Que mariachi!

It was a bit of a culture shock coming almost directly from Vienna, which has brilliant airport transport options, to JFK on Sunday. My comments on my personally selected transport options will give creative readers inspiration of appropriate adjectives to use.

Train 'service' in NYC is complicated at best and useless at worst. Why on earth would you have trains that show stop(s) on the map but which don't stop there at all, or only stop there going either uptown or downtown? How are intruders to this planet supposed to glean this useful information without becoming telepathic? Additionally, trains do not appear to be terribly disabled/handicapped (whichever term the reader's culture deems to be momentarily PC) friendly in this city. I have discovered only one elevator/lift in the past two days, entirely by accident -- and that smelled strangely of unpleasant things and was approximately the size of an upright coffin.

Since I had luggage and also because I didn't anticipate being able to haul said luggage up 3 flights of stairs (IF the damned train were to actually stop where expected), I made the seemingly intelligent decision to book to shuttle to Lower Manhattan, based on Expedia's marketing to idiots (me), the fabulous fare (£19) and the promise that I would be delivered to my hotel destination within 30 minutes or so. (HA!)

The above assumptions become roll-on-the-floor-until-you-have-an-accident-funny when one realises that my journey from the airport to my hotel took approximately 1/3 of the flight time from London Heathrow to New York.

My flight arrived at 11.50am, 20 minutes ahead of Virgin's scheduled landing (woo hoo, right? wrong.). Immigration, customs, baggage claim, blah, blah took maybe 30 minutes. After following non-existent signs and directions and then being directed by one SuperShuttle driver who was wasting time holding his vehicle at the curb to the desk inside, where one 'makes a reservation' to go with the reservation one already has (don't ask), I was finally yelled at at 1.13pm and led like the naive child I am to my sweaty doom.

We left Terminal 4, with me sitting in the front seat as the sole passenger and the first passenger and with effusive apologies for the air conditioning being 'broke'. No worries. We headed out of the airport, but then at a logical junction to head to the City, we made a series of turns following signs saying, 'Back to Terminals'. (sigh. perspire.). But, patience is next to godliness or madness or apathy or something.

Might I mention that Sunday was a record-breaking day for the thermometers -- the record of 88*F was set in either 1942 (according to the shuttle driver) or 1982 (according to a high school counsellor yesterday). It was 96*F on Sunday. And there was Spanish plinketty music on El Radio. Que bueno.

We drove to Terminal 2. One passenger got in. Turning off at the last minute once more (curses!), we headed to Terminal 8. Two passengers got in. (each pickup taking between 5-9 minutes of good perspiration time.)

From here, we headed to Terminal 3, where an unfortunate couple were added to the sauna in the back. And then back to Terminal 4 for two extremely dawdly people with ginormous backpacks (I would venture to stereotype yuppie American or Australian). Note: by this point, we are one hour from the time that I (yo, moi, je) left flipping Terminal 4. ...and then we head back to Terminal 8. Since the van was only a 10-passenger vehicle, we could only cram two of the three people.

Then we could finally breeze down the highway to reach the traffic jam and inch our way through bumper-to-bumper cars, road closures, detours and dodgy back streets to Manhattan -- ay-yai-yai-yai all the way. Where we sat in traffic. And more traffic. And then a lady in the back started getting heat sickness and retching.

By 3.00, it was all just too much and it appeared to better to try my luck on foot/subway/taxi, and no plinketty-plinketty music. From Broadway in the 40s to the WTC (the Millenium Hilton across the street from the site) took only 30 more minutes. And then I had to have some sushi from The Amish Market.

*******
There is a flag in the lobby which flew on Tuesday, September 11, 2001 and which employees rescued when the hotel re-opened. It is smudged and the stars are grey and there are tatters in it.

Oddly, there is an old, old cemetary right across the street from the site.

1/2 a block down is the WTC cross.

*******
Today's amusing anecdote relates to the repeated instructions from various people to 'Be Careful', 'Take care of yourself', 'Don't eat Mexican food', 'Don't visit a swine farm' and 'Run away from sneezing Hispanic peoples'. As helpful as these recommendations were, it was just impossible to decide upon action when a 3-Mexican mariachi band approached my seated position on the 1-Train this morning and set up shop 3 inches from my left elbow. There was a guitarist, an accordian-player and a banjo (he was the guy with the collection hat, so I didn't examine his musical talent closely).

I would have tried not to breathe (as one might not know when this group had last visited their homeland), BUT all my psychic energy was taken trying not to guffaw loudly. Having photographic evidence would have been best but then they would have wanted paying, and besides my stop was next.

After a good but unproductive meeting, and trying to get back on trains that don't go in the direction from the same station of debarking and trains that one has to ride in the far front or far back if one needs must change and get on the train at the next station going in the correct direction, I had to have some more sushi from the Amish Market.

And after 2 more meetings this afternoon, I had to stop and get some sushi for dinner.

It is still hot.

Cattery Chattery Telephonically

It is just always like a little puzzle world around La Maison.

This was the out-of-the-blue reminder that E gave me on Saturday morning to fulfill his Friday evening task to 'Remind me to call catteries tomorrow!' But, you know... it keeps one on their toes. Or on the edge of their seat. Or on the edge of reason. And those are good and interesting places to be.

This type of Edward Lear approach works well with some people (me) and has successfully resulted in Angus's being now booked into an appropriate cattery for his own little holiday whilst we are galivanting through Wales, Ireland and Austria in a couple of weeks (and we hope not to come back to a cat filled with angst and malicious tendencies to look his people balefully in the eye and immediately wet in the corner of the room).

His vacation will be spent at Pennybeck Cat Lodge, which is to the north of Norwich. The people seem nice, facilities seem clean and well-maintained, and they have very good security (not that anyone who might thieve Angus would know what early morning madness they are getting themselves in for).

In the US, most veterinary offices have lodging for kittehs, but not here (not sure if this is Norfolk, or everywhere in Britain). Apparently, that is what catteries are for -- and this answers my silent puzzlement before now as to why there are so many signs for catteries along the roads on our drives around the countryside. Catteries in the US are breeders, and it was rather alarming and vexing as to why there were sooooooo many breeders when cats are hardly in short supply in the whole scheme of the planet. But, vexation over.

Who knew?

Kitteh is now officially ours and has a Revelation-style micro-chip implanted in the scruff of his neck proving this fact. He was the bravest kitty on Friday and didn't flinch at all for his shots or the implantation of his chip (which was through a needle almost the size of a bone-marrow needle!). And on this trip, he didn't yowl once in the cat carrier on the trip over; this went a long way toward holding me on this side of sanity, as I am traumatised by sounds of animals in distress (probably for the best that I didn't become a vet as my sign would have had to be The Weeping Veterinarian: We'll Cry Over Your Animal As If He (or She) Were Our Own. Not the best marketing scheme.)

A photo of the mad, mad, mad, mad kitteh will be inserted here as soon as E transfers from his phone.

Back to Blighty

It is good to be back in Old Blighty -- even if it has been randomly hailing today.

Most of the day (since well before 4.30am GST, landing time in Schipol), I have been mostly fine, coherent -- hyper even -- and not jetlagged... except for a brief period when washing a woolen scarf on delicate in the machine seemed logical. Said scarf semi-felted itself in annoying manner and had to be carefully separated from halfsies and stretched back into relative artistic attractiveness.

However, I have had a brief period of comatosity similar to C-A-T. This blog entry is merely a quick break in overall limpness and mental atrophy (frequently leading to drooling on pillow) to relate my recently acquired relief at getting out of Sydney Airport yesterday (although that yesterday was more than 40 hours ago. Don't try; it just hurts your brain switching time zones with flights.) as there was apparently a gang war in another terminal before my flight left... I am cravenly glad to have been happily buying small duty-free stuffed animals and missing seeing someone beaten to death, although continue to be appalled by humanity sometimes.

... still much to catch up on, but this must needs wait for another respite from drooling.

g'night, mate. zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz -- taking lessons from kitteh.

Let the Gay Times Roll!

Right -- this is a total aside from my main purpose of documenting more than the first day (and week) of travel, BUT this just makes me giggle hysterically and almost wet my pants everytime it comes on the t.v.

There is apparently an ice cream bar in Oz called Golden Gaytime -- and this commercial is just too much. Am not sure how one would culturally critique this advertising mode and stereotypes, but at the moment, the enjoyment of guffawing is preventing any academic approach to it. (Perhaps when I am feeling more intellectual and less adolescent... Or not.)

You can see there are '4 chances to have a gay time!'

A Tale of 10 Airports

Well, it actually is a bit of a stretch -- it is only going to be 8, and that only after today's flight to Sydney. But in math, we were taught we could round numbers up to the closest five and so this aids my humourous literary reference :)

Since my journey to the opposite side of the planet began, I have been composing in my head and am thinking that I need a small gadget to help me instantly write things down. That, or a battery for the Dell that lasts longer than 4min27sec. And maybe a computer that gets its gear cranking within 10 minutes...

This expedition began on the 5th March. Ten days later to publish is unforgiveable, yes. Departure was from NWI (the international hub, where self, all carry-on baggage and liquids were examined, tested and smilingly approved -- *rolls eyes*). Then, Tracey (the newest Intl. Officer, who had not been able to travel to China the day before as planned, due to Embassy idiocy) and I had 5 or 6 hours to kill before my flight (and 8 hours before her flight). So, we walked through the museum twice, had some yummy mustard soup (a Dutch speciality -- who knew?) and then just read and watched people in dozy silence. [There is also, apparently, a new space at AMS -- and one at Heathrow -- called Yotel, which may be worth checking out as a place to sleep, refresh. If anyone beats me to it, let me know, as looks appealing, most esp. for those 5am Schipol arrivals when you are 30 minutes from home, but you have to wait 4 excrutiating hours for a flight.] We took a photo right before I got in the queue with 873 Korean people heading home (and for some reason my hair thought a forehead comb-over was the look I wanted).

I noticed on this gander, however, that AMS airport has some really nice amenities in addition to the museum, the casino (which for the record I have never visited, in case people start to get hysterically judgemental), the cow statues, and the fresh juice bar -- there is this clever little mother/baby care area, which is dim with individual curtained booth sections, tables and chairs included. Overall, I am just impressed with how a noticeable proportion of European culture respects motherhood as a valued social contribution (the whole maternity leave comparison -- along with US 'holiday/vacation' policy -- could be a veritable sticky wicket in future. I think I used this phrase correctly... cricket persons can tell me if not.)

The flight to Seoul was good, but I seemed to draw elderly planes for this trip -- with no individual viewing screens. I am becoming spoiled and expect to be able to watch at least 3 movies of my personal choice (or listen to audio books) whenever seems reasonable to ME (Eloise), esp. if I am not to be bumped up to Business or First. However, it really wasn't so bad: 3/4 of a book was consumed; higher ration of sleep:wake than normal was accomplished; and those darn Sony noise reducing headphones are the BOMB. Best recommendation ever -- thanks, Wayne!

Schipol is civilised; Seoul Incheon Airport is civilised and calm.

There are orchid beds throughout the airport; there are cultural exhibit spaces with people beating drums and playing flutes; there are quiet relaxation areas which are kind of like Zen malls (the loud shopping is downstairs) -- with massage, showers, museums, children's play areas, tv/dvd viewing rooms and these fab chaise lounge things which look out onto the mountains (I wanted to take a better picture of these as a little flock of caterpillars, but chose not to risk removing people from their meditative and sleeping states and causing them to beat me with my water bottle for disturbing their energy flow.). As a whole this makes a 5 hour layover quite pleasant -- my favourite part was the £48 hour-long Thai massage, and I truly think this helped reduce jetlag.

(tbc... am going to publish and then come back tomorrow, as this has been being typed for 3 days now and people are starting to get mouthy about no blog. -- 16 March.)

Spring is springing

Admittedly, it is a bit early and optimistic (esp. since someone mentioned there might be more snow this week! Wheeee! This may be a pipe dream, though), but spring is busily springing.

The snowdrops have been out for several weeks, the croci are colouring up the roadsides (and gardens) and the trees are working very hard to bud. Yesterday, I even saw a daffodil (a dwarf daffodil, as it was on pretty much a 2 inch stalk)! I would have taken a picture of it but was being regaled by Rosie the 3-year-old (who is pretty much Eloise with an English accent) as to the merits of digging rocks out of roadways and saving them in special places for the next time one walks that way... The Dawn Chorus begins about 5.15 a.m. :)

This weekend, we pumped up the bicycle tires (E had had to air his already for the emergency cycle commute on Monday last) and went for the first foray into the countryside, along Marriott's Way until we reached Chav-Land, where we turned back instead of barrelling through the children with their spawn and their herd of small Paris-Hilton-wanna-be dogs. We birdwatched. I petted the sad gypsy horses and untangled one's chain :( There were no ducks, so the stale loaf of bread is still in E's panniere bag.

We watched I Hero, a Chinese film that Lisha lent us. It is fun to try to figure out subtitle settings when everything except the word Hero is in Chinese... But I found the translation of the intro text online and it was a really gorgeous film. The water theme reminded me of Prospero's Books (and that I need to buy it on DVD).

Then, Sunday, was not quite a Day Of Rest so much... started out following a horse trailer and then a tractor (not the most efficient way to travel -- unless one is knitting), getting to Walsingham Cross about 10 minutes before 11. [Hint: church started at 11] One missed turn later, we managed to make it into St. Mary's with about 2 mins before the opening bells rang. (pic is of weathervane in Anglican Shrine, not St. Mary's. It is the Annunciation Angel.)

The service was particularly uplifting in that the hymns were sung, not in the traditional feeble quaver towards heaven (almost where you feel that you need to be singing in your whisper voice so as not to distress the people around you), but at a normal level and quite enthusiastically. Like people were actually happy to be there! Wow! Eamonn has discovered that there are nuns in the Anglican Church, too. It is interesting how it is the little things that are missed between parts of the Christian world -- in some of my conversations with various people, it is almost like discussing two completely different faiths and this cannot be healthy for encouraging any sort of unity. However, St. Mary's does seem to have a warm sense of unity, with its very friendly congregation (esp. towards so many outsiders) and its worshipful dog.

St. Mary's is a lovely church, set on the edge of the town, on the far end of the Abbey grounds. From the churchyard, you could see over the wall into the Abbey (you can just see a ruined tower through the trees). And then it became clear why people were 'going to Walsingham to see the snow drops' -- they are like snow! (Mayhap the reason for the word 'snow' being in the name?!?)

Our reason for going up in the first place was to meet up with the 21 pilgrims from St. Martin's Roath, who had been there for several days of lectures and such; and we briefly visited with them after the service at the Black Bull (meeting random people who know other Americans in London who we know!). Sadly, no lunch for us, since we needed to drive back through tractor-horse-trailer populated roads to Wymonham (pronounced, 'wind-umm') for to meet Stan, Juliet, with Rosie and Tommy (the twins) for a little wander through the countryside.

However, on the drive back, there were some funny things which must be returned to on a sunny day (the people in pic to R were giggling at me as we drove around the circle and out the other end). We also drove through Little Snoring, but I
was not quick enough to capture anything but directions to the airfield (hahahaha!)

A little knitting later, we arrived to the one-way streets of Wymondham, which does not put E in a very Christian mood. I believe some of the words were, 'I hate bleeding Wymondham!' (said in vehemence and extreme swivetude).

After catching up with the small group of explorers on the banks of a nameless stream, perhaps part of the natural border of the Abbey (lots of Abbeys today, no?), we moved through the Hundred Acre wood (where the Giant lives) towards the Pooh Sticks Bridge at the pace of 3-year olds who are fascinated by dirt, and snails, and grass, and ducks, and fences, and dirt, and rocks, and sticks, and hills, and dirt (see small human figures far back in pic -- Stan and Tommy, digging dirt and rocks). It was so much fun! (and it was so very cold by 2pm, since the temperature apparently did not want to stay at mildly mellow 10am levels).

We raced floating snail shells down the stream, and this is highly recommended for keeping small people focussed and moving. And then we played Pooh Sticks on the bridge (after the white snail shell won the race).

Juliet brought some snacks as well, which was good for keeping up flagging energy levels when you are going on a bear hunt.

There was lots of muddiness and next time, I shall take my own wellies so as to be able to splash in puddles as well.

After, we went for some much-needed sustenance (and toe-warming inside air) at the Marsh Harrier, and Tommy conned some sliced cucumber out of the servers by being cute and batting his eyes (since that is his favourite food in the world right now). Rosie and Tommy have agreed that they are willing to come to our party in Ireland, and we are happy! (I think they are two of the smartest 3-year olds ever.)

Clever Monkeys

...those darned students!

They are just too smart for their own good. But it does make one snicker :)

So, the story is that our Marketing and Communications Division (MAC) developed a super-duper-magical-forward-thinking marketing campaign with real alums, which I may have mentioned previously -- through fits of giggles -- as they had a 'Back-End' strategy to put the ads on the backs of busses.
(mwah-ha-ha-ha-ha... okay, focus.)

It is called the 'Made In...' or the 'Born and Made' campaign. Some grammarians in the group have a problem with awkwardness of construction of both here, but what the hey. We are only Crawling Insects, so it is best to Keep Calm and Carry On.

Well, lately some current students have become disaffected with the University, because of some 'green' policy preventing construction of more parking lots on campus (after a new educational building took away 50% of the parking lot). While I do applaud the 'green' intent to encourage people to take public transport, walk, cycle, etc. -- it is just sometimes not feasible. But anyhoo, staff get preference for the meagre remnant of parking slots in the morning...

...resulting in queues of students sitting in cars for ages, blocking the car park entrance and repeatedly pushing the button for a ticket until they are allowed in at 12.01pm, or some such nonsense. This blockage can prevent staff from getting in as well. It is all a big kerfuffle (that word makes me happy. And what fun etymology!).

And this causes vexation, increased angst and rage apparently.

So, in retaliation, the clever monkeys designed their own advertising campaign:
Clever monkeys! Personally, I think we need them on our design team, since they have been very creative in their protest -- and I bet they didn't even have to pay an overpriced designer (instead of the on-campus 'Publications' office, with their completely wasted Macs) to produce them. I mean, I do my best with Word, but £100 for a Quark license (which I discovered today) would save money and time since I design my own brochures, write the text AND do the initial layout anyway -- do you think they would pay me half the fee they pay the designer?

Yesterday, there were posters plastered all over the University, as above. Yet, today, they are mysteriously missing... a spate of thievery of clever objects (in which students are so apt to indulge), or a severe infringement of Freedom of Speech?????

However, the chef has just informed me that there is no UK law for Freedom of Speech!!!
Shocked! Shocked and appalled, I am! And shall perhaps need to go outside and jaywalk (since it is not against the law here) to make myself feel better.

*******
Thankfully, today is the beginning of National Margarita Weekend -- although I have severe doubts it means this nation... and we have no tequila.

My husband does not know who Jimmy Buffett is... we shall have to remedy this travesty.