To make up for all the textyness of the last post. Here are pictures of us making sushi! Just another puente in Spain, how will I ever leave the country of long weekends?
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
I would have met your friends, we would have had a drink or two, they would have liked me, because, sometimes I'm funny.
Okay, let’s start with Paris, as requested by adreamer. Sorry, it's rather epic in length - if anyone needs to go to the toilet, I suggest you go now.
I was in Paris for almost a week in August of 2005 with my newly acquired friend, Flower. After researching obsessively from England I was terrified that these rude and shifty French were bound to tell us that we’d never booked, steal our credit card deposit and chuck our accommodation-less arses out onto the street. I had never particularly wanted to go to France; since childhood I had constantly heard the ‘French are rude’ stereotype and believed it without ever having experienced it. I had a week off from my job in England and Paris just seemed like the easiest place to visit outside of the UK.
We found our hostel and discovered we had been double booked – I was thinking 'Oh, now it begins'. I was wrong though, they apologized and said because they could no longer fit us in the eight bed dorm, they’d put us up in a double room – score. It didn’t matter that our bathroom didn’t have a curtain and could be looked into from an interior courtyard, because it was OUR bathroom, besides, it’s not so hard to shower without the lights on. We were staying in the good half of Montmarte, which is apparently about ten meters from the dodgy half.
On the first day we climbed the Eiffel tower – bad move. Our thighs continued to burn for the next four days. It was breathtaking though, the view, not the climb...well, the climb was but it wasn’t what I was originally referring to. Got it? We didn’t climb to get a more authentic experience, I’m sure the Parisians are intelligent enough to get the elevator, we just wanted to save money. After our climb and gape session we headed to the Sacre Coeur. A hot African guy approached me and asked me to stick out my finger. Never, I repeat, never stick out your finger without asking why. He could have had a machete and just chopped my finger off and then taken it home to add the finishing touches to a zombie made out of random tourists’ body parts, but I didn’t even THINK of that! He made a bracelet and tied it to my wrist, asked me if I had a boyfriend and cheerfully demanded ten euros. I glanced over at Flower who was being bracelet-accosted a meter away. I scraped together five euros and walked away feeling very bitter, Flower had only paid three.
Then we did some other stuff for a couple of days…and amazingly (pathetically) never ate French food for dinner once, we had Chinese, Italian and Pizza Hut…oh the shame.
One night we decided to get dressed up and head out on the town, we went to an Australian bar in which only the bartender was Australian, so it was off to an Irish Pub, where we met some Australians. We were soon befriended by two rather creepy men who informed us that they needed us to help them get into the nightclub next door as they wouldn’t let in men without girls due to sleaze/hot female ratio leaning on the sleaze side. Flower didn’t seem to be half as indignant about this as I was, but it turned out not to matter because try as we might we couldn’t remember their names when questioned by the security guards. So I took the imitative, waved goodbye to the creeps and pulled Flower inside on our own. We met boys, we danced with boys, I had an argument with another boy. Boys start arguing with each other. We left.
Discovering the metro had closed we headed over to a city map to try and figure out how to get back to the hostel. Two drunk old men soon approached us and started chatting away in Spanish and throwing in the odd English phrase, such as ‘want sugar daddy?’, two guys on a motorbike then pulled up and began speaking to us urgently, urging us to go with them…on one motorbike I’m not sure how that would have been possible, anyhow, the drunk old men started yelling at the motorcycle men and it turned into this whole big thing. People watching from apartment windows and everything. We had no idea what was going on. Soon the bouncer from the club hears the commotion and comes over to see what’s going on. The sugardaddies start angrily gesturing towards the guys on the motorbike who look guilty and drive quickly away. The security guard all but forces us into a taxi and tells us to go away quickly. After watching that Liam Neelson movie ‘Taken’ last year I am now convinced motorcycle men were trying to kidnap us, but hey, my friends call me paranoid at my most chilled.
We got back to our hostel at 4am and began chatting about the evening when there was a knock at our door. A gorgeous, and I mean stunning boy was there; he asked us if his friends were with us, we looked at him like he was insane and gestured to our tiny room and two single beds, jammed together due to lack of space ‘errrr…no’. ‘Oh’ he just stood there. The manager began to yell at him from down the hall, that we were in a budget hotel not some party place, so we invited him in – the hottie, not the manager. We chatted for awhile, his name was Kenny- half English half African, he’d been living in New Orleans and had some crazy stories about prostitutes biting him and dragging him into bushes and so on, and so forth. His friends arrived and yelled up to us from the interior courtyard…you know, the one that looked into our bathroom; they’d probably all seen us naked. We invited them up and sat around talking. When we were so tired that Kenny’s good looks would no longer substitute for the pure lies he had been spinning all night, we kicked them out.
This was my first trip to Paris. When I discovered that stereotypes are wrong about the French, they’re not so rude, as long as you’re not American…and preferably not English- they genuinely do hate YOU. But, really, if you walk around obnoxiously addressing everyone in English and expecting them to speak your language without even saying ‘excuse me’ in theirs, well, you deserve some snark. Everyone we met was lovely and tried to help us, even when they didn’t speak a word of English. Well, except for one public transport worker who cracked the shits because we couldn’t understand him, and the creepy old guy who flicked a hair tie at flower on the metro – the latter was more amusing than annoying though.
Oh, I left out the Louvre. Well, we went. I enjoyed the cafeteria. When I’m there again at the end of the month I will appreciate it much more that I did when I was eighteen, now being a graduate of History and all….ha, who am I kidding? I’ll walk around for three hours, get bored and head to the café.
My first visit to Paris was so perfect, I am a little concerned the next one won't live up to it.
I was in Paris for almost a week in August of 2005 with my newly acquired friend, Flower. After researching obsessively from England I was terrified that these rude and shifty French were bound to tell us that we’d never booked, steal our credit card deposit and chuck our accommodation-less arses out onto the street. I had never particularly wanted to go to France; since childhood I had constantly heard the ‘French are rude’ stereotype and believed it without ever having experienced it. I had a week off from my job in England and Paris just seemed like the easiest place to visit outside of the UK.
We found our hostel and discovered we had been double booked – I was thinking 'Oh, now it begins'. I was wrong though, they apologized and said because they could no longer fit us in the eight bed dorm, they’d put us up in a double room – score. It didn’t matter that our bathroom didn’t have a curtain and could be looked into from an interior courtyard, because it was OUR bathroom, besides, it’s not so hard to shower without the lights on. We were staying in the good half of Montmarte, which is apparently about ten meters from the dodgy half.
On the first day we climbed the Eiffel tower – bad move. Our thighs continued to burn for the next four days. It was breathtaking though, the view, not the climb...well, the climb was but it wasn’t what I was originally referring to. Got it? We didn’t climb to get a more authentic experience, I’m sure the Parisians are intelligent enough to get the elevator, we just wanted to save money. After our climb and gape session we headed to the Sacre Coeur. A hot African guy approached me and asked me to stick out my finger. Never, I repeat, never stick out your finger without asking why. He could have had a machete and just chopped my finger off and then taken it home to add the finishing touches to a zombie made out of random tourists’ body parts, but I didn’t even THINK of that! He made a bracelet and tied it to my wrist, asked me if I had a boyfriend and cheerfully demanded ten euros. I glanced over at Flower who was being bracelet-accosted a meter away. I scraped together five euros and walked away feeling very bitter, Flower had only paid three.
Then we did some other stuff for a couple of days…and amazingly (pathetically) never ate French food for dinner once, we had Chinese, Italian and Pizza Hut…oh the shame.
One night we decided to get dressed up and head out on the town, we went to an Australian bar in which only the bartender was Australian, so it was off to an Irish Pub, where we met some Australians. We were soon befriended by two rather creepy men who informed us that they needed us to help them get into the nightclub next door as they wouldn’t let in men without girls due to sleaze/hot female ratio leaning on the sleaze side. Flower didn’t seem to be half as indignant about this as I was, but it turned out not to matter because try as we might we couldn’t remember their names when questioned by the security guards. So I took the imitative, waved goodbye to the creeps and pulled Flower inside on our own. We met boys, we danced with boys, I had an argument with another boy. Boys start arguing with each other. We left.
Discovering the metro had closed we headed over to a city map to try and figure out how to get back to the hostel. Two drunk old men soon approached us and started chatting away in Spanish and throwing in the odd English phrase, such as ‘want sugar daddy?’, two guys on a motorbike then pulled up and began speaking to us urgently, urging us to go with them…on one motorbike I’m not sure how that would have been possible, anyhow, the drunk old men started yelling at the motorcycle men and it turned into this whole big thing. People watching from apartment windows and everything. We had no idea what was going on. Soon the bouncer from the club hears the commotion and comes over to see what’s going on. The sugardaddies start angrily gesturing towards the guys on the motorbike who look guilty and drive quickly away. The security guard all but forces us into a taxi and tells us to go away quickly. After watching that Liam Neelson movie ‘Taken’ last year I am now convinced motorcycle men were trying to kidnap us, but hey, my friends call me paranoid at my most chilled.
We got back to our hostel at 4am and began chatting about the evening when there was a knock at our door. A gorgeous, and I mean stunning boy was there; he asked us if his friends were with us, we looked at him like he was insane and gestured to our tiny room and two single beds, jammed together due to lack of space ‘errrr…no’. ‘Oh’ he just stood there. The manager began to yell at him from down the hall, that we were in a budget hotel not some party place, so we invited him in – the hottie, not the manager. We chatted for awhile, his name was Kenny- half English half African, he’d been living in New Orleans and had some crazy stories about prostitutes biting him and dragging him into bushes and so on, and so forth. His friends arrived and yelled up to us from the interior courtyard…you know, the one that looked into our bathroom; they’d probably all seen us naked. We invited them up and sat around talking. When we were so tired that Kenny’s good looks would no longer substitute for the pure lies he had been spinning all night, we kicked them out.
This was my first trip to Paris. When I discovered that stereotypes are wrong about the French, they’re not so rude, as long as you’re not American…and preferably not English- they genuinely do hate YOU. But, really, if you walk around obnoxiously addressing everyone in English and expecting them to speak your language without even saying ‘excuse me’ in theirs, well, you deserve some snark. Everyone we met was lovely and tried to help us, even when they didn’t speak a word of English. Well, except for one public transport worker who cracked the shits because we couldn’t understand him, and the creepy old guy who flicked a hair tie at flower on the metro – the latter was more amusing than annoying though.
Oh, I left out the Louvre. Well, we went. I enjoyed the cafeteria. When I’m there again at the end of the month I will appreciate it much more that I did when I was eighteen, now being a graduate of History and all….ha, who am I kidding? I’ll walk around for three hours, get bored and head to the café.
My first visit to Paris was so perfect, I am a little concerned the next one won't live up to it.
Monday, November 30, 2009
The smell of gasoline in the Summer heat
Photo: Anna Rosa KrauWell, I've been in Europe for more than half a year - still no desire to return to Australia, much to my relief. At the moment I am a little bored of living in the same Spanish town and working the same job every day (it has been three months, come on!). I like my job a lot, but....I like adventures more. If only money grew on trees. So, I could write about how Ly and I go out to drink, dance, and eye up sexy bartenders every. single. weekend... or I could re-live past travel experiences. I don't know where to start though, so I'd like you to choose for me.
Options are:
The Gold Coast (Australia)
Melbourne (Australia)
Norfolk (England)
Cambridge (England)
London (England)
Northern Ireland (UK)
Edinburgh (Scotland)
Fort William (Scotland)
Inverness/Loch Ness (Scotland)
Ullapool (Scotland)
Glasgow (Scotland)
Milan (Italy)
Rome (Italy)
Venice (Italy)
Florence (Italy)
Paris (France)
Krakow (Poland)
Warsaw (Poland)
Vienna (Austria)
Dresden (Germany)
Prague (Czech Republic)
Cesky Krumlov (Czech Republic)
Budapest (Hungary)
Barcelona (Spain)
Madrid (Spain)
Valencia (Spain)
Granada (Spain)
Sevilla (Spain)
Thursday, November 26, 2009
About me.
I've realised people have so many misconceptions about me. My friends were shocked when I got into childcare and teaching because they assumed I hated kids, which is totally not true, it's almost impossible to hate children (when you're being paid to like them). Joooking. Also, people have called me a feisty bitch who doesn't let anyone bother her, totally untrue - well the 'doesn't let anyone bother her' part anyway. I am a delicate flower; my Starbucks manager used to call me a 'Venus flytrap' whenever I told her that. Bitch. Also not sure why everyone thinks I hate men, nope don't hate em, why would I hate them? Just because every nice thing they say has an ulterior motive? That's the quality I love about them, they're reliable, preDICKtable. Ha! Gawd I'm funny. Yeah, I started writing an about me page...this isn't going to be it. Epic fail.
I've realised people have so many misconceptions about me. My friends were shocked when I got into childcare and teaching because they assumed I hated kids, which is totally not true, it's almost impossible to hate children (when you're being paid to like them). Joooking. Also, people have called me a feisty bitch who doesn't let anyone bother her, totally untrue - well the 'doesn't let anyone bother her' part anyway. I am a delicate flower; my Starbucks manager used to call me a 'Venus flytrap' whenever I told her that. Bitch. Also not sure why everyone thinks I hate men, nope don't hate em, why would I hate them? Just because every nice thing they say has an ulterior motive? That's the quality I love about them, they're reliable, preDICKtable. Ha! Gawd I'm funny. Yeah, I started writing an about me page...this isn't going to be it. Epic fail.
Well the stale chips are up and the hopes stakes are down; it's all these ignorant faces that bring this town down
And here we are, another morning. This one is different to previous mornings however - the sky is gray. LIkE ** OmGZZZ. It's cold too. Winter has finally caught up with me in Southern Spain, after two Springs, two Summers...and I guess a couple of unnoticed Autumns.
So far the day has already been special, I had a coffee (heated up in the mircowave), wrote to my Dad, had a shower, and then made my flatmate stare at my breasts to check that nipple can't be seen through my top. The day will only get better from here, I'm positive.
Today I get to teach my 16 year olds about 'reported speech'; isn't it fantastic that schools in English speaking countries don't teach their students about how grammar works? Yeah, it's bloody fantastic that Spanish teenagers know more about ENGLISH grammar than I knew at their age...erm...well, more than I knew....last year. Oh but hey! My English lessons in High School and University were valuable, I know how to psychoanalyse the shit out of shit. This post, for example, is my literary representation of my traumatic journey through the birthing canal. Ew.
This time next month I'll be in the Netherlands. Toma!
Photo: Geoffrey Barrenger
So far the day has already been special, I had a coffee (heated up in the mircowave), wrote to my Dad, had a shower, and then made my flatmate stare at my breasts to check that nipple can't be seen through my top. The day will only get better from here, I'm positive.
Today I get to teach my 16 year olds about 'reported speech'; isn't it fantastic that schools in English speaking countries don't teach their students about how grammar works? Yeah, it's bloody fantastic that Spanish teenagers know more about ENGLISH grammar than I knew at their age...erm...well, more than I knew....last year. Oh but hey! My English lessons in High School and University were valuable, I know how to psychoanalyse the shit out of shit. This post, for example, is my literary representation of my traumatic journey through the birthing canal. Ew.
This time next month I'll be in the Netherlands. Toma!
Photo: Geoffrey Barrenger
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
All the same, I miss you. Today has been okay.
Ohh-tayy. It's less than a month until I go on my Christmas Holidays Travel Extravaganza - Chte for short, pronounced 'chitea' which sounds quite smiliar to 'shitty' in a French accent, so perhaps we'll just scrap that. Hostels, flights and trains are booked. This will be my first Christmas away from home and I am determind to be distracted from this fact on Christmas. Perhaps I will just deny it is even Christmas. Baby Jesus, who? Yeah. I'll do that.
My updated journey includes Paris, Bruges, The Hague, Amsterdam and Madrid. Tips for any of these places are more than welcome. I have never been to Belgium or the Netherlands before. I have had space cakes before, I baked them with my Mum before a music festival back in Melbourne. Mum was concerned the neighbours could smell the 'butter' brewing, and then told me that the smell reminded her of most of the Melbourne cafes she frequents and had never realised what the scent was before. Oh Mum, I love you.
Time to work. No picture today. I'm feeling, texty.
My updated journey includes Paris, Bruges, The Hague, Amsterdam and Madrid. Tips for any of these places are more than welcome. I have never been to Belgium or the Netherlands before. I have had space cakes before, I baked them with my Mum before a music festival back in Melbourne. Mum was concerned the neighbours could smell the 'butter' brewing, and then told me that the smell reminded her of most of the Melbourne cafes she frequents and had never realised what the scent was before. Oh Mum, I love you.
Time to work. No picture today. I'm feeling, texty.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
It shouldn't hurt me to be free, it's what I really need - to pull myself together.
But if it's so good being free, would you mind telling me, why I don't know what to do with myself - Emiliana Torrini, To be Free.
I'm aware that it has been awhile since I wrote a real, newsy, blog post. There's a reason, I haven't had the words, or the inspiration, or ..something. What have I been doing? Living. I work, I plan lessons, I eat, I have coffee with Ly at the local, I listen to music, I download terrible shows like 'Vampire Diaries ' to fill the spare hours, I drink and dance, and I sleep. My Spanish continues to suck, people continue to let me down and annoy me, for some reason the weather continues to be quite warm. I have been attempting to be less cynical, about everything, but really - it's just not me. Someone has to prove to me there's a reason to be less cynical before I can achieve it.
Work is both fantastic and awful - depending on the students. It would be lovely to say it is the teacher who sets the general tone of the class, but as of yet I am not experienced enough to choose the tone myself. The classes with the amazingly awesome kids are amazingly awesome. The classes with the bitchy, sulky and completely ignorant teenagers, run as such. I felt quite pleased with myself both as a teacher and an Australian when I walked into my class of 12 year olds last week, to a chorus of 'G'day mate'. Love em, just love em.
Planning my Christmas holiday should be filling me with excitement and optimism. In a way it is - something different might shake me up a bit, in a good way. I have become complacent here, with my easy Spanish life. My plans have changed a bit since I last posted about my holiday, now I will be visiting Paris, Bruges, The Hague and Amsterdam - back in Spain for NYE. I wish I could stop thinking about the future all the time. No matter where I am, or if I am doing something I have looked forward to for years, I am always thinking about what is next.
Last night Ly and I had a DVD night, we got The Transporter (purely for perving purposes) and Before Sunset and Before sunrise. Way, way, way too much dialogue in one night. We should have stuck to action. The scene in The Transporter where Frank beats up about 20 guys while wearing no shirt, pretty much made the night. We squealed like children at the fair and attempted to pause the scene in the best, ab flexing places. Yeah, I ain't no classy world traveller.
It's strange, I think I miss Cambridge and Edinburgh more than I miss Melbourne. I'm also wondering, is it possible to be nostalgic about moments which never happened? Of course it's not, but I am. Ha, this post is just, so stupid.
I'm aware that it has been awhile since I wrote a real, newsy, blog post. There's a reason, I haven't had the words, or the inspiration, or ..something. What have I been doing? Living. I work, I plan lessons, I eat, I have coffee with Ly at the local, I listen to music, I download terrible shows like 'Vampire Diaries ' to fill the spare hours, I drink and dance, and I sleep. My Spanish continues to suck, people continue to let me down and annoy me, for some reason the weather continues to be quite warm. I have been attempting to be less cynical, about everything, but really - it's just not me. Someone has to prove to me there's a reason to be less cynical before I can achieve it.
Work is both fantastic and awful - depending on the students. It would be lovely to say it is the teacher who sets the general tone of the class, but as of yet I am not experienced enough to choose the tone myself. The classes with the amazingly awesome kids are amazingly awesome. The classes with the bitchy, sulky and completely ignorant teenagers, run as such. I felt quite pleased with myself both as a teacher and an Australian when I walked into my class of 12 year olds last week, to a chorus of 'G'day mate'. Love em, just love em.
Planning my Christmas holiday should be filling me with excitement and optimism. In a way it is - something different might shake me up a bit, in a good way. I have become complacent here, with my easy Spanish life. My plans have changed a bit since I last posted about my holiday, now I will be visiting Paris, Bruges, The Hague and Amsterdam - back in Spain for NYE. I wish I could stop thinking about the future all the time. No matter where I am, or if I am doing something I have looked forward to for years, I am always thinking about what is next.
Last night Ly and I had a DVD night, we got The Transporter (purely for perving purposes) and Before Sunset and Before sunrise. Way, way, way too much dialogue in one night. We should have stuck to action. The scene in The Transporter where Frank beats up about 20 guys while wearing no shirt, pretty much made the night. We squealed like children at the fair and attempted to pause the scene in the best, ab flexing places. Yeah, I ain't no classy world traveller.
It's strange, I think I miss Cambridge and Edinburgh more than I miss Melbourne. I'm also wondering, is it possible to be nostalgic about moments which never happened? Of course it's not, but I am. Ha, this post is just, so stupid.
Friday, November 20, 2009
Without you here the seasons pass me by
I want something. I just don't know what it is. Damn it.
Photo: Oliver Schwarzwald
Photo: Oliver Schwarzwald
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