Barcelona is a Dangerous Place

As we climbed down the stairs to the entrance of Parc Güell, Chelsea and I were damning Barcelona. Our feet ached and bled, the various straps of our bags had embedded themselves so deeply into our sunburnt shoulders that to shift them even slightly sent sharp pains through our skin, and our legs were raw from rubbing together as we walked.

And as we came down these stairs we stopped. Music echoed up from an artificial cavern conceived by one of Barcelona’s patron saints, Gaudí. A man sat over what looked like a metal tortoise shell, and by bouncing his fingers on the indentations of this instrument he produced a sound similar to a steel drum, but sweeter and so full of color that it matched the mosaics marching along the walls. And we forgave Barcelona.

This city made us forget, in one moment, how tired and resentful we had been a second before. The bitterness came back a short distance down the road as our flip flops dug into the tender flesh between our toes, and yet the enchantment lingered and we laughed on our way to the hostel.

Barcelona is a beautiful city, from the Gothic Quarter’s narrow streets to the curved and colorful architecture of the aforementioned Gaudi. And these too, have their dangers. The danger of the fabulous architecture in general is very mundane: one looks up rather than where one is walking.


This phenomenon is made more dangerous not only by the usual hazards (walking into other people, walking into each other, walking into walls, telephone poles, street vendors, bicyclists, etc…) but by the fact that around each of the many trees littering the streets and adding to the urge to look skyward, there is a pit. Now this is not always a deep pit; some are scarcely six inches. Others range to about a foot or so. One can, I hope, readily see the dangers inherent in this.

You are not convinced yet of the dangers?

Would you like to know how many pairs of pants we have bought in the two days since we arrived?

Four.

And this only, by exercising the greatest restraint.

Now, in my defense, three of these four are Chelsea’s.

In her defense. Well. Nothing.

I joke. These are giant poofy pants that come in all manner of colors and textures (including orange and soft. Chelsea got one of each. Well, two orange). They are magnificent and full of win. The pants have been our splurge. But so much more could have been.


The clothing here is amazing: bright colors and strange designs (http://www.desigual.com/#/videos/). And the sandals. You know there is something strange going on when Chelsea and I have to resist shoe shopping. And possibly also with somewhere where we both wanted to go to the beach.



One final word of warning: Chocolate con churros are wonderful.


Adios amigos!

On Recapping

The reader will have noticed, if you are following our journey with any attention at all, that our updates of late have been scarce, or perhaps missing would be more accurate. In the intervening time, a period of a week or so, many things have happened. And while I intend to oblige our readership with more detailed accounts of our more engaging episodes, I feel that it is perhaps necessary to supply some brief overview of highlights so that we do not fall too far behind in informing you of our travels.

(Please note that I have been reading a novel written in the high romantic style, and thus my own prose has taken on a perhaps more indulgent tone than it is wont, and I beg you, dear reader, to bear with me)

Of Fudge and Pheasants

Our most recent update concerns the emerald isle, but if you will permit me I find it necessary to backtrack slightly and say two words about Edinburgh.
It is a charming city, neither too large nor too small, and seemingly built entirely of an imposing grey stone, rather akin to the color of the sky (The English one, at least).

We partook of a range of culinary experiences, from an establishment where pizza is made (it referred to itself as a ‘hut’ although I find this odd as it was decidedly more comfortable than the quarters one usually associates with the word) to a tureen of pheasant and venison at a pub and to a most excellent purveyor of fudge.
Our stay in Scotland was brief, and yet complete in that we did have the privilege, while wandering this great city’s streets, to observe a man in traditional dress (a stripped skirt accompanied by all the accoutrements of that country) playing gaily upon his bag and pipes the tune known as “Scotland the Brave”.

Of Ferries and Military Time

It seems to be a requisite for any traveler of esteem to have those stories which are more entertaining in hindsight, and it is one such that I shall now briefly relate with a view to returning to the subject in the future.To be brief I purchased our passage from Britain to Ireland upon a ship. I assumed that this fine vessel departed at 2:45pm, since no sane person would leave at the corresponding time in the a.m.

I was proven sadly wrong.

Of Sweet Wicklow, the Garden of Ireland

Despite arriving with little sleep and at an hour whose very existence is unpleasant to recall, dear Chelsea and I arrived in Wicklow to find that the powers of the universe do indeed reward suffering and perseverance with blessings.Wicklow, with fascinating landscapes, ruins, and the most charming hosts we could have wished for, enchanted us within the hour and drove away thoughts of sleep with alacrity. I would endeavor to describe these wonders, but my poor scribe’s tongue lacks the vocabulary. So I shall simply add a few visual aids.
Of Equestrian Happenings

I have protested to my dearest travel partner that given her lovely and idyllic entry discussing the nature of horses and our first encounter with them on our trip, I should refrain from commenting on the experience. However, she insists, and who am I to refuse the request of a companion and honest friend?

Horses and I harbor a mutual distrust, stemming from their natural preference for contact with humans who know what on earth they are doing and from my own keen self-awareness of this precise lack in my education.

I would also like it to be recorded that the last time I rode any beast it was a camel, and this more than three years ago with the constant help and attention of a staggeringly brave ten-year-old.

However, not to be cowed, I did attempt the same journey which Chelsea recalls so fondly. I will gladly attest to the beauty of the scenery, and also to the bright sunshine which attended it to the glory of both.I must admit myself slightly distracted by my primary objective in this endeavor: not to be dislodged from my mount until such time as it was appropriate and under my own volition.

This objective was complicated by the fact that I never learned to “trot” and that without stricter guidance than was available I did not in fact learn in this particular instance. I am told that I bounced with rather alarming consistency and height, and, I may add, that it was with no small amount of discomfort.

I will not say that I was won over by the experience, but rather that it strengthened my resolve to caulk the gaps in my skill.

Of Buses and Punctuality

Upon our last day in the heavenly Wicklow, we rose before the sun to catch our first of several forms of transportation, this being a bus meant to pick us up at 4:30 am. Upon waiting for said bus to appear with no favorable result to report after half an hour we proceeded both to curse the national buses of Ireland and to alter our plans accordingly.

I shall not bore you with details at the moment, since I already fear that this entry has run verbose. But I will mention that “Children of Dune”, a small bog cat, “brekkers”, timely hot cocoa and friends all played parts in getting us through the mishaps caused by that bus.

On Monuments, Present and Past


Before continuing on the outline of our journey I must pause with an unjust brevity to remark upon the kindness of our hosts in Plymouth, the Englands. Throughout the sadly few days we were able to stay with them their exuberance, concern for our well-being and amiable demeanor enchanted and comforted us upon our journey.

Under their guidance we were conducted to a marvelous garden dominated by strange honeycombed buildings made of some thin and obviously durable material. The purpose of this place seems to be the preservation of the environment in general as well as the cultivation of such optimism as is possible in the face of the impending threats to our planet devised with such careful cunning by ourselves.
Beyond this we fearlessly challenged the elements in an attempt to see a ruin, of which history I was personally enamored, and discovered an alarming number of shops claiming proprietorship by a long dead king and his various relations and counselors. This ruin, was indeed there, diminished somewhat in glory by the hotel set on the hill above it and meant to imitate the structure now battered by time and the elements into so many crumbling walls.
I must not neglect to mention that during this trip we stopped at various points to enjoy such picturesque and charming villages as the countryside offered.

Of Our Current Situation and Disposition

We are currently onboard a ship once more, and pursuing a course for Saint Malo on the coast of France with the utmost expedience. You may assume, dear reader, that we have arrived safely if this is posted, since only in such condition shall your humble writer be able to do so.

I hope that my concise report meets with your approval and that your curiosity is satisfyingly piqued and any anxiety allayed. Until next we meet, au revoir.

Realized Dreams

For a good six years of my life Ireland was "the dream". I played celtic reels on my viola, giggled with friends about adjusted blessings ("May the road rise to meet your face, may the wind blow always through your teeth"), and fell in love with the idea of rolling green hills and ancient rocky ruins.

The past two days in Wicklow have blown my daydreams out of the water.

I don't know if I dream in a gamut, but the hills are a burning green, the water windexed clear, the sky so blue I almost itch to turn it down. I didn't think places like this actually existed. I swore they were secret, unreachable locations preserved for postcard makers to plant dream-seeds and unfulfilled wishes in the common populace. And yet I'm here, and the hills and the sky are alive and furiously vivid. I can touch the grass and no matter how much I expect my fingers to come back covered in the green paint I know they must have slathered on it, there's nothing. It's real.

A dream realized.

Today I rode a chestnut gelding named Prada at the back of a line of four horses watching stereotype after stereotype pass me by. We saw the bright green hills with their mossy stone fences, the sun glittered forest with soft brown earth paths. Our horses clomped over bridges that covered babbling brooks trekking whitely down from waterfalls. It was a three dimensional world created out of postcards and pages from National Geographic. I had to remind myself over and over again: "This is real, you're here, you're in Ireland. Just like you always dreamed."

Old and Young

In our hostel this morning (now in Ireland, catching up on blogs *blushes*), a fellow traveler out of Derry asked us why we went to York. And we were like, “well, it was pretty, and there were walls…” His expression blanked.

And so we explained that in America anything over a hundred years old is considered historically invaluable. And so a wall, from which the good men of York could shot those pesky Scots, in days when bows and arrows were the ranged weapon of choice is enchanting and unique for us.

He nodded. “Yeah, we have a wall around Derry, and it’s like 400 years old. We climb on it, me and my friends.”

Hopefully we enlightened him slightly concerning American’s interest in the old and crumbly. We just don’t have it at home.

Which leads me to York, and the old with a bit of crumbly.

York is what one always wanted in a stereotypical English town. At least if you can imagine one that gets sunshine along with the rain. It has narrow cobbled streets. The walls have crenellations and slits for arrows. The Minster soars majestically above the town and from it’s heights you can see the bleached ribs of a ruined monastery.

My dear Ray took a day off from his dissertation to meet us and share interesting historical tidbits. It is apparently still legal to shoot a Scotsman from the walls after dark with a bow and arrow. Or something along those lines.

Ray also expressed a peculiar regret. When I asked him what he would miss about England he replied that he would miss the food.

He is the only person I have ever heard say that. Albeit we were dining like kings on meat pies at the moment in the “snug” room of a pub off the main drag of old York, so maybe it was just the atmosphere getting to him. Or maybe not.

We climbed to the top of the Minster (read “cathedral, but special”) – 265 tiny spiral steps up. And 265 back down again.

I’m not going to try to describe the Minster.


I couldn’t do it justice.

Our other stop was the aforementioned ruined monastery. Part of which included this:

And we are back to that age difference. Trying to wrap our minds around the idea that the Romans were here building at a time when Rome was the center of the world, before the Europeans knew there was another continent across the Atlantic, is boggling. And almost more boggling because the place is alive still. People were picnicking and kids were pretending that the foundations of a wall laid down in whatever lost century was a pirate ship.

Finding Sherwood

So as I was planning our itinerary I realized that in going north we would have to cross through Nottinghamshire, and in doing so would find ourselves close to Nottingham and therefore Sherwood Forest.

My senior seminar this past year was on Robin Hood and it has become a minor obsession of mine. I went to Rochester, NY for the annual Robin Hood conference and found myself, slightly disturbingly, laughing at jokes about medieval lit and Robin Hood made by Robin Hood scholars. It was a disconcerting but pleasant experience.

Aside from that, who can fail to love Robin Hood and his many incarnations? From the Disney fox to Ivanhoe’s shadowy companion, Errol Flynn to Cary Elwes. We won’t go into Russell Crowe at the moment, but only because I still haven’t seen it and could not do justice with my comments. I also choose to pass over Kevin Costner. (Feel free to ask me about that if you want to hear a rant).

Now as it turns out Sherwood is not in fact very close to Nottingham. The nearest train station is Mansfield Woodhouse, about an hour ride north-ish, and from there you have to catch a bus to Edwinstowe and the Sherwood Visitor’s Center.

So our first day of serious travel within England consisted of the train to Nottingham (fairly relaxing) and then another to Mansfield Woodhouse.

I doubt any of you will ever get to Mansfield Woodhouse.


It is a small station. No one, in fact, works there. One cannot buy tickets, obtain any information about the surrounding area, and nor, to my chagrin, could you find a convenient locker in which to leave a few large and heavy packs.

And so Chelsea and I wandered forth from this station with our packs and into the town of Mansfield Woodhouse. Which was empty. It was a Sunday. Nothing was open, and the stares from the few of the populous driving by were alarmed.

By following signs to the town center we did find a bus station, the appropriate bus, and it did show up. When we told the driver we were going to the Sherwood Forest Visitor’s Center his bemused expression changed to one of bored understanding. Of course. We were here for Robin Hood.

There are several different theories on how Robin Hood began, no one has been able to find a likely historical figure to base him on. One theory runs that he is a continuation of a pagan king of summer, a forest spirit. I did not have a particular predilection to this theory, but walking in Sherwood Forest, looking at trees too big for three people to put their arms around, at a woods that is not as vast as it was but still feels deep, I can understand that more.

It was the last day of the Robin Hood festival, and there were kids running around with miniature bows and arrows with suction cups on the tips, there were bright green hats and swordswallowers, a woman dancing to the Korobushka and an alchemist. And of course there was Robin and Tuck, John and the Sheriff.

I tried to stay out of earshot from the actors because while they looked the part, I doubt they were staying much in character. And I wanted to believe in them for a bit, to believe in Robin who walks through the forest, who blows his horn and summons the merry men, who always escapes to annoy the Sheriff one more time.

High Tea in England

My obsession with High Tea started years ago in Walt Disney World, at the Grand Floridian Hotel. Despite wariness of my mother and aunt's ploys to "refine" me and my cousins, I wound up enchanted by the miniature tea sandwiches and their crustless perfection, the exotic tea flavors like Chocolate Mint and Raspberry Dream, the individual cozies for your individual pot of tea. 

Mostly, though, I fell in love with the cucumber sandwiches and devonshire cream.

Tea became a must-do activity at Disney World after that, and I expanded to Japanese Tea Ceremonies and Afternoon Tea in Pennsylvania with my Grandmom. When our plans for Europe began to solidify, I knew it was time to realize the obsession: I wanted to have High Tea in England.

After seeing the Rosetta Stone, Big Ben, the Crown Jewels and Parliament, having High Tea sounds lackluster, but for all the import and historical relevance of the former, it was the latter that made my day, that had me grinning ear to ear and smiling like a fool for an hour straight.

In the theory of games and play, intrinsic motivation - motivation that comes from within oneself as opposed to forced from outside factors - is one of the defining qualities of a play experience. Activities that are intrinsic are the most enjoyable, the most rewarding and fulfilling, the ones we crave and will go back to and mourn as adults when we lose, even if we can't quite place it. Through that lens, it's no wonder. The whole world could tell me that the Parliament building was an amazing thing, but I was the one who wanted High Tea. It was personal, meaningful. That was amazing. 

And amazing, too, to sit through it and know the whole time that it was actually happening, that it was a nexus of thought I'd return to time and again for the rest of my life, remembering those few present moments. The tea sandwiches and scones, the champagne jello, the Earl Gray Tea (picked for Captain Picard and the word 'Citrine' in its flowery description). I scoured all the details I could, wondering at which ones would last: the way the arm of Hanna's chair was worn bare from use, the pink fu dog on the lamp by the table, the patterns in the glass windows like a geometric infinity design, the statue of a samurai warrior with a white man painted on its stomach, the raw, lumpy sugars in white and brown and the disappointing straws of splenda tucked into the side of the bowl with its tongs that were all but impossible to close...

I know I was at Big Ben, but I won't remember being there. I'll remember being at Cadogan's Hotel, in the Chelsea District, for afternoon tea. I'll remember all the little details. I'll smile.

Mind the Gap

So after spending a week in Britain one does get to notice the differences. Cars driving on the other side takes some getting used to. The impulse to jerk your head warily in the wrong direction is astounding, like it’s all been a joke and this time the car will come from the other direction. Fortunately, in London at least, many of the main streets had useful notes saying “<--look left” or “look right -->” painted onto the asphalt. I wish I could say that after a day or two we no longer needed these, but they continued to be a relief and I miss them in Scotland.

During the intermission of “Warhorse” (a very cool show with massive horse puppets) the snack of choice was ice cream. Now certainly some American theater snacks are messy, but I would dare to say that other than sitting on your chocolate bar so that it melts none is as hazardous as melted ice cream. It was vaguely wonderful to see the older gentleman next to us delicately eating a tiny ice cream with a small spoon.

And lemonade is carbonated.

Now onto language – starting with “concession” which in American theaters makes me think of food and here refers to an elderly person. One can buy concession tickets rather than have a senior discount. “What’s on” is the phrase for events at a certain venue, and “take away” means “carry out” or “to go”.

Our host in the first hostel explained that Oxford St. was where we should go if we needed the “bits and bobs” and he was amused by Chelsea and my insistence on taking multivitamins (third syllable pronounced as in “it” rather than “ite”).

“To let” meaning “to lease” or “rent” gave Chelsea some pause and I have been grateful to my BritComs. They have been useful.

And of course there is the ever popular “mind the gap”, dutifully repeated by the many mechanical voices of the underground and train systems. I will also admit that hearing a very proper and refined woman’s voice inform us that the Piccadilly line terminates at Cockfosters nearly made me giggle at every stop.

As I find/remember more we might get a “Mind the Gap II” but that’s it for now.

Cheers, man.

Tower

So today we spent our morning at the Tower of London.

Now this is tricky. The Tower is a major historical site, a huge tourist trap, a checkmark on the superficial list of must sees in London. It has guards in red coats and black hats who march five paces in each direction in front of a little wooden structure about the size of a telephone booth with absolutely nothing in it. People take pictures of their children smiling in front of these guards.

And yet. It is the Tower.

We walked through rooms where prisoners had carved their names into the stone, a man who was part of the Gunpowder Plot. Some carved symbols of faith. One carved an astronomical chart. Towers and rooms were marked to show which monarch constructed them, right back to William the Conqueror. Traitor’s gate still rests in shallow water, and the ravens prance and cackle. And the jewels. You can’t forget the jewels.

And in the end, no amount of Henry VIII collectible dolls, no amount of fellow tourists exclaiming “It’s a unicorn!” in derision and disbelief, can really destroy the power that lives in that place.

The reason that I wanted to see the Tower was Lady Jane Grey.

For those of you who haven’t heard me babble about Jane Grey, she was Queen of England for nine days between Edward VI and Mary Tudor. She was seventeen when she was crowned, deposed and beheaded. And she was imprisoned and beheaded in the Tower.

It is not strange to encounter a historical figure who enchants you, and Jane Grey has always been one of mine. I’m not remotely alone in that. If you want a dramatized version there is a movie called “Lady Jane” with Helena Bohnam Carter and Cary Elwes which I adore and my family is sick of. Or you can read her letters.

One in particular. A letter to Thomas Hardy, written in the Tower, extolling him not to break with his faith, with Protestantism, for the sake of his immortal soul. It is beautifully written. And it was written when a conversion to Catholicism would probably have saved her own life.

At the Tower is a monument, two glass circles with the names of those given the honor of an execution within the Tower grounds. It is an unremarkable space, a field off a walkway, the walls are far away and it is open to the sky. Anne Boleyn and Katherine Howard are there, and Countess Rochford who was Anne Boleyn’s sister-in-law and survived that queen only to be taken down in Katherine Howard’s fall.

And there is Jane Grey, the nine days queen.

I heard someone remark that it was too modern an object, out of place with the rest of the Tower.

Perhaps. But we are out of place, voyeurs who half understand what we are seeing. We don’t have time to really know this place, we who have a morning to spend glimpsing the behemoth that is history. I stood over Jane Grey’s name and mourned for her a little. Because I think she was brave. Because seventeen is too young. Because there was a person who walked from the Tower to this patch of ground and who, blind-folded, could not find the block.

That’s it really. I went looking for that moment and I found it, created it maybe. But I think that is what you have to do. It’s easy to forget the human beings involved in light of little paper dolls demonstrating how the rack worked.



“The soul takes flight into the world which is invisible, and there arriving she is sure of bliss and forever dwells in paradise.” – Plato, translated by Jane Grey for John Feckenham, who, bless him, wrote it down.

Morning Stroll to the Tower of London

Outside Buckingham Palace

Morning Sun & Statues

Lions Looking Down from the Tower of London

Doorways to Torture

Relic and Ritual

Castle Glare

And that's when my camera battery gave out.

Two Days of Necessaries

There is little more satisfying than, having searched and backtracked the same three blocks for a half hour, finally finding the road you were looking for.

There are a few things in London you simply must do, so we decided to do those first.

The Eye of London, Giantest Ferris Wheel (Hanna for Comparison)

That building that V exploded to the tune of 1812 (Also a clock)

Yeah, that clock.

Very pleased these are still around.

The carvings over the doors of Westminster Abbey

Going into the Tubes

The British Museum, Hanna, and the Lonely Lamb

The Rosetta Stone

The Tower Bridge feat. Hanna, Michelle & Toothless

and a horse.

Unfortunately, most of the obligatory location photos are not brilliant, but rest assured there are more on the way. May the horse be a small previous of what's to come.

Of Planes and Sleep Dep

Once upon a time, twenty-four hours ago, Chelsea and I arrived at Cleveland Hopkins International Airport. We got there two hours early. Our plane arrived forty-five minutes late.

Upon realizing the imminent problem of this situation, Chelsea pointed out to the lovely flight attendant that we would miss our flight to London and that this would be infinitely sad. And so the attendant, as a back up, reserved seats for us on a different flight, this one to Amsterdam. Amsterdam and London, close enough, right? At least we would get across the Atlantic on the right day.

However Detroit had other ideas. As we descended into that city, we realized that our flight to London should already have left and even the plane to Amsterdam might be tricky to get to on time.

For those of you unfamiliar with the Detroit airport, it is divided into two terminals: concourse A and concourses B and C. International flights leave from A. Domestic ones come in to B or C. The only way across from one to another is a tunnel. Now this is a lovely tunnel, its walls glow with rainbows, a soft soothing music emanates from its shimmering ambiance. It is an attractive, if strange and out of place, bit of architecture. It is less appealing when you have run all of concourse B and are preparing to do the same with as much of concourse A as is necessary.

Chelsea, bless her heart, but slowed momentarily. I worried that I had allowed myself to get horribly out of shape and would now have to catch up to her athleticism. I was soothed to discover that she was merely more stubborn with better hunting instincts and visualization. We collapsed together with mutual panting, shortness of breath and winded pain on a plane bound for Amsterdam.

Now one thing about planes, particularly those that cross oceans: If you have watched any of the series LOST, you try desperately not to think of it as you fly. It can be a quiet inner struggle, something put aside as you snooze and half-watch Avatar, but when a monstrous burst of turbulence hits, that image of Jack Sheppard opening his eyes on an island to the sound of screaming comes back with a gut wrenching jolt.

We had some of the worst turbulence I have ever felt, bouncing us around inside our flying metal canister for a little over half an hour. The plane did not break in half, which is awesome. That however, combined with a boisterous family of loud blonde Dutch children, apparently of the mistaken opinion that rest is for the weak, lead to very little sleep.

Our connecting flight left us briefly in the land of orange, clogs and tulips before dumping us into

London which welcomed us with grey skies and drizzle. Highly appropriate.

The long and the short is that we made it here, and I am certain it will be funnier in the morning. Sleep well all.

The Lonely Lamb

Every traveler needs a companion, and what more suitable than my own FV lonely lamb to follow around the European continent?

My partner in crime, Hanna, and I scoured the various Hudson shops searching for the classic member of the Illustrious Flock: black faced, white wooled, with skinny black legs. After several hours and terrifying encounters with talking lambs, lamb puppets, and build-a-bear style lambs, we were about to give up when we found an all white Webkinz lamb...

Not exactly the FarmVille style...

Well, we thought, we can be resourceful.