Wednesday 25 December 2007
Austin, TX: I’m sitting on the runway right now, and the two comforts given my circumstances is that, one, I’m in an exit row, and so I actually have comfortable legroom for a plane, and, two, the crew on my flight to Houston are also going to Boston. Better hang out with those guys.
It’s been a month since my last post. Since then, I’ve taken two trips to three countries, where I’ve dogsled in the arctic circle, skipped down a rocky lane in Salzburg like the children in The Sound of Music, drank my weight in coffee in Vienna, and visited Prague, the city of intellectuals. I’ve been offered a job with Blend, in London, through November 2008, had two sets of visitors from the States, got drunk at the company Christmas party and have spent Christmas in Texas.
Houston, TX: Now I’m sitting in the Houston airport, which is named after a certain Texas president, which I’ll optimistically assume is GB Sr., waiting for my already-delayed flight because I’ve already missed the connecting flight to Boston. Houston had a ground halt this morning because of thunderstorms, and now it looks like I’ll be chasing the weather to New England. We only boarded the plane 30 minutes late – just enough time for my 50-minute layover – until we sat on the runway for an extra hour. Now the later flight is delayed 30 minutes, and it looks like I’ll be a total 3-hours late. No too terrible, since I really have no where to be, except I’m surrounded by airport idiots (the holidays bring all kinds of weirdos to the surface, including the couple sitting next to me in my exit row and the man baby-talking his infant a few tables over in the Fox Sky Box Sports Bar I’m currently taking space in.) On second thought, maybe I will have a mixed drink with lunch. I think I’d rather be at ORD. No, strike that – I’d be sitting in the living room of 1193 Commonwealth Ave.
So since I have a lot of time to say nothing in particular, this post should be fairly long. Seriously, you’ll want to get a drink and a meal before sitting down to the rest of this. In fact, take it in chapters. Too bad the only person actually reading this is my brother, and he’s already heard all this. I will, then, include real-time commentary to keep this current; also, how fun for you to have two storylines running simultaneously.
Sweden. Will and I flew to Stockholm, where we spent two days. A new rule was born, and it is the “first name” rule. When we first arrived to the bus stations, with a general crankiness of sleep deprivation, travel grouch and hunger (a condition also described as “hangry,” being the marriage of ‘hungry’ and ‘an
gry’ by one Joe Brucker), we found a sandwich place for lunch called Sandy’s. Man, can Sandy fix a sandwich. I had some curry sandwich concoction, which would be the first of many good eats. For coffee, we found John Chris and for dinner, Sally’s. The second day we had coffee at lunch at Coppola (a slight exception to the first-name rule with, um, last names) and coffee at Wanye’s. We broke our rule completely for dinner the second night, eating at the first decent place we found in Gamla Stan, because it was pouring down rain and we couldn’t stand it anymore. The meal was average, and the service mediocre, although we did get to witness two policemen escort the table across from us from the restaurant when they refused to pay. Evidently their food was fine, but also found the service satisfactory. The Christmas music literally halted whilst the police/customer argument was in full swing, and the nearby patrons applauded when the table finally left. Very funny. The picture to the right is from the front door of a BOSTON bar called O'Leary's. We didn't get a chance to go, but do note that they have bumper stickers for: Red Sox, Patriots, Bruins, Celtics, the Revolution ANNNNNNNNNND... The Boston University Terriers. Solid.Stockholm is, um, home to one of the greatest bars I’ve ever been to. Yeah, I said it. Will and I stumbled across this little blues bar called “Stampen” in the Gamla Stan. With the exception of one couple our age, who had flown in from London that morning, we were the youngest people in the bar by about 20 years. Not only was the music swinging and the drinks flowing in this place, which had two stages (one downstairs and one upstairs, in the saloon), but these customers were regulars. The Swedes, we found, love to talk to everyone, and Will and I made a few friends in the bar. It was this eclectic little place playing music semi-reminiscent of the moment when Michael J. Fox breaks out the “Johnny B. Goode” in Back to the Future. What’s more, is that these folks had some funky dancin’ goin’ on. It really can’t even be described. But the best part, for me anyway, was that, like Wally’s in Boston, everyone was treated like a regular in this place. Everyone was on the same par, and all types were welcome. There might’ve been just a little dancing. I asked the bartender if I could buy a shirt (yeah, it was THAT good! [and I happen to be wearing this shirt now, actually]) and he told me to follow him to the back room. Haha, hello sketchy. Not really, though. There were some VIPS – some harmless Sopranos types – there dragging on cigarettes, and one guy started raving about Boston when I told him that’s where I’m from. Said his name was Patrick, and he’s been in Boston on St. Patrick’s Day and hadn’t had to pay for a single drink. I told him that sounds about right.
Kiruna: After Stockhom, Will and I flew north two and a half hours to Kiruna, a tiny town in the Arctic Circle, where we stayed in a hotel that was the former train station and took a dogsled tour. Bundled in: two sweatshirts, two scarves, one hat, long underwear, spandex pants, jeans and two pairs of socks (all ours) as well as heavy boots, snow suits, ski gloves, and fur hats (all provided), we set off into the snow.
[Well, isn’t karma crappy? After boarding our plane early (good sign!), and then sitting on the runway for an hour and a half (not a good sign.), we’re finally in the air and the woman in front of me reclines. Charming. Never mind that this time SHE’S in the exit row. Bitch.]
So the dogsledding wasn’t what I imagined it would be, nor did it look like the pictures I’ve seen in two in-flight magazines recently (BA featuring Sweden and Continental featuring Alaska). The dogs were these scrappy little things, looking more like warm-weather city runts than Arctic huskies. Each sled had 10 wildly barking dogs, who then went completely silent as soon as our guide shouted orders in Swedish. (Let’s call that word ‘mush.’) We sailed through the snow. It was spectacular, really, and, surprisingly, not too cold. The snow fell softly into our faces as we peered out from behind the person in front of us. Halfway through the course we gave the dog a rest, and the tour leader, Michael, chopped some wood, and lit a fire inside a little teepee in the woods. He boiled two pots of water over said fire and offered us tea or coffee with milk and sugar, and tea pastries made with a layer of jam called cloudberry. After warming some, we head back to camp, unhitched the dogs, and were dropped back at our hotel – after stopping at the dogsled souvenir shop, of course. Will and I didn’t have any money to buy anything; the Irish mother and her two little kids on the tour went crazy in the store. By the way, the picture above is what I call my "fat elf" picture. I can't even begin to describe how many layers, including the snowsuit, I have on here...
[By the way, the pilot has only just now announced why we sat downstairs on the runway for 90 minutes. Something about ‘harsh winds’ that has messed up the ‘flow’ in ‘Houston.’ Remind me to never fly Houston again. Continental isn’t that bad, but every time someone flies through this airport they get stuck. Little Bermuda Triangle, it is. And I think I’ll pass on this gross looking, prepackaged, breaded chicken sandwich, thank you very much.]
So before moving on from Sweden, I will mention that Will and I were to have about 5 hours to hang out in Stockholm on our last day, between the time our flight arrived from Kiruna at one airport (Arlanda, the main airport) and the time we head back to London at another airport (Vasteras, where Ryan Air flies out of). The plan had been to kick it Swede style, but having run out of money, we decided to stay at Arlanda as long as possible and get a direct bus to Vasteras. We got the timetable and then pub-crawled through Arlanda’s two bars, returning to one after visiting the other. Well. Four or five drinks and a McDonalds burger later (yeah, that poor), we had exact change for the bus and that’s it. No more Swedish Kroner (their currency is one of the few stronger than the pound, making our little adventure an even more expensive venture). We staggered to the bus (time crept up on us on that last drink, might’ve finished it a bit, um, quickly) and slumped into our exit row seats. We woke up as we reached, apparently, our destination, which wasn’t in fact the Vasteras airport, but rather the Vasteras bus station. Flaw. In. Plan. This will not get us back to England. Moments later, I’m standing at the ATM and Will is negotiating a flat rate to the airport, which – thank goodness – was only a few kilometers away. We get to the airport, and check in. Well, we’re the only flight leaving from the airport for the rest of the evening because, frankly, it’s Ryan Air. So after this short panic and slight rush we have another half an hour and 100 Kroner to kill, which is the perfect change for two more ciders.
London: In between Sweden and the next trip, only five days later, I finished the redesign of www.spontaneoustheaterproject.com for the folks back home. They put on David Ives’ “Sure Thing” at a few coffee houses in Allston/Brighton which Bev at the Mirror gave a ridiculous but positive review. This was amid a blizzard in Boston, I might add, but the show was deemed a success. ::shrugs:: How the hell would I know -I wasn’t there.
Austria. So to make these 6:45am flights that we’d booked for both Sweden and now this trip, you have to catch the first Stansted Express train from Liverpool St. That leaves at 4:25 am, which means you should aim to be there by 4:00am, knowing you won’t actually get there at 4:00 am. If you’re me, anyway. Which you’re not, but keep up. To be at Liverpool Street by 4:00 am, I have to leave my house by 3:30 to either walk (ugh) or catch the bus (hit or miss). I worked on the STP website from the time I got home that night around 7pm until 2:45am, at which point I showered and packed for my trip... which I was leaving for in 45 minutes. It doesn’t take much to pack for these trips: long underwear, towel, five shirts, the jeans and boots you’re wearing, and a weekend supply of knickers and socks. I did all this, left my house, and intercepted the bus Will and Courtney were on at Old St. We got to the station, bought our coffee/pastries and boarded the train. No lie, we’re sitting there with about 60 seconds to door close when I realize I’ve f*ing forgotten my passport. I jump out of my seat, grab my bag, tell them to go, and say I’ll meet them there. I grab a taxi, who waits and returns while I sprint into my flat, and I catch the next (4:55) train from Liverpool. I pull an Andy upon arrival, sprinting up the escalators (ha, the up ones, though, not down) and make it just in time to a deserted check-in, where Will and Courtney are sitting on the floor. We grab our passes, rush to security (which takes forever – where are all these people going at 6:15 in the morning?!) and literally start to run to our gate, which is on the opposite side of, basically, the world. Gate 54. Miles and miles and miles away from security. We get there as the plane is boarding and they explain to me what the ‘Fun Tax’ is, because I’ve done it. And we’re underway.
First destination: Salzburg. Here, we took one of the Sound of Music tours, and our guide was this wonderful man named “Sunshine” Günter. Sunshine is the happiest, most optimistic man I’ve ever met. There are few people I’d describe as “a delight.” I don’t think I’ve seen Sound of Music in its entirety since I was about four, and I certainly don’t remember any of its scenes except Julie Andrews singing “the hills are alive.” (And those hills were alive with the sound of music.) Nonetheless, Sunshine told us all about Austria, took us to almost all the movie’s shot locations, and then drove us into the mountains to show us this amazing view. There, we went to a small village to see the church where the wedding was filmed (absolutely beautiful), drink grüwhein (delicious!) and get a coffee to warm up. Sunshine made us yodel in the car after we’d had our grüwhein. As we parted ways, Sunshine told us to always be optimistic, and we promised him we’d do our best. Needless to say, Sunshine became our inspiration during the rest of the trip.
Second destination: Vienna. Ahh, Vienna!! My friend Thanos, from BU, is from Vienna and provided us a fantastic list of places to eat, drink and sightsee. It was my favorite city of the trip. The city is laid out in these districts, and it is all very walkable. We wandered around, hitting the Christmas market stalls (tried the grüwhein weiss -white- this time) and had coffee at this unbelievable coffee house, which I’ll have to look up the name later. It was like stepping back in time as you entered, and you wanted to be as cool as the people sitting at nearby tables. The waiters were all in tuxedos, and we ordered lattes with Baileys, which would also become a small tradition/rule on this trip. The second day, we wandered the ring road around the old town to see Parliament, the Burg Theater and lots of other important city-type places. Had more coffee before heading to the train station in the evening to catch our train to Prague.
Oh, the train to Prague – wait, make that Praha. It’s more fun to say. Like
when Will and I spent our remaining currency at the bars in Sweden, we had to get rid of all of our Euros before the Czech Republic because they’re on some crazy currency. I think it was also called Crowns. We piled all our money together to buy three bottles of red wine and a liter of diet coke – Calimocho!!! You see, you have to realize here that Courtney and I are practically the same person, and, amazingly, she is also a fan of the Spanish specialty, of red wine and Coke. We had two hours to kill before our train, and we may or may not have invented a drinking game whilst sitting in the waiting room. (“There’s no chance of not waiting, it’s the name of the room.”) We boarded our train and snagged one of the private cabins for the three of us. Hello formula for drunken ridiculousness. Before we know it, and without warning really, we’re all pretty smashed and there might’ve been some serious singing. There might’ve also been some efforts to top up phones in order to make a few drunken calls. Someone was encouraged by a member of staff to smoke her cigarette in the bathroom. I won’t name names. And not all of those were me, but it was just the two girls and Will, so I’m sure it’s pretty obvious.Prague, Czech Republic: Well, we arrive a la Praha and the driver patiently asked
us to, well, get off his train. No problem, sir, we’re doing the best we can. Will was so patient with us. At this point, it’s about 11:30 and we have to pick up the keys to our hostel from the pub across the street, and they close at midnight. We find it, finally, and as Courtney storms into the pub they just hand her the keys without any words exchanged. She wheels around and marches out like she knows where she’s going. We do finally get into our room, and its unbelievable. We’re paying something like 7 Euro a night for this place and it’s a private room for the three of us with a small sitting area and a LOFT, which I slept in. My fortress. Best sleep ever, best “hostel” ever. Shared bathroom and computer terminal in the hallway, which we were the only three using. Sweetest owner ever, who stopped by to make sure we got in okay and who said we could leave our luggage there after we’d checked out the next day.In Prague, we ate at this spectacular fancy-ish Italian restaurant (food was unbelievably cheap and the exchange rate really helped us here), and we went to this jazz bar we’d seen advertised, which was alright. We walked the Charles Bridge, shopped at more Christmas market stalls, drank more coffee, and walked to the old town, where we wandered the cathedral atop the hills, and where we had a spectacular view of the city. I bought Mom a pair of earrings from this artist on the bridge, and a bracelet for myself.
[By the way, the new song “Say” by John Mayer, for the movie The Bucket List just came on my ipod. I’ve found as I traveled that there are certain songs that fit into this really self-reflective, inspirational/aspirational -type playlist. Kind of like there are perfect songs for driving. I haven’t quite figured out yet what it is about traveling, but I suspect it has something to do with thinking about the people important to you in other parts of the world, and almost sort of weighing that against what you’re experiencing yourself. That probably doesn’t make sense. But I’ve found on these trips, and in London as well, that I’ll experience something amazing and one of the first things I’ll think of is someone back home who would absolutely love to be alongside for that. Maybe that’s just the single girl talking, but I think it has something do with that time/space mystery as well. Major sidetrack.]
ANYWAY… We flew from Prague to London Gatwick (instead of Stansted), which meant we took a train from Gatwick to Victoria, a bus from Victoria to Angel, and a bus from Angel to Old St. Then I had to walk the 10-minute route home. It was about 2:00 when I got in – and this was a Wednesday, I’ll add – and I got to bed around 3, before getting up at 7 to be at work at 9:00. Okay, 9:30.
[Whew, turbulance!!! Please make sure your seatbelts are securely fastened. Also, a little Marvin Gaye “I heard it through the grapevine” just came on the iPod.]
A brief synopsis of work: I have two accounts: The Times schools programme and Gameloft. With our help, Gameloft will be advertising on 250,000 coffee cup sleeves for four weeks (starting March) in 40 independent cafes surrounding the 8 mainline commuter stations in London. We’re testing a buy-one-get-one-free mechanic, and in April they’ll advertise on 1450 tabletops in motorway service station restaurants in 61 locations across the UK. Who’s the copywriter for these? Oof. Would really rather do the art direction, but that’s not what we do. Anyway, that’s exciting. Should be interesting. Schools programme should kick up the day I get back for next product to land the first week of March. More on that later. Neil has offered me a job to stay on through November 2008, during which time I’d also take classes toward a certificate diploma with the Institute for Sales Promotion, who are kind of like professional standards regulators of the sales promotion industry. Assuming the timings all work out with the work permit, etc., that should all be underway when I get back on Jan 3.
Speaking of work, we had our company Christmas party the day before I left for Texas. We had a really nice lunch at Asia de Cuba, the restaurant at the St. Martin’s Lane hotel. A sharing restaurant, the meal went a little something like this: mojito, one glass of chardonnay, shrimp tempura, tuna something-or-other, noodle box, calamari salad, another glass or two of chardonnay, Cuban BBQ chicken, two glasses of cabernet sauvignon, two plates of black cod, another glass of cabernet and a coffee cocktail for lunch. We also had a show during lunch, albeit the customers at the two tables next to us, one full of about 10 City boys and the other about 10 “ladies who lunch,” who were about 50-60 years old. Well, the ladies who lunch got SMASHED. They were taking shots of sambuca at the table along with their wine and cocktails. By the end of the meal, the waiters were bringing around complimentary waters. It was too funny. They were in London for the day, as I overheard one of them say to the other in the bathroom, “Oh, we’re never going to catch our train…” Evidently one of them fell down in the lobby, and another had her head on the sink bowl in the ladies’ room. Word was that yet another was vomiting out front, but that might’ve been the one who fell down. After lunch, we went to a Cuban (Hm.. Neil said it was Cuban, but thinking back it might’ve been Brazilian?) bar, where we had three more rounds of mojitos, bringing my total to at least nine drinks. Well, by this time it was around 6pm, and I needed to go home and pack still before meeting Will for goodbye drinks. Quite an agenda. I had to call Tyler because I was a bit drunk and a bit lost. He actually knew where I was when I said I was walking past the Australian Commission House, or something like that, I before I knew it I was on the Waterloo bridge (could that be right?) and on the 271 bus, which goes right to Hoxton St. Beautiful. Home in no time. Is it the 273?
Well, I took quite the drunk nap from about 7:30 until 11, at which point I made some dinner, met up with Will and went to the Macbeth, a hoppin’ little pub just around the corner from me and, as it turns out, the scene of the crime! This pub is where Amy Winehouse’s husband, Blake, got into all his legal troubles – for those of you not subscribing to the RSS Winehouse, evidently Blake got into a fight with a barman here, and then later paid him off to make the subsequent charges disappear. Well, word got out and Blake has been charged with perverting justice which, evidently, can carry a life sentence. Now they’re making Amy Winehouse pay for the legal fees (poor lil husband has no funds) and then SHE was arrested for being privy to all this, aka accomplice. Oh my. So this place looks like any ordinary pub from the outside, but once you’re inside it’s a total Camden-style hipster bar. Who knew! Right around the corner from me.
Well, this shall be all. The battery is almost dead on my laptop, and I won’t bore with you Christmas play-by-play. I think I’ve done enough. I will mention, though, that my gift to my brother, Mike, was an inflatable boxing ring. Pretty proud of it. It should be about 10’x10’ when inflated. Verrnice.
OK. That’s it. Really. You made it. I wish I could say the same for my flight. We should land in an hour.
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