with you! OH! If I had of known. There were people with Burger King and McDonalds and all sorts of savoury delights, even a packet of crisps would have done. Something to keep in mind for my next adventure I thought. I ended up buying an exorbitantly expensive bacon and egg baguette on the plane, as well as the most disgraceful cup of tea I’ve ever had.
So… we landed. Well, that was a plus. I still hate landings, more than taking off. I sit there, my fists clenched in my lap to the point that my knuckles turn bone-white, I shut my eyes, crinkling my face up and sit straight backed on the seat… prepared, I think, for the very worst. Completely illogical. If the plane crashes I’ll be blown to smithereens regardless of whether I’m sitting up straight or not. ‘Just make sure you have knickers on’, said Nigel, ‘the rest is up to the universe’, I suppose he thought he’d make me feel re-assured that I’d have some small control over such an event, it just made me laugh and did nothing for my take off – landing fears.
The flight only lasted 1.45hrs marvellous! I couldn’t have gotten from Perth to Busselton in that time! And here I was in a different country. I remember looking out the window, watching the ocean of clouds… its simply amazing… if only I had a sense that the plane was illogically floating on thin air and there was nothing between me and a very very very hard landing.
The weather wasn’t so nice as I’d expected it to be. I imagined a huge blue sky, 25 degrees with no humidity… infact it was so humid you could see the sheening mirages in the very air. It was sticky, like swimming while standing up, and hard to breath. The air felt thick and the sky was simply haze. Oh well, there was always tomorrow, and if not, the day after. First thing’s first… lets get into Barcelona and find out sleeping quarters.
I got to the train station and purchased a ticked – so far so good. It was a half hour wait before the next train came and I sat there fidgeting about thinking that I was on the wrong side of the track, that I’d end up in Madrid, or heaven forbid… a whole ‘nother country. I tried to look like a cool back-packer but am not sure how well I pulled that one off. When I’m nervous I pace, and so there I was, backpack on, pacing this way and that while others sat calmly smoking a cigarette, reading the paper or just staring at the mad girl pacing back and forth.
When I got into the heart of the city I jumped off and switched to the ‘Green Line’ Underground – thank heavens I’d been in London for some time and had gotten the hang of the underground system. The trains here were much cleaner and larger and there was a shining light that flickered above the station you were due to arrive in which made things a lot easier, you always knew where you were.
As much as I’m teased about it, thank heavens for my anal organisational skills! I jumped off at a station called ‘Par-lel’ and weaved my way through the unfamiliar streets, following my own typed out directions to ‘Mambo Tango’ where I would stay for the next few nights.
It was a lot smaller than I imagined, and also a lot more colourful. Very Spanish I suppose, they like their bright contrasting colours. It was down a rather dingy street and I couldn’t imagine myself ever living in the area. But, walking in to the hostel I was relieved to find it clean and surprisingly welcome. The sense of welcome didn’t last long. At this time I was still rather nervous a person and I think that hindrance showed. The Spanish owner of the hostel greeted me with some trepidation. He seemed short and sharp and straight to the point and I felt like he was doing me a favour, rather than my paying him for the use of a small bunk bed in a room with six other people I didn’t know! He spoke English well but certainly didn’t make me feel at home. I suppose if I had been more confident and less on the backfoot the initial experience would have been different, but I didn’t learn that til some time after.
I dropped my bag off and headed out. Regardless of already feeling exhausted, I didn’t want to waste the day time, my itinerary was calling me and I needed to get into some serious site seeing.
My first impressions of Barcelona were: loud, noisy, mad traffic in the wrong direction, grid-like architecture, humid, hot and hazy – not a great start. But at the same time there was the buzz that I was in a whole new country and five hours ago, I was in London, and months before that… Australia! So, there was still an appropriate buzz.
I consulted my map, my itinerary and checked my bag – I’d been warned about sticky fingered pick-pockets, all in order. According to my itinerary I was due up Montjuic by 10am… I was running late! So, I jumped on a train, jumped off and took the Funicular to the top of the hill that overlooked the city. I didn’t stop for long, but took a cable car to the top of the mountain. I snapped away happily thinking about how much Dad would hate this. I was swaying up in the air, watching the ground slip away from me. The cable car even turned a corner which I thought very ingenious of it!
Finally at the end of my ride I found myself before a castle about two city blocks in size. I cant say it was the most aesthetically pleasing castle, more of a fort, red bricked with what may once have been a moat around it which was now converted into a huge expanse of structured garden. There was a thick bridge across the gardens into the castle, however, 500 meters circumnavigating the castle was a wall that clipped the cliff which led down to the city of Barcelona and also the wharf. I recall reading that the king of the castle was so paranoid about invasion that he would fire the canons that were strategically placed along the fort at any ship entering the wharf area. The canons were… well, titanic. Great grey metal instruments that looked not the least bit intimidating, I imagined the sound of one firing and the shaking of glass inside the building. By all accounts the king was mental, just a little bit nuts.
I took a walk around the exterior of the fort, investigating the statues and taking a few films to memorax the moments – I thought my Dad would be interested in the military side of this place. I spent some time talking to one of the many stray cats that wandered the grounds (ah ha! So this is where Puss in Boots lived!). I sat at the café outside the castle and ordered a water using sign language (I was embarrassed my Spanish accent would sound more like a Jamaican one… every accent I do sounds like a Jamaican… I haven’t even met a Jamaican person so it makes no sense to me what so ever), it was a difficult situation as at first the waiter gave me a beer, which first of all it was 11am, definitely not beer time, and secondly, if I were to drink, it certainly wouldn’t be horrid beer! But, we got there in the end and the waiter thought it all very amusing – I suspect he knew I wasn’t a mute, but infact a tourist… what powers of deduction he must have! Sitting down, I allowed my new cat friend to rub its chin on my leg and called my sister (for an arm and a leg) on my mobile. She was so excited to hear from me, it felt like we were talking to one another from different dimensions, not just different continents. I’m glad I shared that moment with her, and took a photo of me talking on the phone, Tiffy and I in Barcelona together.
I headed into the red brick castle and wandered around taking in the military paraphernalia, the sculptures of horse heads, soldiers and guns. It wasn’t really much of a museum and I suspect most people come up here for the view rather than the historical value. There wasn’t a lot of information about the castle or its previous inhabitants so I didn’t spend too much time there before heading down the mountain.
It had started to rain, but I still wished I hadn’t of worn jeans, it was far too sticky, especially for the walk that I was undertaking. As I headed down the mountain, about half way down I came upon a beautiful park, rich with sculptures and very symmetrical in design. Off in the distance I could make out a rather ornamental castle-like structure and decided that was the direction I’d take, but first, I needed to spend some time in this garden. The design was so precise, wide white-gravelled walk ways flanked by thick green foliage, palm trees leaning over and man made pools with goddesses over looking the rippling water. I came to one long open passage way with white plastered rectangular beams every five steps – it was what I thought Greece would be like. This stunning white against the green parkland and a pot below each beam. I descended some steps close by, they ran in a semi circular structure around a sculpture of a woman, subtly draped in cloth, staring absently into the distance.
Further down I came to a large pool with a fountain in the middle, the water splaying up releasing the sounds of utter tranquillity, and surrounding the pool an arched terracotta walkway with statues woven into the walls, and mosaic benches. I took a moment to be here and to enjoy the Spaniards ability to create peace within a metro pole. To watch over Barcelona from here, smelling the scented trees and enjoy the contrast of the flowers against the trees and off-white paths, ‘this is what I came here for’ I thought.
I went in the direction of the castle I’d seen early, unfortunately it was closed – being mid week – I tried to find a way in without being seen, but the gates were foreboding and the presence of security guards forced me to carry on, sad to feel that castle moving further behind me. As I walked away from it my Dad called on my mobile, he was also really excited that I was there, I quickly tried to tell him what I’d seen, where I was, ofcourse… how the weather was – Dad’s always want to know how the weather is – unfortunately my phone cut out, lack of credit. It was very disappointing not to be able to talk for longer, but, at the same time, to have my families thoughts with me, to sense that I was not on this adventure alone, it meant a lot.
It was still drizzling and warm, a bit of a juxtaposition for me… weather like this you’d only expect before a storm back at home, but here, maybe it was the norm. I had no idea where I was going at this time, the second place on my itinerary was closed, but I eventually came to steps that seemed to rise up to… nothing. They were so high I could not see what they led to. The stairs were flanked on either side by a blue mosaic running fountain. Water would run down either side, through the large ornate fountains and trickle down the stairs. Sadly, they weren’t running at the time, it was beautiful even when dry, however I could imagine how breathtaking they might have been in full flow.
There was an escalator (AN OUT-DOOR ESCALATOR! MENTAL!), so I took that rather than traipsing the stairs in the heat and the rain and also for the novelty of the thing. Above, I came to the most incredible view of Barcelona, I could see the Segrada de Familiar in the distance, the world famous football stadium amongst the orange, brown, white of city apartments and buildings.
I was actually situated in the Olympic Village… I cant remember what year Barcelona held the Olympics, but I was standing where they had been held. A building behind me held part of the university, as well as an art gallery. Where I stood, a long parade lined by a Romanesque wall with enormous plant vases and leisurely looking statues of women basking in the sun, overlooked a passage way down to the city, the focal point, an enormous fountain structure that, apparently during the ‘season’ sparkled with colour as water collided with the hemisphere in a poetry of vision. At the moment, however, it was dry, and around it, a car exhibition was taking place that one required tickets to enter. I stood up in the Olympic Park for some time, enjoying the sole busker who played erstwhile on his guitar some of my favourite old tunes including Clapton and Van Morrison, as well as ‘Killing me Softly’ and ‘Let it Be’. I imagined Europe to be about Music on the Streets, and so far, Barcelona was not disappointing.
By this point I was dying for the ablutions. As I wndered down the steps and (hopefully) back into Barcelona I came upon a small café and asked (with the use of my phrase book) ‘Servico, por favour?’, the lady smiled and pointed toward the toilets, ‘Grazious!’ I said, probably too enthusiastically. And upon returning she saw me walk past and yelled out a happy ‘Odious!’, to which I smiled, embarrassed and scooted away from the vicinity. It’s funny now, how small I seemed when I was there, confidence makes you bigger, I think, makes you see things differently. Pity it took me so long to find it.
I eventually found Placa Espanya which was a large square that I’d actually been over looking while in the Olympic Park and was where that enomous fountain lay. It was enormous, in the centre a great statue overlooked the cars and people as they madly dashed about. There was a huge clock on one of the silvery and shimmering high rises… probably about five times the height of me and looming down on the city like some demonic future teller.
I went to the information desk and asked how to get to Rial or Barri Gotti - these were apparently the older areas of Barcelona and I was looking forward to seeing some Roman architecture. Unfortunately the 157 Bus which I caught was going the wrong way and I ended up on the beach… the beach was NOT what I’d come to see. I came from WA after all where we had some of the most magnificent beaches in the world. But, considering I was here (in the middle of no where, as it happened) I might as well take a look around.
I watched the children dashing in and out of the shore, not going too deep. There weren’t many people on the beach but I could imagine what it would look like in the middle of summer and it wasn’t a beach like I knew. I wandered along the foreshore, enjoying just seeing the ocean… I still have my obsession with water that, I think, started when I was young and hardly saw any that wasn’t coming from the sky and then absorbing into the dry earth within a second of its arrival. Mum suspects its because we are water babies – Pisces. What was nice about this coast line was that there were restaurants set up on the beach itself, I wondered why we hadn’t sorted that out yet, and the prices seemed quite reasonable – I didn’t stop for food, but had I been in company it seemed the perfect place to watch the sun set (assuming the sun set on this side of the city… all a bit confusing at this stage).
Close to the beach was a sort of shopping centre, specialty shops and restaurants. What was unique about it was that in order to get into it and from store to store you walked over pine slats above water. It was raining at the time and music was flowing from one of the umbrella’d restaurants… there’s something quiet poetic about rain hitting flat water, the dollops creating second-living circles in the water. As simple as it was, it was quite a site to see.
I decided to head to Las Ramblas – the most famous street of Barcelona where all the stores, stalls and shops were set up… that is, the ‘tourist trap’… beware of your bags! At this stage I was wondering whether I was doing the tourist thing correctly… was there a right way to do this? Was I doing it wrong? I was finding it rather stressful, so afraid to waste a moment of my time. It wasn’t until later that I realised there is no right way, see what you can and… DO NOT HAVE AN ITINERARY! I think rather, focus that you want to see one or two things, but at this time I had a specific schedule, so specific it detailed how much time I was allowed you use in each area… I had made my holiday far more about ticking notes off a page than experiencing the place. Never again!
I was absolutely ravenous by the time I got to Las Ramblas, however I had no intention of wasting my appetite, I wanted a food experience and had been specifically told not to eat along Las Ramblas – it was over priced and not overly authentic – food was designed to fit a Western (or rather, American as I later discovered) pallet.
When I jumped off the bus I was greeted by the largest monumental column I think I’ve ever seen. It gave me vertigo just staring up at it. Near to this there was a modernist structure, heading toward the sea. It looked like both a fish and a wave and was a mosaic type structure. Barcelona is, obviously, known for its architecture and this was an intriguingly modern object amongst the very structured and intimidating classical parliamentary building. Keeping the ocean and the pillar behind me I looked up through Las Rambals – is this the longest street in the world? Seemed like that to me… it went on and on, further than the eye could see. It was entirely littered with stalls… food stalls, tourist stalls, stalls of birds in cages and street artists putting themselves up between stores. There were cafes and restaurants and all sorts of intriguing things going on. I saw a man with his head in the pasta and his legs on the side of the table, two dangerous looking dragons, a man sitting atop a toilet… the street theatre was fantastic and drew in the crowds (I assume, also, the pickpockets).
I deliberated whether to start from here and work my way up, or run to the top of Las Ramblas and work my way down – the latter one, which goes to show I have no logic what-so-ever. It was very busy, you couldn’t walk in a straight line without hitting into someone (as I did a million times resulting in a million different languages being thrust in my general direction about watching where I was going. That was all rather difficult though, I couldn’t for the life of me stop looking up!). I wasn’t intimidated by the crowds though, for, as busy as it was, nothing could come close to Oxford Street in the evening just before Christmas – even non-claustraphobics would have a panic attack there! So, I meandered, ofcourse bumping into people, at the same time keeping an awareness about my bag and the contents and every ten minutes or so doing the finger count – wallet, camera, phone, key, still there, marvellous.
I decided not to waste Las Ramblas while walking to the end, taking a street off to the side first to circumnavigate the street in order to take it in with more fervour on my way back. Ofcourse I took a street that didn’t look too tourist ridden, which can sometimes be an error in judgement when you are a lone female who doesn’t know the streets. The street I took was dark for the rather high backs-of-appartments that rose up, colourless, on either side on the. It was a narrow winding street, silent at first and then coming across men, saying nothing, standing in what could be described as rags, smoking and staring at me under their eye lids. Best not make eye contact I thought. Best, also, to make ones way out of this area rather quickly. But it did give me an insight into inner-city living so to speak, quite similar to that in London – keep to the main streets. I turned the next street to my right hoping to double back to Las Ramblas and I came across a rustic church that was falling to pieces, ivy climbing up its side. Bricks had closed up the entrance to the church, from the exterior wall it looked at though half the church had been destroyed and where I was walking could well have been an extension of the original building. Coming around the front of the church it was completely bereft of people. I stood there, taking it in for a moment. This place of worship, the remnants of its grander days now cast in shadow, completely forgotten and abandoned. No tourists, no prayer sayers. It was sad and yet peaceful at the same time. I do like discovering the things that are not intended to be discovered and this appeared to be one such ruin.
I could hear the circus of street life behind me and carried on through a more colourful alleyway toward the shards of light that blinked between traffic at the far end. I stopped along the way to observe the murals that had been placed at the entranceways of what must have once been shops, café’s and were now apartments. The painted tiles told stories, one was simply of a café, another, of a crying boy and his mother speaking to a neighbour, one was about fornication from what I could gather from it. There were dates painted at the lower part of the tiles and ranged from the late 1700’s to mid 1800’s. That they were still intact, obviously still lovingly cared for, gave the impression that the Barcelona’s cared deeply for their past.
I crossed Las Ramblas when I emerged from the darkened alley-ways and found myself in a bustling market place. If completely empty it would have appeared an open paved square, building rising up on its four lengths an overhanging terrace held up by Roman columns, and below the terrace were café’s. In the square itself were market stalls… not just a few, not simply fruit and veg, it held everything. It was enchanting, it was a chef’s delight. There were stalls for eggs, nothing but farm produced eggs, another stall of rabbits strung from their hind legs, ofcourse fish and other meat displayed, then fruits… a stall dedicated to berries, another to banana’s, and strange fruits I didn’t recognise. Oh and sausages! I do love sausages! Men called out from behind their stalls enticing the customers, customers stood discerningly deciding on their purchase and bartering the price. There were even stalls of alcohol that also functioned as bars, a few customers sitting on high stools, sipping from what looked to me as shot-glasses and chatting to a passer by that they knew, or gossiping with the stall owner. It went on and on and on and I loved it and if I lived there, I knew where I’d buy my food. Everything looked so ripe and delicious and this, I thought, is how one should purchase their food, not in sterile super markets that have no personality and heaven knows where the food actually comes from. People contact. Like the Italian’s say, food is for the people and the people must know their food.
I continued my walk along Las Ramblas, wondering in amazement at the oldest theatre in the city which was still functioning today, peering down the tiny lanes that led off from Las Ramblas, never a one would lead you t the same place. I enjoyed looking up at the terraced buildings, their romantic facades, the shuttered windows, some open so you could look in at the chandeliers that hung over a marble dining room setting. There were statues of women, cherubs, horses and everything you could imagine snuck into buildings, you could just walk past and never notice, but there they were, staring at you, hoping you would see them, and if not, just watching, ever watching you, wondering where you had come from and where you were going as they, in their stony world, experienced the never ending changes of time.
I had some ice-cream – how could you not? And it was irrisistable. Unfortunately it was my ‘tipping’ incident. Apparently every tourist has a tipping incident. The woman at the store was lovely and genial and spoke relatively good English, while I made a polite effort to speak Spanish. I chose my icecream and handed my money over, still smiling and enjoying the jovial woman and fact I had a sweet icey treat ready to be devoured before it melted in the humidity. The change was brought on a small gold tray and I took up all of my change, while putting it my purse I made eye contact to say ‘Muchos Gratzias’, to which she responded with a rather evil glare that, had she had the power, could have pulled the skin from my face. I wandered out, licking my icecream wondering what on earth had come over the girl… ‘oh’, I realised, ‘maybe you’re supposed to tip here?’. I recalled reading something about the minimum wage in most European countries, that they basically depended on their tips which is why products were so cheap, there was no service charge. I stood for a moment a few metres from the shop thinking I should go back and tip her, but then the embarrassment that I’d feel, coupled with that which she would feel, was too great and decided to give a large tip next time I purchased something. ‘Well’, I thought, ‘they should blumin’ well have signs’, I felt very American.
Off Las Ramblas there are various ‘Placa’s’, open spaces that often have large fountains where people meet with one another, chat and smoke and drink, there are café’s lined around the square. Palm trees rise up here and there through the white pavement. I visited Placa Reial and Placa Cantalyna. Some with statues as their centrepiece, others with fountains, or markets. They are secret and peaceful places. The Spaniards are very sociable people and meeting places are of such importance. After their afternoon rest this is where they come to discuss the news or family events. I stood, watching over each of them with interest and delight. It all seemed rather exotic to me, not really having the same type of meeting places in Perth, not even in the same way in London… they have pubs.
I wandered up and down and in and out, looking into courtyards, taking a moment with ancient churches, smelling the scents from tapas bars and gendering at the uniquely flavoured icecreams. Down one street I came to Placa George Orwell – which was rather amusing. Apparently he loved Barcelona and spent so much time there that they’d re-named a space right infront of a church in honour of him. I sat before the church for some time, watching an elderly man paint it in vivid colour. As I moved on a family were coming out of a door in a wall – I assume it was the entranceway of an apartment, but there is no song and dance about the entry way, so to me, it just looks like a strange door in a very large wall and that makes it all the more interesting. So, there, a father was jumping onto his vespa, his wife saying her goodbyes, a young girl and older boy were walking further up the alley way, hand in hand, shouting their good-bye’s in turn. Neighbours on the balcony above yelled down to the couple, the wife hollered back and the husband rode away, a great man on a tiny bite, assumingly off to work. The perfect scene of normality along my tourist tour. I supposed in the end, that’s what you want to see… how people exist on the other side of the fense. What ever travels I’ve had, I’ve always been shocked at the utter similarities from coast to coast, continent to continent, civilisations with the same normality, and yet those subtle and exotic differences.
More mosaics, more open spaces, more fountains, more apartments in their terracotta and white colourings, more churches, which I wandered in to to take in the gothic ceilings, the foreboding architecture. There were beggars at the entrances and worshipers within. The silence deepened by the candles that flickered at the breathes of prayer. The stain glass windows caste an ery light far below, the ceilings were… well the churches, it was as if the architect were building his staircase to god. Mary stood with her hands clasped as cherubs snuck beneath her long cloak – not the Mary that I’d ever imagined, everything was on a grander scale to what I imagine the bible really implied.
I had still not eaten and my stomach was recommending I do so sooner rather than later or reap the shaking rewards of hunger. By this time I’d been walking for a good seven hours, not to mention the four or so hours of travel and I had come as a rather rude shock to my body. Luckily I’d gotten myself magnificently lost. I had no concept of where I was, which was brilliant, because it meant that I wouldn’t be eating tourist food, I was in the heart of the locals area and that meant true Spanish service and quisine. How I was supposed to find my way back was another issue entirely and I had no intention of considering that until I’d eaten something.
It was getting on to the evening, the sun was still allowing some light through the streets, however I knew night time was on its way and it would probably be more astute to get back to the hostel before the sky was blacked out and the crazy drinking English tourists were on the prowl.
I was walking away from Placa Maria Ma where I’d visited the beautiful gothic church and came to Plac de Olles. It was such a quiet and quaint space at the rear of another church, there was nothing but two small restaurants there. It felt rather local and I decided to sit down and look at my map to identify somewhere to eat. However, where I sat, was indeed a restaurant and promptly a lovely little man tottered out with two menu’s in hand, ‘No, just one’,
‘Uno?’
‘Ci’
‘Oh, ci ci!’ he said, I felt embarrassed at first, however my solitude apparently meant that he would provide his extra service, which included the largest glass of free wine I’ve ever been offered.
I got myself comfortable at a table outside of this restaurant, putting my maps and journal aside a moment to take in the menu and try to decipher the food items with my phrase book – I certainly was away from the tourist area, everywhere I’d seem along Las Ramblas had had both Spanish and English menu’s. I took out my little note book and started to interpret the menu (can I just say this is a very fun thing to do, and I always thought I’d make a good Egyptologist). I’d identified a potato dish, something to do with prawns and a tomato bread. I’d also decided I wanted two other things, however when the lovely old man came back out he said,
‘No no no, only two!’
‘Only two? But I’d like to try lots!’
‘No no no, only two…’ he rubbed his stomach and made a sick-like face as if more than two would make me very ill. I laughed and agreed. I showed him my piece of paper and implied, ‘which ones?’
‘Ci ci ci, Prawns!’, I was glad of that, I do love my prawns, and also loved the fact the Spaniards enjoy saying everything thrice,
‘Ah! Here, ci’, he was pointing at the potatoes, and it was he, infact, that decided I needed some tomato bread to go with the meal.
Oh, what fun I was having, I never felt so happy in solitude. A waitress came out to top up my wine, however, she asked my permission this time and I figured that one was free, the second would be on the bill. I asserted that I’d have some more, and the girl also took my bottle of water to fill up, after which I got onto writing my post-cards and going over where I’d been during the day. All the staff were just lovely, if only I could remember the name of the restaurant because I’d recommend it to any lone traveller.
While I was enjoying my meal and reading through my itinerary the heavens completely opened up… like nothing I’ve seen before. One minute, the sun was shining, the humidity was embracing, but as if within a moment the seasons changed, rain poured down in torrents. Luckily I was situated under an umbrella, but I scooted my chair so I was better protected from the rain as it danced in the sudden wind. There were people off to the right of me, laughing as they pulled out their own umbrella and continued to chuckle while sipping their wine. We made eye contact and cheers in complete ironic joviality to the air. Laughing at one another, there was me and them, the only ones dining, and the staff of the restaurant laughing from under the cover of the veranda waving us all in to the inner sanctum. The other couple, nodding at me in the direction of the main restaurant, but I waited… I enjoyed sitting there under th violent patting of the rain upon my umbrella top, sat watching the rain, now turned to waters, whisking its way past my heel, the walls and floor now gleaming white with its liquid blanket. Oh how can I say I loved this moment more? How can I explain to you that this is what I’ve wanted for years at a time, to have my pen in my hand, a civilisation I knew little about enveloping me, to have the heavens come down and be surrounded in everything that was different, unusual and perfectly me? I think there are such things as ‘meaning moments’, small crisp elements of time that are yours, and yours alone, that tell you that, you are here and here is where you need to be, however useless, frivolous, purposeless it may be, this is a moment where the black cat will never appear, where you are here in your own right, and there is no where else on the world where you need to be.
I did end up running in to the restaurant. I finished my food and wine and laughed with the others. I used their facilities and chatted for a while to the America tourists who I had cheer’sed earlier, paid my bill (including a substantial tip!) and made my way into the roaring weather. I had no umbrella but basked in the surrealty of the experience. My hair was plasted against my face as I sought out another church in the darkness. Along my way three gypsies approached me in turn trying to sell me umbrella’s. The first two I sent away with a gesture from my hand, but I was getting shaky in the subsequent cold winds from the rain and spoke to the third.
‘Umbrella! 5 Euros!’
‘5 Euros? I don’t think so’ and continued to pace away, the man followed me,
‘4 Euro’s!’
‘What? For an umbrella? No, I don’t think so.’ And carried on, but he followed me, ‘3 Euros?, 3? Bargain!’
‘I’ll have it off you for two’, I responded, he looked utterly frustrated at me, more than a little annoyed. I shrugged and carried on, he didn’t realise that I had no real issue with the rain other than the fact it was hindering my vision,
‘Fine fine’, he said with an accent, ‘two Euro’,
‘Excellent’, I responded, taking up my new red brolly and handing him over the two Euro. I think I was rather mean but it was also my first bartering attempt – I think I’m better than I thought, so there it was, my practically stolen umbrella, me and an ancient church as the sky was making itself known to the earth. Ah… what an experience.
It took my 40 minutes to get back to the hostel, I was drenched and tired, but so happy. I signed in and went across to my room. The interior of the hostel was lovely… well, until I got to my room. The lounge had chairs, a bar and a huge LCD television. There were a few computers that you could access the internet from and two kitchens that you could cook in or store your goods.
I went to my room, I had a top bunk bed in a room for six, the other five beds were being used by five Americans, all from Alabama and all doing Architecture at Uni. They had just been to Istanbul, and didn’t they want to tell you about it! I tried to have a chat with one of the girls but she didn’t seem very interested… they were a group, I was not, such is the way of travel as well as life it sees.
They were all going out on the town (they returned at 3am and woke me an, oh the effort not to scream at them!), so I had a glass of wine, a shower and did my bits and bobs. I had time to do a bit of writing before curling up in the bunk and trying to get some sleep. I could hear a party going on inside the hostel and felt very alone. I knew that going in there and joining in would result in getting up late and missing so much, but I wished that Nigel was here to see all this with me. It is wonderful to do these things alone, but when you hear the laughter of others, you cant but wish for laughter of your own.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Highgate & Hamstead Heath
As I said, I was only one tube stop from Highgate and one gloriously sunny morning I decided to venture out and see what everyone was talking about – I was very much inspired from the outing.
It was winter, so it was cold, however the sun was shining brilliantly and I must say, there is something magnificent about a sunny winters day in comparison to a sunny summers day… the light is different, the feel, the atmosphere, everything seems more glowing and surreal.
Highgate is a well to do area, to say the least, you can almost smell the money in the air… more old money than new. It’s been a good area since it began, sitting there upon a hill watching over the derelict city of London since time began, it seems. It’s marvellous. The huge white Romanesque houses chased by the fake-tudor architecture, the expances of green and post-coffee houses. Even by watching the streets and taking in the expensive cars, there is a sense that you either belong here, or you don’t.
I bobbed into a charity shop along my wanderings and picked up nice pair of shoes, ‘bargain’ I thought… thinking that as it was a charity store it would be going for chips – alas, I was wrong, it appears that even the poverty striken are well to do, the shoes were 40pound and well beyond my financial inclination.
I bought a fanta in Highgate Village, which, regardless of the price of everything, is a lovely place to simply be, to look to enjoy and exist. The man behind the counter directed me to where I wanted to go, which was Highgate Cemetry… I wanted to visit Marx and just wander through the tombstones – some of which date back to 1400 / 1500. Some may find my interest in cemetries quirky (to put it politely), but I remember wandering through Mourambine Cemetry, chatting to my Great Grandmother, thinking about the lives of youths that had been buried there. What these people’s stories had been, who did they leave behind, where are their descendants? My interest became more prevalent when, while at boarding school, we went to a cemetery in Fremantle. I remember crying over the grave of a woman and her child, she had died during childbirth and the child as well. I felt for the husband who had put a poem on the headstone about angels carrying new angels upon their wings. I liked to think that they could almost here my thoughts and smile because they were being remembered. I think that’s what we all want in a way, a moment of immortality, even hundreds of years after we have gone.
Is it wrong to say that a cemetery is beautiful? Well, I think they are, and this one especially. I made my way through Balthomenue Park, watching children running around the grass and playing on the swing, couples laying on the ground, all rugged up with cups of red wine. Some lone people reading and taking advantage of one of the few sunny winters days. I stood for a while under a cherry tree, the wind blew and petals flew around me, I felt like the only person on earth for those moments. The whispering wind and the dancing particles of the trees. The old city was silent in the distance, you almost felt that you were on Mount Olympus looking down, so was the atmosphere here.
Next to the park is Highgate Cemetery, I liked that, to think that these people were laid to rest so close to the sounds of life and happiness and childish fun. I paid the lady the entry fare (I didn’t mind this as it went to the upkeep of the grounds and the headstones) and wandered through the huge wrought iron gates.
Inside the cemetery the grass was slightly overgrown, if felt as if I was wandering through the secret garden, something undiscovered about it, as if no one had laid foot here for years before. I liked this, the grass was enigmatic light next to the off white of the headstones. Angels overlooked the dead below, crosses stood high below sweeping leaves of the trees, ivy grew on thick angled headstones, and silently words crept up from the ground, a hidden and lost memory of the person who lay there now. Karl Marx, in all his grandeur, a bust of his head twenty times the size of a human skull. He looked on, was it thoughtfully? Judgingly? Aggressively? I’m not sure, but he certainly was a presence. His ideas (although not always used for good) were honoured here. A tree trunk had wound itself around the headstone of a sailor lost at sea. There were soldiers, sailors, Lords and Ladies, lost children and people of political importance. All here, laid to rest, peaceful amongst the trees, the birds and the silent visitors who remembered them for a moment.
I spent what must have been two hours there, reading, wandering, remembering, breathing, thinking, being at peace. Funny that a place like this would be the scene of so many scary stories, and yet, I think a lively street more inclined to hold danger and fear than a cemetery.
After spending some time in the past, dreaming the lives that these people may have led, imagining the world that they had seen and who was still here to see it for them, I moved on in search of Hamstead Heath. I wanted a good walk and wanted more space and landscape. I used to feel it in Perth as well, sometimes longing for open space, feeling claustrophobic in the general day to day existence of a city, more so that sense comes across you in London. The hustle bustle that keeps your heart pacing like an excitable puppy. Open space is our essential reprieve.
I wandered down through the quiet tree lined streets, peeking through gates and observing the rich estates and mansions that must have been built hundreds of years before – the rich seem to retain their position high up. I came through Hamstead Village, smelling the cheese and omlettes and fresh coffee along the way. Looking at the modern day Mum’s in the latest fashion wheeling their little Michelin man babies around as if an accessory… either that or a dog in a bag – I don’t think I’ll ever understand the dog in the bag concept, those dogs eyes are often larger than their skulls and appear constantly frightened of everything, possibly because they are smaller that everything else… not to mention, they live in a bag under the armpit of their owner – can’t be the best life, can it?
I passed through the little street having no idea how to get into Hamstead but hoping that I was heading in the right direction. Feeling relatively conspicuous in my tattered stone wash jeans, well worn sneakers and thigh length purple jumper that was thinning more every time I even glanced at it! But turning the corner from the village I saw before me a great explance of open land, a hill rising up and thought – well, that wasn’t too hard was it? Excellent, lets find somewhere that I can sit and read!
Luckily it was mid-week so I was relatively quiet. Up on Parliament Hill there were families and children flying kites, the colours whisking like birds scanning their pray below, winding around and around again, its funny the delight we get of making things fly or float. Hamstead Heath is enormous. It stretches on and on and encompasses different landscapes of the English country-side and I’m so clad its been retained. Apparently famous people are constantly seen here – though, I think I was too busy enjoying the space and trees and lakes to take notice of the people.
I parked myself under a weeping willow (one of my favourite trees, when I was little I decided I would have a huge drive way to my house that would be lined by weeping willows and daffodils underneath). I opened my book and lazed while looking out over the few small boats that paraded silently on the rippling lake behind me. Before me Parliament Hill swept up to create a horizon of its very own and along the path Mum’s with prams and children on scooters merrily moved along. I took a sip of water and my stomach insisted that food was more a necessity than liquid and what on earth did I think I was doing not bringing a sandwhich? Stomachs are demanding things at times, I think we are at the whim of than more than our mind. So, after a small moment of relaxation I continued my investigation of Hamstead Heath and hoped to discover a café along the walk.
I moved along a huge lake, watched the picnicking families, breathed in the clean air while the sun warmed my back. I headed up, assuming up was the direction in which I’d come and along a dirt road. I came to a ‘Man’s Only’ swimming hole, which I thought incredulous and sexist… until I came to the ‘Woman’s Only’ which was just in time because I had had far too much water to compensate for my lack of food. I wandered in to the Woman’s Only Swimming Hole and saw a natural lake before me. To the side of it was a rock pool and a place to park bikes, and on the other side a steeped green where ladies lay, breasts out, reading or eating or chatting to friends. I had a vivid image of the first ‘Planet of the Apes’ film, when the main character first saw the Land of the Apes and women and men wandered around the water hole practically naked but completely at peace. It was something out of a Romantic painting… I quite liked it, very bohemian, I thought. The natural pool had two sections, one with lanes for laps, and the other for free swimming. There was one brave woman stroking away, though I can imagine how freezing it must have been. I used to lavatories there, chatted to the attendant for a bit. She said that this had been here since the mid 1800’s and she agreed with my summation, very bohemian, a place for female freedom (and Lesbians… she said, though, they didn’t encourage public displays of affection). ‘Well’, I thought to myself, ‘I’m certainly not in Australia any more’.
Eventually the road disappeared and there was another expanse of hilled landscape, as I walked up I looked behind me and saw ‘community’, apparently, I found out later, an illegal hippy community where they were growing their own vegetables and so long as they didn’t bother anyone no one bothered them. It was overlooked by the police, so long as they weren’t doing any harm. I saw tents and make-shift huts, colourful clothing flying carelessly on clotheslines like so many Chinese Prayers. There was a part of me that yearned to join them, but it takes a brave person to completely remove themselves from society… and then again, I still didn’t know how well I was going to live with a group of people – after boarding school I promised I’d never live in a group situation again and my current house share had been a conscious personal test to conquer past demons. So I moved away from the hippies with my silent best wishes and underlying dream to wake up one day in the 1960’s or 70’s – I did have the beads for it!
Rather than going straight ahead toward the building in the far distance, I thought, going through the bush to my right would be a short cut… So said Hanzel and Grettle. I walked past what I assume were Carnival entertainers, a man with dreadlocks down to the ground playing a guitar, while a hemp-attired woman whirled batons in the air and another man played with a cylindrical implement on a piece of string, throwing it high up in the air and catching again… may have been a good time to turn around. But I headed up into the bush, there was a gate closing itself off from a Victorian House, I saw the remnants of an attempt to garden the unkempt bush, a veranda not unlike one you’d see in Australia, and the chimney puffing out bilious smoke. ‘Oh, I could live there’, I thought to myself. There was a path… or what you could call a path… I tried to listen out for traffic, but the noises had disappeared amongst the trees and all of a sudden I was bush walking, the path seemed to have disappeared. It reminded me of our childhood wanderings around the farm and other peoples farms. Pretending we were witches (good ones ofcourse, laying spells on the unknown, or forcing the coming of spring or summer with our spells and offerings of limbless insects) or explorers, or people of the forest. Memories flow so strongly when you are away from the surroundings in which they were originally created.
However… what I discovered was not something I really should have as a child, and resulted in some stumbling and rather fast paced walking in the opposite direction to the building on the hill that I’d originally avoided. There, within the bush, I came across a pair of legs, naked hairy legs, four of them… leading up to red jocks in one case… and to… well nothing in the other. Two men smiled at me, splayed on the ground looking rather jovial and extremely amused. I smiled as politely as I could in the circumstances and dashed forward, only to find another two men kissing on a bench and some others in the corner of my eye. I could feel that laughter behind me, and although I’ve no qualms about chosen sexuality, I didn’t feel as if I belonged in any sense in the place that I was.
Shaking my head and giggling to myself I walked up the hill to the large building that ended up being an old mansion with a walled vegetable garden and sitting on the street I’d been looking for, I decided to opt for an ice cream. I was rather warm after my speedy walk, not to mention my encounter and my stomach was becoming quite frustrated at me. So licking my ice cream and my general shame I walked along the street, moving past the park and back to the tube. I’d certainly made a day of it, to say the least, and what a wealth of experiences to take with me to my dreams that night.
It was winter, so it was cold, however the sun was shining brilliantly and I must say, there is something magnificent about a sunny winters day in comparison to a sunny summers day… the light is different, the feel, the atmosphere, everything seems more glowing and surreal.
Highgate is a well to do area, to say the least, you can almost smell the money in the air… more old money than new. It’s been a good area since it began, sitting there upon a hill watching over the derelict city of London since time began, it seems. It’s marvellous. The huge white Romanesque houses chased by the fake-tudor architecture, the expances of green and post-coffee houses. Even by watching the streets and taking in the expensive cars, there is a sense that you either belong here, or you don’t.
I bobbed into a charity shop along my wanderings and picked up nice pair of shoes, ‘bargain’ I thought… thinking that as it was a charity store it would be going for chips – alas, I was wrong, it appears that even the poverty striken are well to do, the shoes were 40pound and well beyond my financial inclination.
I bought a fanta in Highgate Village, which, regardless of the price of everything, is a lovely place to simply be, to look to enjoy and exist. The man behind the counter directed me to where I wanted to go, which was Highgate Cemetry… I wanted to visit Marx and just wander through the tombstones – some of which date back to 1400 / 1500. Some may find my interest in cemetries quirky (to put it politely), but I remember wandering through Mourambine Cemetry, chatting to my Great Grandmother, thinking about the lives of youths that had been buried there. What these people’s stories had been, who did they leave behind, where are their descendants? My interest became more prevalent when, while at boarding school, we went to a cemetery in Fremantle. I remember crying over the grave of a woman and her child, she had died during childbirth and the child as well. I felt for the husband who had put a poem on the headstone about angels carrying new angels upon their wings. I liked to think that they could almost here my thoughts and smile because they were being remembered. I think that’s what we all want in a way, a moment of immortality, even hundreds of years after we have gone.
Is it wrong to say that a cemetery is beautiful? Well, I think they are, and this one especially. I made my way through Balthomenue Park, watching children running around the grass and playing on the swing, couples laying on the ground, all rugged up with cups of red wine. Some lone people reading and taking advantage of one of the few sunny winters days. I stood for a while under a cherry tree, the wind blew and petals flew around me, I felt like the only person on earth for those moments. The whispering wind and the dancing particles of the trees. The old city was silent in the distance, you almost felt that you were on Mount Olympus looking down, so was the atmosphere here.
Next to the park is Highgate Cemetery, I liked that, to think that these people were laid to rest so close to the sounds of life and happiness and childish fun. I paid the lady the entry fare (I didn’t mind this as it went to the upkeep of the grounds and the headstones) and wandered through the huge wrought iron gates.
Inside the cemetery the grass was slightly overgrown, if felt as if I was wandering through the secret garden, something undiscovered about it, as if no one had laid foot here for years before. I liked this, the grass was enigmatic light next to the off white of the headstones. Angels overlooked the dead below, crosses stood high below sweeping leaves of the trees, ivy grew on thick angled headstones, and silently words crept up from the ground, a hidden and lost memory of the person who lay there now. Karl Marx, in all his grandeur, a bust of his head twenty times the size of a human skull. He looked on, was it thoughtfully? Judgingly? Aggressively? I’m not sure, but he certainly was a presence. His ideas (although not always used for good) were honoured here. A tree trunk had wound itself around the headstone of a sailor lost at sea. There were soldiers, sailors, Lords and Ladies, lost children and people of political importance. All here, laid to rest, peaceful amongst the trees, the birds and the silent visitors who remembered them for a moment.
I spent what must have been two hours there, reading, wandering, remembering, breathing, thinking, being at peace. Funny that a place like this would be the scene of so many scary stories, and yet, I think a lively street more inclined to hold danger and fear than a cemetery.
After spending some time in the past, dreaming the lives that these people may have led, imagining the world that they had seen and who was still here to see it for them, I moved on in search of Hamstead Heath. I wanted a good walk and wanted more space and landscape. I used to feel it in Perth as well, sometimes longing for open space, feeling claustrophobic in the general day to day existence of a city, more so that sense comes across you in London. The hustle bustle that keeps your heart pacing like an excitable puppy. Open space is our essential reprieve.
I wandered down through the quiet tree lined streets, peeking through gates and observing the rich estates and mansions that must have been built hundreds of years before – the rich seem to retain their position high up. I came through Hamstead Village, smelling the cheese and omlettes and fresh coffee along the way. Looking at the modern day Mum’s in the latest fashion wheeling their little Michelin man babies around as if an accessory… either that or a dog in a bag – I don’t think I’ll ever understand the dog in the bag concept, those dogs eyes are often larger than their skulls and appear constantly frightened of everything, possibly because they are smaller that everything else… not to mention, they live in a bag under the armpit of their owner – can’t be the best life, can it?
I passed through the little street having no idea how to get into Hamstead but hoping that I was heading in the right direction. Feeling relatively conspicuous in my tattered stone wash jeans, well worn sneakers and thigh length purple jumper that was thinning more every time I even glanced at it! But turning the corner from the village I saw before me a great explance of open land, a hill rising up and thought – well, that wasn’t too hard was it? Excellent, lets find somewhere that I can sit and read!
Luckily it was mid-week so I was relatively quiet. Up on Parliament Hill there were families and children flying kites, the colours whisking like birds scanning their pray below, winding around and around again, its funny the delight we get of making things fly or float. Hamstead Heath is enormous. It stretches on and on and encompasses different landscapes of the English country-side and I’m so clad its been retained. Apparently famous people are constantly seen here – though, I think I was too busy enjoying the space and trees and lakes to take notice of the people.
I parked myself under a weeping willow (one of my favourite trees, when I was little I decided I would have a huge drive way to my house that would be lined by weeping willows and daffodils underneath). I opened my book and lazed while looking out over the few small boats that paraded silently on the rippling lake behind me. Before me Parliament Hill swept up to create a horizon of its very own and along the path Mum’s with prams and children on scooters merrily moved along. I took a sip of water and my stomach insisted that food was more a necessity than liquid and what on earth did I think I was doing not bringing a sandwhich? Stomachs are demanding things at times, I think we are at the whim of than more than our mind. So, after a small moment of relaxation I continued my investigation of Hamstead Heath and hoped to discover a café along the walk.
I moved along a huge lake, watched the picnicking families, breathed in the clean air while the sun warmed my back. I headed up, assuming up was the direction in which I’d come and along a dirt road. I came to a ‘Man’s Only’ swimming hole, which I thought incredulous and sexist… until I came to the ‘Woman’s Only’ which was just in time because I had had far too much water to compensate for my lack of food. I wandered in to the Woman’s Only Swimming Hole and saw a natural lake before me. To the side of it was a rock pool and a place to park bikes, and on the other side a steeped green where ladies lay, breasts out, reading or eating or chatting to friends. I had a vivid image of the first ‘Planet of the Apes’ film, when the main character first saw the Land of the Apes and women and men wandered around the water hole practically naked but completely at peace. It was something out of a Romantic painting… I quite liked it, very bohemian, I thought. The natural pool had two sections, one with lanes for laps, and the other for free swimming. There was one brave woman stroking away, though I can imagine how freezing it must have been. I used to lavatories there, chatted to the attendant for a bit. She said that this had been here since the mid 1800’s and she agreed with my summation, very bohemian, a place for female freedom (and Lesbians… she said, though, they didn’t encourage public displays of affection). ‘Well’, I thought to myself, ‘I’m certainly not in Australia any more’.
Eventually the road disappeared and there was another expanse of hilled landscape, as I walked up I looked behind me and saw ‘community’, apparently, I found out later, an illegal hippy community where they were growing their own vegetables and so long as they didn’t bother anyone no one bothered them. It was overlooked by the police, so long as they weren’t doing any harm. I saw tents and make-shift huts, colourful clothing flying carelessly on clotheslines like so many Chinese Prayers. There was a part of me that yearned to join them, but it takes a brave person to completely remove themselves from society… and then again, I still didn’t know how well I was going to live with a group of people – after boarding school I promised I’d never live in a group situation again and my current house share had been a conscious personal test to conquer past demons. So I moved away from the hippies with my silent best wishes and underlying dream to wake up one day in the 1960’s or 70’s – I did have the beads for it!
Rather than going straight ahead toward the building in the far distance, I thought, going through the bush to my right would be a short cut… So said Hanzel and Grettle. I walked past what I assume were Carnival entertainers, a man with dreadlocks down to the ground playing a guitar, while a hemp-attired woman whirled batons in the air and another man played with a cylindrical implement on a piece of string, throwing it high up in the air and catching again… may have been a good time to turn around. But I headed up into the bush, there was a gate closing itself off from a Victorian House, I saw the remnants of an attempt to garden the unkempt bush, a veranda not unlike one you’d see in Australia, and the chimney puffing out bilious smoke. ‘Oh, I could live there’, I thought to myself. There was a path… or what you could call a path… I tried to listen out for traffic, but the noises had disappeared amongst the trees and all of a sudden I was bush walking, the path seemed to have disappeared. It reminded me of our childhood wanderings around the farm and other peoples farms. Pretending we were witches (good ones ofcourse, laying spells on the unknown, or forcing the coming of spring or summer with our spells and offerings of limbless insects) or explorers, or people of the forest. Memories flow so strongly when you are away from the surroundings in which they were originally created.
However… what I discovered was not something I really should have as a child, and resulted in some stumbling and rather fast paced walking in the opposite direction to the building on the hill that I’d originally avoided. There, within the bush, I came across a pair of legs, naked hairy legs, four of them… leading up to red jocks in one case… and to… well nothing in the other. Two men smiled at me, splayed on the ground looking rather jovial and extremely amused. I smiled as politely as I could in the circumstances and dashed forward, only to find another two men kissing on a bench and some others in the corner of my eye. I could feel that laughter behind me, and although I’ve no qualms about chosen sexuality, I didn’t feel as if I belonged in any sense in the place that I was.
Shaking my head and giggling to myself I walked up the hill to the large building that ended up being an old mansion with a walled vegetable garden and sitting on the street I’d been looking for, I decided to opt for an ice cream. I was rather warm after my speedy walk, not to mention my encounter and my stomach was becoming quite frustrated at me. So licking my ice cream and my general shame I walked along the street, moving past the park and back to the tube. I’d certainly made a day of it, to say the least, and what a wealth of experiences to take with me to my dreams that night.
Tate Modern
Before leaving Tooting Bec and Kelly’s house, I decided to take a day, just a day to myself and do some more investigating. I headed to the Tate Modern, it seemed that Mark and I were never in-tune with one anothers time schedules and I couldn’t not see it… and I am so glad I did. I’ve been a few times since that first experience, but the first was the most intriguing.
I headed across the Millennium Bridge – which I still expected to wobble, but unfortunately they’d already sorted the quirks out and so it was still as a cacti in the desert – and proceeded in through the ornamental and sparse gardens to the open and intimidating space that is the Tate Modern. I believe I’ve explained before that this was originally an industrial space, potentially a water tower – I forget now, forgive me. At the same time, to make use of such a space, to… rather than pull it down and construct apartments and stores, to develop the interior while retaining the exterior architecture, I hope that it remains there for time to come, so much architecture has been lost. Its funny, I always resented anything that wasn’t pleasing to the eye, now I understand that buildings are statement of not only time, but functuality, and that both are important for us to acknowledge, to appreciate and understand. I wonder if the modern Roman’s wanted to pull down the colluseum for something grander and more modern, and what a loss it would be if they did so.
I wandered in, under the shadow cast by the red brick tower to the left of the structure, and was winded by the immensity of space that greeted me. The never ending ceiling, the openness of all around me, like a world within a world.
Where the tower must loom there is a giant open space that is given to current modern artists. Every season they convert it, make use of the space for a single exhibition, or rather, a single piece. It has held a giant spider, been used to re-create the ocean, and when I wandered that empty expanse, was used as a post-apolcolyptic bunker. It was as if you were walking through an empty concentration camp, or something from Atwoods, The Handmaiden’s Tale. Cheap chrome spring beds from length to length, a discarded boot as if someone left in a hurry, books upon the beds… but not any old books, books about the end of the world, or about Communism or other forms of civilisation that we don’t experience in the Western World. The light baring down on us was shafted, so it seemed we were locking in some kind of prison without the benefit of escape… It was daunting and awe inspiring and shocking and everything, I think, the artist wanted to be. Tourists spoke in hushed whispers as if they were in a cave hiding, or, possibly, in a sacred forgotten space.
I carried on through the Tate Mod, I viewed some new portraits figuring people with their skin torn off, watching a film in which a man, naked in the bath, hit himself to the point of bruising and bleeding, observed different sculptures that represented movement, it was a type of shock therapy, most, but at the same time there were images that were incredibly thought provoking.
Modern Art is a strange thing to say the least. There are parts of it that inspire the soul, that enable a mind to sour beyond its original capacity, and yet, there are parts of it created simply to disturb a person, to remove them from the serene comfort of their own metality and question their moral being. I don’t like images of torture, I’m adverse to pain for the sake of pain, I don’t see the point in frivolous sexual exploit – especially when cruel, but all these things existed within this building. I was shocked to see certain things, I think… maybe prudishly, which is wrong for someone my age, by all accounts, that art is not about causing shock and pain and forcing someone into an experience they never intended it to be. I personally believe that art is about expression, about desire, it can be about political means, it is about youth and beauty and age and beauty and experience. It does not… it does not, need to hurt the person experiencing it, it should not be a juvenile attempt to prove that one can shock or disturb… that does not make a clever artist, not by any means at all.
So my experience of the Tate Modern was a thought provoking one. I ended up at a lovely restaurant near Waterloo Station on my way back and sat there, eating pasta while contemplating and understanding the things that I’d seen. Later I would take a friend from New Zealand there, she showed little interest in it at all, thinking all of it a lot of reprehensible stupidity, attempt at attention seeking at the least… and on certain things, I agreed with her – however prudent and potentially ‘un-cultured’ that may be. Culture is about time, there is nothing that you can grab hold of. No one can be cultured throughout human existence, its on the precipice of a generation.
So… I had a job and had moved into my new house. The house included one Australian (me), one Iranian, one Spaniard, one Afro-Caribean, one Sussex-girl and one Nigerian… as you could suspect… it all went terribly wrong. There were arguments from the second week, in regard to boyfriend being all to present, use of the kitchen, lack of toilet cleaning, missing toilettrees and stolen milk. Who would clean the garden and why weren’t the bins taken out? I clean more than you? Certain things being smoked in the backyard, monopolisation of the lounge, too much noise at past the hour… and ‘why did you go out with her and didn’t invite me?’… it was all a drama, and it didn’t really stop. I came to the conclusion that my room was the safest place to be, and luckily I had enough space to make it feel like home rather than a prison. I would spend the initial part of my evening hiding out at the lovely pub on the corner – the Old White Lion – that had an indoor fire, old leather couches and a chicken coop out the back, not to mention a wonderful selection of food. Otherwise I’d have a drink with Michelle, a work colleague who soon became a very close friend, in the city.
It was an interesting life-style, maybe I should have moved to avoid the ongoing drama, but I didn’t. I suppose some of the hostilities and ensuing arguments in that house taught me how to act in such circumstance in the future, maybe there was method in my madness, though I didn’t know at the time. I do, however, know that I’ll never live with a group of girls again and unless my daughter rants and raves that she wants to go to an all girls boarding school, I will advise against it. Women are mad, and being one, I think I’ve the grounds to make a comment as such. I don’t regret it all, because within the wealth of drama, there are days I remember in sitting on the lawn drinking and eating cheese and chattering away and listening to old music… when it snowed I was out there dancing in it, when it rained I watched it fall. The reason I moved there was for space, and space I had in our backyard expanse, I made a friend or two and, well, it was certainly an experience.
I headed across the Millennium Bridge – which I still expected to wobble, but unfortunately they’d already sorted the quirks out and so it was still as a cacti in the desert – and proceeded in through the ornamental and sparse gardens to the open and intimidating space that is the Tate Modern. I believe I’ve explained before that this was originally an industrial space, potentially a water tower – I forget now, forgive me. At the same time, to make use of such a space, to… rather than pull it down and construct apartments and stores, to develop the interior while retaining the exterior architecture, I hope that it remains there for time to come, so much architecture has been lost. Its funny, I always resented anything that wasn’t pleasing to the eye, now I understand that buildings are statement of not only time, but functuality, and that both are important for us to acknowledge, to appreciate and understand. I wonder if the modern Roman’s wanted to pull down the colluseum for something grander and more modern, and what a loss it would be if they did so.
I wandered in, under the shadow cast by the red brick tower to the left of the structure, and was winded by the immensity of space that greeted me. The never ending ceiling, the openness of all around me, like a world within a world.
Where the tower must loom there is a giant open space that is given to current modern artists. Every season they convert it, make use of the space for a single exhibition, or rather, a single piece. It has held a giant spider, been used to re-create the ocean, and when I wandered that empty expanse, was used as a post-apolcolyptic bunker. It was as if you were walking through an empty concentration camp, or something from Atwoods, The Handmaiden’s Tale. Cheap chrome spring beds from length to length, a discarded boot as if someone left in a hurry, books upon the beds… but not any old books, books about the end of the world, or about Communism or other forms of civilisation that we don’t experience in the Western World. The light baring down on us was shafted, so it seemed we were locking in some kind of prison without the benefit of escape… It was daunting and awe inspiring and shocking and everything, I think, the artist wanted to be. Tourists spoke in hushed whispers as if they were in a cave hiding, or, possibly, in a sacred forgotten space.
I carried on through the Tate Mod, I viewed some new portraits figuring people with their skin torn off, watching a film in which a man, naked in the bath, hit himself to the point of bruising and bleeding, observed different sculptures that represented movement, it was a type of shock therapy, most, but at the same time there were images that were incredibly thought provoking.
Modern Art is a strange thing to say the least. There are parts of it that inspire the soul, that enable a mind to sour beyond its original capacity, and yet, there are parts of it created simply to disturb a person, to remove them from the serene comfort of their own metality and question their moral being. I don’t like images of torture, I’m adverse to pain for the sake of pain, I don’t see the point in frivolous sexual exploit – especially when cruel, but all these things existed within this building. I was shocked to see certain things, I think… maybe prudishly, which is wrong for someone my age, by all accounts, that art is not about causing shock and pain and forcing someone into an experience they never intended it to be. I personally believe that art is about expression, about desire, it can be about political means, it is about youth and beauty and age and beauty and experience. It does not… it does not, need to hurt the person experiencing it, it should not be a juvenile attempt to prove that one can shock or disturb… that does not make a clever artist, not by any means at all.
So my experience of the Tate Modern was a thought provoking one. I ended up at a lovely restaurant near Waterloo Station on my way back and sat there, eating pasta while contemplating and understanding the things that I’d seen. Later I would take a friend from New Zealand there, she showed little interest in it at all, thinking all of it a lot of reprehensible stupidity, attempt at attention seeking at the least… and on certain things, I agreed with her – however prudent and potentially ‘un-cultured’ that may be. Culture is about time, there is nothing that you can grab hold of. No one can be cultured throughout human existence, its on the precipice of a generation.
So… I had a job and had moved into my new house. The house included one Australian (me), one Iranian, one Spaniard, one Afro-Caribean, one Sussex-girl and one Nigerian… as you could suspect… it all went terribly wrong. There were arguments from the second week, in regard to boyfriend being all to present, use of the kitchen, lack of toilet cleaning, missing toilettrees and stolen milk. Who would clean the garden and why weren’t the bins taken out? I clean more than you? Certain things being smoked in the backyard, monopolisation of the lounge, too much noise at past the hour… and ‘why did you go out with her and didn’t invite me?’… it was all a drama, and it didn’t really stop. I came to the conclusion that my room was the safest place to be, and luckily I had enough space to make it feel like home rather than a prison. I would spend the initial part of my evening hiding out at the lovely pub on the corner – the Old White Lion – that had an indoor fire, old leather couches and a chicken coop out the back, not to mention a wonderful selection of food. Otherwise I’d have a drink with Michelle, a work colleague who soon became a very close friend, in the city.
It was an interesting life-style, maybe I should have moved to avoid the ongoing drama, but I didn’t. I suppose some of the hostilities and ensuing arguments in that house taught me how to act in such circumstance in the future, maybe there was method in my madness, though I didn’t know at the time. I do, however, know that I’ll never live with a group of girls again and unless my daughter rants and raves that she wants to go to an all girls boarding school, I will advise against it. Women are mad, and being one, I think I’ve the grounds to make a comment as such. I don’t regret it all, because within the wealth of drama, there are days I remember in sitting on the lawn drinking and eating cheese and chattering away and listening to old music… when it snowed I was out there dancing in it, when it rained I watched it fall. The reason I moved there was for space, and space I had in our backyard expanse, I made a friend or two and, well, it was certainly an experience.
New Years & New House
I was glad to go to bed that night, glad for the season to be finished, as much as it would be in England – it goes on til the 10th of January here. I went to Hyde Park one day, and Christmas was still milling about, one of those days that made me feel more alone than I already did.
Oh! I sound so woeful! It wasn’t like that exactly. I was happy, I was proud of myself, I was enjoying the new experiences, its just that… well, there was something missing, an element of someone, someone I knew, someone to share this with. Looking back, I think I may have enjoyed the melancholy somewhat, there’s something artificially inspiring about it, something I can draw from when ever I write about loneliness, the complexity of what seems such a simple emotion. So I suppose I can say that Christmas for me was an experience, a new one, filled with different levels of emotion that I now understand and appreciate. I suppose it gave me a new strength in the way and I doubt I’ll feel that type of loneliness again, it’s a once in a lifetime thing, after that, you know what it is, and when ever you know what something is, the experience isn’t so great, or so horrendous, or so beautiful. The juxtaposition is gone.
Kelly, as much as we will always have our differences, our jealousies and well, the underlying female competitiveness, was kind enough to spend New Years Eve with me. We decided to experience the proper London New Years. Taking flasks of Champagne and Wine, some terribly unhealthy nibbles (and for me, something to write on, incase that took our fancy) we took the packed tube – filled with rejoicing commuters all rosy cheeked and scarf covered – to Trafalga Square. We chatted to the Police who suggested the best vantage point was on the other side of the London Bridge looking over the Thames at the London Eye… so off we trotted.
There were thousands upon thousands of people there. They had set up huge speakers along the river bank and music belted out, filling you with the spirit of something coming, something exciting and glorious… I spose that would be the new year, that would be 2009… People were setting themselves up, young and old and in between. The toilet cue was as close as I’ve been to the Wall of China and I suspect it would take me as long to walk that as it had for me to get to the toilet.
We bobbed ourselves down at an appropriate vantage point, took in a few chocolates and chatted as we sipped from our naughty alcohol filled canesters. We met some other rejoices and chatted away, everyone was in the mood for discussion and laughter, there were no cliques, no barriers, social norms were thrown to the wind. We discussed the evening with police who kindly lent us their hats for happy snaps. The fireworks were intense, ridiculously exorbidant, overwhelming… zinging into the air with colours brighter than the fire feast of a lightening storm, th music blared away and people danced and sung and hugged and cried and screamed and it was as it should be. Human. All good and all bad and all exciting and shocking and a juxtaposition of emotion… that is human, a delightful mess.
I wasn’t so impressed when trying to get home, however… the streets were barricaded with people, although the tubes were free, it took a good four hours to get back to the house. How can I describe it? Like the evacuation of an entire world. A thick tapestry of humanity trying to get through a small gap in the hemisphere seeking escape… I was practically in tears. When I want to go, I want to go… but there was no going any faster. The slow progression, it was like watching the sheep that my sister and I struggled to get through the gate and take them to the shed for shearing. I imagined myself a sheep, not a nice concept I can tell you, but there we were.
We did get home, however, and the next morning greeted me with a terrible headache and I’ve not had champagne since. If I ever decide (or rather am offered) to get married, Champagne will NOT be on the menu, horrible evil terrible stuff. I see no good in it, it doesn’t even taste very nice!
However, to see those lights frazzling momentarily brightly in the sky, zinging off from the London Eye, to hear Big Ben literally ring in the New Year and everyone… everyone, singing Auld Langs Syne and hugging one another, be they friends or strangers… that is something I shant forget, that is something that is missing from where I come from, that was a movie moment of magic and even through my memory, it seems more a film clip to me. Incredible. Delightful. Magic. London.
The following weeks are a bit of a blur, I had so much to do… I needed to find a place to live. I’d had a call from the agency I’d worked for before Christmas and New Years and apparently the receptionist at Bevan Brittan had been thrown out (interesting circumstances, there apparently was some cat fight resulting in her walking out the door without any notice) and could I possibly start ASAP for an indeterminate amount of time? Yes… certainly. So the job was relatively secure.
I spent a good two weeks traipsing from one side of London to the other, east, west, north and south. I saw everything. From a place right in the city - which seemed more equipped with guns and head dresses than grocery stores and parks, to the prestigious Fulham, a ‘house’ that was more like a closet and somehow fitted four people and a kitchen in it for a price that I wouldn’t buy a car for! There was a perfect place in Wimbledon, but they needed a lease signed and bills in my name and as I wasn’t sure how long I’d be there, I declined… eventually I came to a house that was being rented by a Spanish and Afro-Caribean, both girls that wanted an all girl house share. There were six rooms, and they were advertising for room mates.
The house was enormous, I took the loft – a long room without an opening window or central heating, but it was private and I could imagine creating a little home of my own up there. The kitchen was huge – red cupboards though, I’ll never have that myself – two lounges and a huge backyard. I was soon to discover that the train ran directly at the end of our yard and the chika-chika-voom would run until 3am when the trains stopped… I had to get used to sleeping with the noise, and with the light as there were no curtains. But all in all… initially, I was happy with the decision.
The house was situated in East Finchley, one tube stop from the beautiful Highgate where all the famous people apparently lived, and a few stops from Camden – a good market place and somewhere to go out in the evening. The High Street seemed far less intimidating than Tooting Bec had been and had three brilliant second hand stores where I ended up buying most of my clothes (though not books, I became quite a fan of Waterstones while over there, an excellent feel to the store and they have every Booker and Orange Prize winner book on hand – hoorah!). It was also on the Northern Line of the tube which I’d found was relatively reliable… so all seemed on the up – little did I know.
Oh! I sound so woeful! It wasn’t like that exactly. I was happy, I was proud of myself, I was enjoying the new experiences, its just that… well, there was something missing, an element of someone, someone I knew, someone to share this with. Looking back, I think I may have enjoyed the melancholy somewhat, there’s something artificially inspiring about it, something I can draw from when ever I write about loneliness, the complexity of what seems such a simple emotion. So I suppose I can say that Christmas for me was an experience, a new one, filled with different levels of emotion that I now understand and appreciate. I suppose it gave me a new strength in the way and I doubt I’ll feel that type of loneliness again, it’s a once in a lifetime thing, after that, you know what it is, and when ever you know what something is, the experience isn’t so great, or so horrendous, or so beautiful. The juxtaposition is gone.
Kelly, as much as we will always have our differences, our jealousies and well, the underlying female competitiveness, was kind enough to spend New Years Eve with me. We decided to experience the proper London New Years. Taking flasks of Champagne and Wine, some terribly unhealthy nibbles (and for me, something to write on, incase that took our fancy) we took the packed tube – filled with rejoicing commuters all rosy cheeked and scarf covered – to Trafalga Square. We chatted to the Police who suggested the best vantage point was on the other side of the London Bridge looking over the Thames at the London Eye… so off we trotted.
There were thousands upon thousands of people there. They had set up huge speakers along the river bank and music belted out, filling you with the spirit of something coming, something exciting and glorious… I spose that would be the new year, that would be 2009… People were setting themselves up, young and old and in between. The toilet cue was as close as I’ve been to the Wall of China and I suspect it would take me as long to walk that as it had for me to get to the toilet.
We bobbed ourselves down at an appropriate vantage point, took in a few chocolates and chatted as we sipped from our naughty alcohol filled canesters. We met some other rejoices and chatted away, everyone was in the mood for discussion and laughter, there were no cliques, no barriers, social norms were thrown to the wind. We discussed the evening with police who kindly lent us their hats for happy snaps. The fireworks were intense, ridiculously exorbidant, overwhelming… zinging into the air with colours brighter than the fire feast of a lightening storm, th music blared away and people danced and sung and hugged and cried and screamed and it was as it should be. Human. All good and all bad and all exciting and shocking and a juxtaposition of emotion… that is human, a delightful mess.
I wasn’t so impressed when trying to get home, however… the streets were barricaded with people, although the tubes were free, it took a good four hours to get back to the house. How can I describe it? Like the evacuation of an entire world. A thick tapestry of humanity trying to get through a small gap in the hemisphere seeking escape… I was practically in tears. When I want to go, I want to go… but there was no going any faster. The slow progression, it was like watching the sheep that my sister and I struggled to get through the gate and take them to the shed for shearing. I imagined myself a sheep, not a nice concept I can tell you, but there we were.
We did get home, however, and the next morning greeted me with a terrible headache and I’ve not had champagne since. If I ever decide (or rather am offered) to get married, Champagne will NOT be on the menu, horrible evil terrible stuff. I see no good in it, it doesn’t even taste very nice!
However, to see those lights frazzling momentarily brightly in the sky, zinging off from the London Eye, to hear Big Ben literally ring in the New Year and everyone… everyone, singing Auld Langs Syne and hugging one another, be they friends or strangers… that is something I shant forget, that is something that is missing from where I come from, that was a movie moment of magic and even through my memory, it seems more a film clip to me. Incredible. Delightful. Magic. London.
The following weeks are a bit of a blur, I had so much to do… I needed to find a place to live. I’d had a call from the agency I’d worked for before Christmas and New Years and apparently the receptionist at Bevan Brittan had been thrown out (interesting circumstances, there apparently was some cat fight resulting in her walking out the door without any notice) and could I possibly start ASAP for an indeterminate amount of time? Yes… certainly. So the job was relatively secure.
I spent a good two weeks traipsing from one side of London to the other, east, west, north and south. I saw everything. From a place right in the city - which seemed more equipped with guns and head dresses than grocery stores and parks, to the prestigious Fulham, a ‘house’ that was more like a closet and somehow fitted four people and a kitchen in it for a price that I wouldn’t buy a car for! There was a perfect place in Wimbledon, but they needed a lease signed and bills in my name and as I wasn’t sure how long I’d be there, I declined… eventually I came to a house that was being rented by a Spanish and Afro-Caribean, both girls that wanted an all girl house share. There were six rooms, and they were advertising for room mates.
The house was enormous, I took the loft – a long room without an opening window or central heating, but it was private and I could imagine creating a little home of my own up there. The kitchen was huge – red cupboards though, I’ll never have that myself – two lounges and a huge backyard. I was soon to discover that the train ran directly at the end of our yard and the chika-chika-voom would run until 3am when the trains stopped… I had to get used to sleeping with the noise, and with the light as there were no curtains. But all in all… initially, I was happy with the decision.
The house was situated in East Finchley, one tube stop from the beautiful Highgate where all the famous people apparently lived, and a few stops from Camden – a good market place and somewhere to go out in the evening. The High Street seemed far less intimidating than Tooting Bec had been and had three brilliant second hand stores where I ended up buying most of my clothes (though not books, I became quite a fan of Waterstones while over there, an excellent feel to the store and they have every Booker and Orange Prize winner book on hand – hoorah!). It was also on the Northern Line of the tube which I’d found was relatively reliable… so all seemed on the up – little did I know.
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