Sunday, January 23, 2011
THE HOUSE
Built in 1942, this farmhouse is both traditional and unusual. The layout mimics a classic four-square farmhouse, with the floor plan divided into four equal quadrants on both the first and second floors. One room is the kitchen, the other a dining room, another the living room, and another the... Parlor? Upstairs, there used to be four bedrooms, but at some point, one of them was split in half. One half was turned into a bathroom and the other was turned into storage. An unfinished basement and attic complete the traditional ensemble, and I have faithfully avoided all opportunities to actually see these dank, dark locales. Joshua has spent a great deal of time in the basement as of late, and he informs me that there is a ton of moldy, water damaged sheet rock. Yum yum. His current project involves wearing a mask ala Darth Vader and ripping out the sheet rock to create usable storage space downstairs. At one point, he informed me that he has visions of one day finishing the basement into a recreation room. I have visions of cold cement floors and pool tables with canned beer. I suspect that I will spend about the same amount of time in the finished basement as I will in the unfinished basement.
To get to the attic, you have to walk through the bathroom, through the storage half-room, and into a closet-sized space with a ladder. At the top of the ladder is one of those non-user-friendly lifty doors that leads to the attic. The other day, Joshua and I walked into the closet-sized space with intentions of exploring the attic, a place that I was actually willing to go in my grandparents' old farm house (it helped that all of the vintage clothing, shoes, and various keepsakes of yore were stored in the attic by my pack-princess grandmother).
But no. As soon as I saw the ladder, I decided to forgo all attic-related explorations. Joshua, infinitely braver, began his sojourn upwards but bailed at the last moment when he encountered mouse poop and an entirely dark room above.
The story of the attic continues when, a week later, Dave informs us that he has dared to go where Joshua and I have not dared to go before. Armed with a flashlight and a disregard of creepy-crawly creatures that go bump in the attic, Dave climbed the proverbial ladder. At the top, he conducted an ill-lit investigation: where is that goddamn water coming from? Luckily, he ascertained that roof is not riddled with holes that will soon tear us asunder (which is what I assume, what keeps me sweating and tossing and turning in the night). Instead, it's the 'flashing' around the chimney. Don't ask me what 'flashing' is; as far as I know, it's one of those boy-terms that means something to other boys (Joshua nods sagely) and means absolutely nothing to me.
But the story isn't over yet. The flashlight flickers out, and having spied a bare light bulb with a descending string below, Dave gives said string an experimental tug. Ooooo! What's that, you ask? Well, it's two lover-bats clinging to the end of the string. Partners in crime. Hangin' upside down. Chillin' like villains.
Dave, not easily shaken, strikes out. When the stiff, dry bodies of the lover-bats shatter and fall, Dave breathes a sigh of relief. As we all know, lover-bat battles are unpleasant experiences all around.
LESSON #1: Don't go into the attic. Don't get into fights with lover-bats.
Other traditional features include lovely maple floors, extensive oak woodwork, and lots of wall paper. My current project involves removing the wall paper from our bedroom. Although I recall the labors of removing wall paper from my bedrooms of yesterday, removing the wall paper here was blissfully easy. Joshua and I simply pried loose a corner with our finger nails and then tore it off in whole, satisfying pieces. Underneath, the walls were bare, save a few small scraps of previous wall papers. Unlike the smooth, finished walls of newer homes, these walls looked like cement. Joshua and Dave talked sagely about lathe and a plaster mix. Whatever it is, it was deeply pitted and had never been painted.
Joshua and I spent the next couple of days painstakingly filling in the holes in the wall and cracks in the ceiling (oh? I forgot to mention that our home is listing to one corner, causing the floors to slope dramatically toward the Northwest, the ceilings to crack, and my heart to palpitate) with putty.
This was my first experience with putty, and I must say, the first three or four hours were quite enjoyable. It's a little like fussing with play-dough, and scraping the putty-knife across the top releases a satisfyingly professional swick-thwack. However, the seams between walls and the wall and ceiling are trickier, and I soon tossed my trusty putty-knife to the wayside, in favor of the tips of my fingers.
After a few more hours, the enchantment of putty and swick-thwack putty-knives wore off, and the tips of my fingers were a few layers short of an epidermis. Finally, Joshua agreed that we were finished. We let the putty dry for 24 hours.
LESSON #2: Don't use your fingers to apply vast amounts of putty to rough, unpainted plaster mix walls.
The next day, cracking open a can of KILLZ primer (because, baby, this is WAR), we began the labor-intensive process of coating unpainted walls with their virgin layer of paint. Using a roller with plenty of nap (wha?), Joshua smoothly, evenly coated the surface. Handing the roller to me, he relinquished control of the priming process for approximately 20 minutes. It wasn't pretty.
Retreating to a paint-brush and trim work, We moved about the room, making sure every last inch of cement and putty was covered in white. Throwing caution to the wind, Joshua said 'sod it' and began priming the wall, without placing a drop-cloth on the furniture first.
Before we could begin painting in color, I got down on my hands and knees with a razor and a pungent, potent can of chemicals that swears to remove paint from floors. I removed all immediately visible spots, but unfortunately, there is a fine spray of tiny paint particles over the entire room.
LESSON #3: Always use a drop cloth over floors and furniture when painting the ceiling.
Applying colored paint was, in comparison, a walk in the park. Even in my novice hands, the roller ran smooth and even. In less than an hour, the walls were a custardy-yellow (actually, 'Banana Split'), and we were feeling more than a little bit pleased with the transformation.
The only problem was that the fabric that I had chosen for the curtains didn't match.
Let me rewind for a moment by explaining a habit of mine. I tend to do things a bit backwards. For example, most women choose their wedding dress first, and then they move on to more minor accessories, such as shoes, jewelry, and hair things. Not me. Walking through a market in Ecuador, I spied a gorgeous necklace. With seven strands and a gorgeous, coral-pink hue, it reminded me of an Egyptian collar or Aztec-princess costume. I bought it and decided right then and there that this was the necklace I would wear on my wedding day. Everything else had to match the NECKLACE.
The curtains are a similar story. In Nepal, Joshua and I walked into a fabric shop, and sitting cross-legged on an elevated display stage, we watched the shopkeeper unroll silks in a dozen different weaves and colors. When he unrolled a golden, rough-woven stretch of silk, it was love at first sight.
When Joshua and I went to the hardware store to select our paint, we brought the silk and held it up to each option. On paper, 'Banana Split' suited our tastes just fine.
On the wall, however, it didn't suit, and I prayed that our stencils would rescue our color mismatch. Luckily, our stencil arrived in the mail on the very same day, and I was able to begin painting the next morning.
Allow me to rewind again. When I say 'stencils' I fear that many of you may have visions of tacky cornucopia borders from the eighties, but I am here to tell you that the stencil market has changed. Gone are the dark days of wheat sprigs and sea shells. There's no sponge-painting here, my friends. Now, with the miracle of stencils, you can either hearken back to the wallpapers of the 20s and 30s, or you can go modern, using edgy, lovely graphics to uniquely adorn your walls. If you don't believe me, check out etsy.com and search for wall stencils. Cutting Edge designs are my favorite.
Anyway, after much deliberation, Joshua and I selected a design with peonies. A little feminine and little art nouveau, we hoped the stencil would provide us with that vintage look without the hassles and price of upscale wall paper. When we chose 'Banana Split' at the hardware store, we also selected white for the peonies and a muddy brownish-green for the stem.
Using painting tape and mini-rollers, I test drove the stencil on cardboard and then set to work. After a bit, I got the hang of it, and when Joshua offered to take over, I informed him that I was a stenciling pro and he should step aside. 'Flashing' and 'lathe' might be boy-speak, but this is my domain, honey. Give me a stencil and a mini-roller, and I'll give you beauty.
It took me two and a half hours to use the stencil 26 times. During that time, I was able to cover one whole wall. It may sound like slow going, but already, the husband and in-laws were in awe. With a whole wall finished, I compared my golden silk and discovered - to my infinite relief - that the colors suit each other beautifully. It's a match!
LESSON #4: Stencils ROCK.
Quickly followed by...
LESSON #5: Stencils take a very, very, very long time.
It's been days. I've navigated corners and windows. I've painted for hours and hours. Our bed looks forlorn, sitting smack-dab in the middle of the room, boxed in every side by our dressers and night stands. I still have one wall left.
***
These features are traditional. The lovely wooden floors, the four-square floor plan, the unfinished attic and basement, and even the listing corners, water damage, and wall paper are characteristics that our farm house holds in common with a hundred other farm houses. So what makes this place unusual?
When I was a little girl, the most iconic building in the Twin Cities was the 'Witches' Tower.' I'm not sure if this is the Christian name of this historic piece of masonry, but it's the name my dad and I used. Whenever we drove by, my dad would faithfully say, 'Hey look! It's the 'Witches' Tower!' (in much the same way, he religiously noted any and all sightings of birds of prey: 'Hey look!' he would say, 'it's a red-tailed hawk!').
The concept of turret in a home was and is almost to good to be true. My very own Witches' Tower? Are you shitting me? In my mind, the turret on the Southeast corner of our 70 year old farm house is THE defining architectural feature. Downstairs, the turret manifests in a bumped-out, rounded corner filled with windows. This feature is repeated upstairs in our bedroom (hence the crowning golden curtains), and both lovelies are topped with a witch's hat.
Another unusual feature lies in our imported stained glass and window etching. In the living room, the widest window is topped by a beautiful green and yellow swath of colored glass. In the very same room, the door displays a frosted glass etching of a man shootin' birds with his huntin' hounds nearby.
Finally, the porch. When Joshua and I left New Orleans, I mourned the departure of lovely wooden scroll work and lazy Southern porches from my life. I hadn't realized that, apparently, most of the farm houses outside of Ellsworth have the same beautiful, summer-afternoon porches, and our new home is no different. Unfortunately, the roof and floor of the open, wrap-around porch is in pretty bad shape, and at some point, we'll probably have to tear it down, save the ornate columns and scroll work, and then rebuild.
Speaking of which, rebuilding seems to be a bit of theme around here. The roof is shot; we need another. There's water damage around the chimney and on the wall connected to the garage. We need to replace the sheet rock. In the mud room, we need to rip everything down to the studs and then rebuild so that we can have a functional entry-way. Downstairs, we need to do the same. The walls need wall paper removed, primer, and paint. The downstairs' bathroom needs a new tub, an extra wall, and a door. The outside needs to be painted. Due to well water that smells like raunchy eggs and stains every surface like a sloppy serial killer, we need a water softener and filter that costs 4,000 dollars. The windows are drafty as hell, and we need to reseal every single one of them.
Then there are the things that aren't strictly necessary: we would like to take out the ramshackle cabinets and install recycled cabinets from Joshua's grandparents' home. They're the old, 50s metal kind, and I'm in love with them. We want to tear out the linoleum and refinish the floors with something reclaimed. In the back room, we want to bump back the walls to take away a nasty crawl space and extend the back room. Upstairs, we want to make the bathroom bigger and add a laundry room.
It's a gargantuan project, and when I'm not enjoying stenciling or puttying or playing with all of the animals (more on that later), I'm terrified.
But we're doing it. Joshua says that, in order to gain something different, something without precedent, something special, you have to be willing to take the risks. I've wanted this farm for years, but somehow, flipping through the glossy pages of Country Living magazine never quite prepared me for the accompanying terror of stencils and barn-wood reclamation.
Recently, I asked my mother-in-law to clarify a theological point for me. She's the expert on God and dogma around here (no, seriously, she's a minister), and I respect her studied perspective on all things religious. Anyway, we're looking at the house, we're thinking about big and scary stuff like mortgages, insurance, and taxes, and I say, 'is it true that you don't believe in prayers of petition? Because even if you don't, I could use a big old prayer right about now.'
I've only been back in the country a month, but I'm already praying to a god I'm not sure that I believe in, smearing putty with my fingers, and avoiding the creepy-crawly creatures that go bump in the attic.
To get to the attic, you have to walk through the bathroom, through the storage half-room, and into a closet-sized space with a ladder. At the top of the ladder is one of those non-user-friendly lifty doors that leads to the attic. The other day, Joshua and I walked into the closet-sized space with intentions of exploring the attic, a place that I was actually willing to go in my grandparents' old farm house (it helped that all of the vintage clothing, shoes, and various keepsakes of yore were stored in the attic by my pack-princess grandmother).
But no. As soon as I saw the ladder, I decided to forgo all attic-related explorations. Joshua, infinitely braver, began his sojourn upwards but bailed at the last moment when he encountered mouse poop and an entirely dark room above.
The story of the attic continues when, a week later, Dave informs us that he has dared to go where Joshua and I have not dared to go before. Armed with a flashlight and a disregard of creepy-crawly creatures that go bump in the attic, Dave climbed the proverbial ladder. At the top, he conducted an ill-lit investigation: where is that goddamn water coming from? Luckily, he ascertained that roof is not riddled with holes that will soon tear us asunder (which is what I assume, what keeps me sweating and tossing and turning in the night). Instead, it's the 'flashing' around the chimney. Don't ask me what 'flashing' is; as far as I know, it's one of those boy-terms that means something to other boys (Joshua nods sagely) and means absolutely nothing to me.
But the story isn't over yet. The flashlight flickers out, and having spied a bare light bulb with a descending string below, Dave gives said string an experimental tug. Ooooo! What's that, you ask? Well, it's two lover-bats clinging to the end of the string. Partners in crime. Hangin' upside down. Chillin' like villains.
Dave, not easily shaken, strikes out. When the stiff, dry bodies of the lover-bats shatter and fall, Dave breathes a sigh of relief. As we all know, lover-bat battles are unpleasant experiences all around.
LESSON #1: Don't go into the attic. Don't get into fights with lover-bats.
Other traditional features include lovely maple floors, extensive oak woodwork, and lots of wall paper. My current project involves removing the wall paper from our bedroom. Although I recall the labors of removing wall paper from my bedrooms of yesterday, removing the wall paper here was blissfully easy. Joshua and I simply pried loose a corner with our finger nails and then tore it off in whole, satisfying pieces. Underneath, the walls were bare, save a few small scraps of previous wall papers. Unlike the smooth, finished walls of newer homes, these walls looked like cement. Joshua and Dave talked sagely about lathe and a plaster mix. Whatever it is, it was deeply pitted and had never been painted.
Joshua and I spent the next couple of days painstakingly filling in the holes in the wall and cracks in the ceiling (oh? I forgot to mention that our home is listing to one corner, causing the floors to slope dramatically toward the Northwest, the ceilings to crack, and my heart to palpitate) with putty.
This was my first experience with putty, and I must say, the first three or four hours were quite enjoyable. It's a little like fussing with play-dough, and scraping the putty-knife across the top releases a satisfyingly professional swick-thwack. However, the seams between walls and the wall and ceiling are trickier, and I soon tossed my trusty putty-knife to the wayside, in favor of the tips of my fingers.
After a few more hours, the enchantment of putty and swick-thwack putty-knives wore off, and the tips of my fingers were a few layers short of an epidermis. Finally, Joshua agreed that we were finished. We let the putty dry for 24 hours.
LESSON #2: Don't use your fingers to apply vast amounts of putty to rough, unpainted plaster mix walls.
The next day, cracking open a can of KILLZ primer (because, baby, this is WAR), we began the labor-intensive process of coating unpainted walls with their virgin layer of paint. Using a roller with plenty of nap (wha?), Joshua smoothly, evenly coated the surface. Handing the roller to me, he relinquished control of the priming process for approximately 20 minutes. It wasn't pretty.
Retreating to a paint-brush and trim work, We moved about the room, making sure every last inch of cement and putty was covered in white. Throwing caution to the wind, Joshua said 'sod it' and began priming the wall, without placing a drop-cloth on the furniture first.
Before we could begin painting in color, I got down on my hands and knees with a razor and a pungent, potent can of chemicals that swears to remove paint from floors. I removed all immediately visible spots, but unfortunately, there is a fine spray of tiny paint particles over the entire room.
LESSON #3: Always use a drop cloth over floors and furniture when painting the ceiling.
Applying colored paint was, in comparison, a walk in the park. Even in my novice hands, the roller ran smooth and even. In less than an hour, the walls were a custardy-yellow (actually, 'Banana Split'), and we were feeling more than a little bit pleased with the transformation.
The only problem was that the fabric that I had chosen for the curtains didn't match.
Let me rewind for a moment by explaining a habit of mine. I tend to do things a bit backwards. For example, most women choose their wedding dress first, and then they move on to more minor accessories, such as shoes, jewelry, and hair things. Not me. Walking through a market in Ecuador, I spied a gorgeous necklace. With seven strands and a gorgeous, coral-pink hue, it reminded me of an Egyptian collar or Aztec-princess costume. I bought it and decided right then and there that this was the necklace I would wear on my wedding day. Everything else had to match the NECKLACE.
The curtains are a similar story. In Nepal, Joshua and I walked into a fabric shop, and sitting cross-legged on an elevated display stage, we watched the shopkeeper unroll silks in a dozen different weaves and colors. When he unrolled a golden, rough-woven stretch of silk, it was love at first sight.
When Joshua and I went to the hardware store to select our paint, we brought the silk and held it up to each option. On paper, 'Banana Split' suited our tastes just fine.
On the wall, however, it didn't suit, and I prayed that our stencils would rescue our color mismatch. Luckily, our stencil arrived in the mail on the very same day, and I was able to begin painting the next morning.
Allow me to rewind again. When I say 'stencils' I fear that many of you may have visions of tacky cornucopia borders from the eighties, but I am here to tell you that the stencil market has changed. Gone are the dark days of wheat sprigs and sea shells. There's no sponge-painting here, my friends. Now, with the miracle of stencils, you can either hearken back to the wallpapers of the 20s and 30s, or you can go modern, using edgy, lovely graphics to uniquely adorn your walls. If you don't believe me, check out etsy.com and search for wall stencils. Cutting Edge designs are my favorite.
Anyway, after much deliberation, Joshua and I selected a design with peonies. A little feminine and little art nouveau, we hoped the stencil would provide us with that vintage look without the hassles and price of upscale wall paper. When we chose 'Banana Split' at the hardware store, we also selected white for the peonies and a muddy brownish-green for the stem.
Using painting tape and mini-rollers, I test drove the stencil on cardboard and then set to work. After a bit, I got the hang of it, and when Joshua offered to take over, I informed him that I was a stenciling pro and he should step aside. 'Flashing' and 'lathe' might be boy-speak, but this is my domain, honey. Give me a stencil and a mini-roller, and I'll give you beauty.
It took me two and a half hours to use the stencil 26 times. During that time, I was able to cover one whole wall. It may sound like slow going, but already, the husband and in-laws were in awe. With a whole wall finished, I compared my golden silk and discovered - to my infinite relief - that the colors suit each other beautifully. It's a match!
LESSON #4: Stencils ROCK.
Quickly followed by...
LESSON #5: Stencils take a very, very, very long time.
It's been days. I've navigated corners and windows. I've painted for hours and hours. Our bed looks forlorn, sitting smack-dab in the middle of the room, boxed in every side by our dressers and night stands. I still have one wall left.
***
These features are traditional. The lovely wooden floors, the four-square floor plan, the unfinished attic and basement, and even the listing corners, water damage, and wall paper are characteristics that our farm house holds in common with a hundred other farm houses. So what makes this place unusual?
When I was a little girl, the most iconic building in the Twin Cities was the 'Witches' Tower.' I'm not sure if this is the Christian name of this historic piece of masonry, but it's the name my dad and I used. Whenever we drove by, my dad would faithfully say, 'Hey look! It's the 'Witches' Tower!' (in much the same way, he religiously noted any and all sightings of birds of prey: 'Hey look!' he would say, 'it's a red-tailed hawk!').
The concept of turret in a home was and is almost to good to be true. My very own Witches' Tower? Are you shitting me? In my mind, the turret on the Southeast corner of our 70 year old farm house is THE defining architectural feature. Downstairs, the turret manifests in a bumped-out, rounded corner filled with windows. This feature is repeated upstairs in our bedroom (hence the crowning golden curtains), and both lovelies are topped with a witch's hat.
Another unusual feature lies in our imported stained glass and window etching. In the living room, the widest window is topped by a beautiful green and yellow swath of colored glass. In the very same room, the door displays a frosted glass etching of a man shootin' birds with his huntin' hounds nearby.
Finally, the porch. When Joshua and I left New Orleans, I mourned the departure of lovely wooden scroll work and lazy Southern porches from my life. I hadn't realized that, apparently, most of the farm houses outside of Ellsworth have the same beautiful, summer-afternoon porches, and our new home is no different. Unfortunately, the roof and floor of the open, wrap-around porch is in pretty bad shape, and at some point, we'll probably have to tear it down, save the ornate columns and scroll work, and then rebuild.
Speaking of which, rebuilding seems to be a bit of theme around here. The roof is shot; we need another. There's water damage around the chimney and on the wall connected to the garage. We need to replace the sheet rock. In the mud room, we need to rip everything down to the studs and then rebuild so that we can have a functional entry-way. Downstairs, we need to do the same. The walls need wall paper removed, primer, and paint. The downstairs' bathroom needs a new tub, an extra wall, and a door. The outside needs to be painted. Due to well water that smells like raunchy eggs and stains every surface like a sloppy serial killer, we need a water softener and filter that costs 4,000 dollars. The windows are drafty as hell, and we need to reseal every single one of them.
Then there are the things that aren't strictly necessary: we would like to take out the ramshackle cabinets and install recycled cabinets from Joshua's grandparents' home. They're the old, 50s metal kind, and I'm in love with them. We want to tear out the linoleum and refinish the floors with something reclaimed. In the back room, we want to bump back the walls to take away a nasty crawl space and extend the back room. Upstairs, we want to make the bathroom bigger and add a laundry room.
It's a gargantuan project, and when I'm not enjoying stenciling or puttying or playing with all of the animals (more on that later), I'm terrified.
But we're doing it. Joshua says that, in order to gain something different, something without precedent, something special, you have to be willing to take the risks. I've wanted this farm for years, but somehow, flipping through the glossy pages of Country Living magazine never quite prepared me for the accompanying terror of stencils and barn-wood reclamation.
Recently, I asked my mother-in-law to clarify a theological point for me. She's the expert on God and dogma around here (no, seriously, she's a minister), and I respect her studied perspective on all things religious. Anyway, we're looking at the house, we're thinking about big and scary stuff like mortgages, insurance, and taxes, and I say, 'is it true that you don't believe in prayers of petition? Because even if you don't, I could use a big old prayer right about now.'
I've only been back in the country a month, but I'm already praying to a god I'm not sure that I believe in, smearing putty with my fingers, and avoiding the creepy-crawly creatures that go bump in the attic.
Monday, January 3, 2011
Nagthali All View Point Guest House
While Joshua and I were trekking in the Langtang region of Nepal, we took a detour through the Tamang Heritage Trek. Among the many villages on this cultural trek, we stayed in Bridim, Nagthali, and Tatopani. While we had wonderful experiences at all three of these villages, our stay at Nagthali was by far the most memorable.
Unlike most of the villages along the Tamang Heritage Trek, Nagthali is not a permanent community. Although this is usually a signal of poorer accommodations, Nagthali All View Point Guest House not only defied our expectations, it also proved to be one of the very best guest houses in all of Langtang, Gosaikund, Helambu, and Annapurna.
Gyurme and Nima have asked me to post their information on my blog, and I've attached a number of photos to illustrate their lovely, cozy guest house. However, beyond looks and feel, the thing that made our stay with Gyurme and Nima so memorable was their company. Nima is a phenomenal cook and served us the best dal bhaat in Nepal, and Gyurme was incredibly friendly and accommodating. If you find yourself on the Tamang Heritage Trek in Nepal, both Joshua and I highly recommend that you stay with this lovely couple in this gorgeous place.
The dining room has plenty of windows and beautiful views of the Langtang mountain range. With a wood burning stove, this spot is perfect to relax in the warmth after a long day trekking.
Gyurme and Nima are the owners and hosts of the Nagthali All View Point Guest House. They are absolutely wonderful, and we couldn't have asked for better company (or food!).
This is the view from the dining room of Nagthali All View Point Guest House.
This is where the magic happens. Nima cooked us the best dal bhaat in Nepal on this very stove. (It's also where we warmed our toes!)
Here's the sign and the phone number. Call 016915184 to make reservations, or just stop by.
Painted white with yellow trim, Nagthali All View Point Guest House is as cute as a button. And look at the view!
Tell Gyurme and Nima we sent you :)
Unlike most of the villages along the Tamang Heritage Trek, Nagthali is not a permanent community. Although this is usually a signal of poorer accommodations, Nagthali All View Point Guest House not only defied our expectations, it also proved to be one of the very best guest houses in all of Langtang, Gosaikund, Helambu, and Annapurna.
Gyurme and Nima have asked me to post their information on my blog, and I've attached a number of photos to illustrate their lovely, cozy guest house. However, beyond looks and feel, the thing that made our stay with Gyurme and Nima so memorable was their company. Nima is a phenomenal cook and served us the best dal bhaat in Nepal, and Gyurme was incredibly friendly and accommodating. If you find yourself on the Tamang Heritage Trek in Nepal, both Joshua and I highly recommend that you stay with this lovely couple in this gorgeous place.
The dining room has plenty of windows and beautiful views of the Langtang mountain range. With a wood burning stove, this spot is perfect to relax in the warmth after a long day trekking.
Gyurme and Nima are the owners and hosts of the Nagthali All View Point Guest House. They are absolutely wonderful, and we couldn't have asked for better company (or food!).
This is the view from the dining room of Nagthali All View Point Guest House.
This is where the magic happens. Nima cooked us the best dal bhaat in Nepal on this very stove. (It's also where we warmed our toes!)
Here's the sign and the phone number. Call 016915184 to make reservations, or just stop by.
Painted white with yellow trim, Nagthali All View Point Guest House is as cute as a button. And look at the view!Tell Gyurme and Nima we sent you :)
Sunday, December 26, 2010
What's Next?
Some of you have asked me what comes next, and although I haven't made any hard and fast plans, I thought I'd let you know what I've been thinking.
I loved writing A Carpetbagger's Tale. It was a wonderful way to put my journey into words and also share it with my friends and family (and strangers!). In many ways, it's my most prized souvenir: not only is it a record of each day, but it is also an accomplishment. I've wanted to be a writer for as long as I can remember, but I never wrote. I had a lot of excuses, but mostly, I was just scared that I wouldn't be able to do it and I wouldn't be any good at it. With A Carpetbagger's Tale, I proved to myself that I can write, and now, I'm less afraid to keep to writing. For me, that's a huge accomplishment.
That said, I can't help but feel that A Carpetbagger's Tale ended when my travels ended and I came home. When I think about the next stage of my life, it lies on the opposite end of the spectrum from A Carpetbagger's Tale. Whereas the last two and a half years of my life (actually, the last six and a half years of my life) have been characterized by movement, exploring foreign places, and living among strangers in strange lands, the next decade promises to be dramatically different. I've moved back to the part of the country where I grew up; my husband and I have bought a farm with the parents, and we're trying to revive a way of life that my grandparents knew. I hope the next decade is characterized by roots, exploring a regional and ancestral legacy, and living among family and friends.
I think there will be a lot to write about, and I'd feel honored to share my stories of renovation, gardening, and learning the old home crafts with you, but I also suspect that I've tired out the day-by-day update. I don't regret the consistency and detail with which I wrote A Carpetbagger's Tale, but I also recognize my own (and possibly your) boredom with that format by the end of the six months.
Right now, I'm thinking that I will rename this blog with a title more fitting the next stage. Of course, the web address will remain the same, and I will also keep all the old posts. In the future, I expect to update the blog with weekly or bi-weekly posts, and this time around, I expect to include things like recipes, instructions on how to do odd jobs around the farm (I'll teach you as I learn them myself), and pictures of our improvements. As always, if you have more requests, I'll try my best and post those too.
***
As for the end of A Carpetbaggers Tale... I've finished out the day-by-day diary, but there's still more to say. As you may have gathered, the transition from travels back home were rather abrupt and somewhat confused by my time in the hospital. Within the next couple of weeks, I expect to post a couple more entries on highlights, lowlights, summaries, and that sort of thing. Also, I've been promising photos for ages, and I suppose I should make good on that as well :)
Thanks again, and Happy Holidays!
I loved writing A Carpetbagger's Tale. It was a wonderful way to put my journey into words and also share it with my friends and family (and strangers!). In many ways, it's my most prized souvenir: not only is it a record of each day, but it is also an accomplishment. I've wanted to be a writer for as long as I can remember, but I never wrote. I had a lot of excuses, but mostly, I was just scared that I wouldn't be able to do it and I wouldn't be any good at it. With A Carpetbagger's Tale, I proved to myself that I can write, and now, I'm less afraid to keep to writing. For me, that's a huge accomplishment.
That said, I can't help but feel that A Carpetbagger's Tale ended when my travels ended and I came home. When I think about the next stage of my life, it lies on the opposite end of the spectrum from A Carpetbagger's Tale. Whereas the last two and a half years of my life (actually, the last six and a half years of my life) have been characterized by movement, exploring foreign places, and living among strangers in strange lands, the next decade promises to be dramatically different. I've moved back to the part of the country where I grew up; my husband and I have bought a farm with the parents, and we're trying to revive a way of life that my grandparents knew. I hope the next decade is characterized by roots, exploring a regional and ancestral legacy, and living among family and friends.
I think there will be a lot to write about, and I'd feel honored to share my stories of renovation, gardening, and learning the old home crafts with you, but I also suspect that I've tired out the day-by-day update. I don't regret the consistency and detail with which I wrote A Carpetbagger's Tale, but I also recognize my own (and possibly your) boredom with that format by the end of the six months.
Right now, I'm thinking that I will rename this blog with a title more fitting the next stage. Of course, the web address will remain the same, and I will also keep all the old posts. In the future, I expect to update the blog with weekly or bi-weekly posts, and this time around, I expect to include things like recipes, instructions on how to do odd jobs around the farm (I'll teach you as I learn them myself), and pictures of our improvements. As always, if you have more requests, I'll try my best and post those too.
***
As for the end of A Carpetbaggers Tale... I've finished out the day-by-day diary, but there's still more to say. As you may have gathered, the transition from travels back home were rather abrupt and somewhat confused by my time in the hospital. Within the next couple of weeks, I expect to post a couple more entries on highlights, lowlights, summaries, and that sort of thing. Also, I've been promising photos for ages, and I suppose I should make good on that as well :)
Thanks again, and Happy Holidays!
The Long Journey Home
December 24, 2010
On Christmas Eve morning, I woke up to a woman asking me if she could draw my blood. Trying out my voice for the first time in hours, I told her she could.
Joshua looked over at me and wished me a Happy Christmas Eve. I resolved to get the hell out of this hospital.
It took two more hours to get a nurse to give me pain meds and another two more hours to get a doctor to come and see me. In the mean time, I slept and Joshua called the Urgent Care that we had visited on our first day. Apparently, they had the results of my culture back, but they wouldn't share it with anyone but a doctor.
When my favorite (sarcasm) doctor finally arrived, she told us that I couldn't leave because the culture hadn't come back yet. When we told her that it had come back from the Urgent Care, she said that it hadn't; we were wrong. Giving her the phone number we had just called, we asked her to try again.
Apparently, our culture had come back, and the doctor went out to get the fax. When she came back, she handed us a sheet of paper and explained that my culture had revealed an extremely rare bacteria with a resistance to all but one anti-biotic. The bacteria is not quite as resistant to ciprofloxcin - which might explain why that antibiotic had been able to stave off the infection for a week - but ultimately, it was able to resist and grow back.
Getting the culture back meant that our doctor was able to prescribe both the correct antibiotic and a course of painkillers for the next week. Basically, everything the hospital was doing - pumping me with fluids, monitoring my temperature, giving me painkillers and antibiotics - we can do at home. Even so, I would have to sign a waiver, acknowledging that my doctor didn't want to discharge me quite yet. It had only been 12 hours since my temperature was at 102, and their policy was to wait until 24 hours after the presence of a fever.
Warily, I penned my signature. While I want to get out of here, and I definitely want to spend Christmas Eve in my new house with family, any insurance coverage we might have definitely will not cover me if I have to readmit myself.
Mom came to pick us up, and back at the house, I showered. Joshua ran to Walgreens to fill up my prescriptions, and after a piece of toast and a round of goodbyes, Joshua and I were out the door and on our way to the new house.
It takes about an hour to get from St. Paul to Ellsworth, and I woke up just we turned off onto the country road that would lead us home. Still feeling weak, and still feeling as though I'm not quite sure what has happened in the past day, week, six months, I reached out and grabbed Joshua's arm. Steering over the snow and ice, looking out at rolling, frozen white fields dotted with silos and barns and farms, my husband turned his head to look at me. We're going home, he said.
December 23, 2010
I spent the day before Christmas Eve lying in a hospital bed. My dad, Mandy, Hannah, and Eamon came to visit me, and they welcomed me home. Mom came in before and after work, and so did Yvonne. The room was filled with family for the whole day, and although I was feeling somewhat more stable, the pain in my side remained. With the pain meds, I fell in and out of sleep, and mostly, I my visitors spent time watching me, telling me stories, or talking to one another. I wasn't much for conversation.
My third doctor decided that I needed to have a CT Scan, and reassured again and again that either the Travel Insurance or Minnesota Aid would cover it, I agreed. Later in the day, when everyone had left for the afternoon, the Social Worker came in and although I was half sleeping, I overheard her say that we did not qualify for Minnesota Aid. Feeling absolutely panicked by the prospect of a medical bill nearing 10 thousand dollars, I began to sob, and it was a long while before Joshua could calm me down enough to explain to me that we qualify for another form of aid and that, while it's not retroactive, that doesn't mean that we'll have a 10 thousand dollar bill at the end of all of this.
Ugh. More happened today, but I'd almost rather forget it. I had my fourth doctor, and while the three before her hadn't hesitated to diagnose me with a kidney infection, this woman insisted on calling my condition a UTI. To make matters worse, she spoke to me like I was a little child and explained how people get infections and how you can prevent yourself from getting an infection even thought I had already told her that this has actually been a chronic problem that has occured upwards of 25 times in the past six years and that I've been told this very same information over and over again.
The doctor looked at my chart again. Well, we don't know which bacteria is causing the problem, so I'm just putting you on a broad spectrum anti-biotic until we get the culture back from our tests. The CT Scan didn't show much, except for an inflamed kidney, so as soon as you're ready, we should be able to get you out of here.
Once she had left, both Joshua and I vented. She seemed to know the least out of all of the doctors, and yet, she was already talking about discharging me. In the mean time, I was still running a fever.
December 22, 2010
As it was, I didn't have to wait until the morning. In the middle of the night, I found myself barely able to walk, and by 6 AM, I could only lie in one position, my side hurt so much. Joshua looked up an Urgent Care and made an appointment for 7 AM. Waking up my mom, they both dressed me (because I could no longer tie my own shoe laces or get out of bed myself) and got me in the car.
At WestHealth Urgent Care, I entered the waiting room clutching my side, gasping with pain, and tears leaking out all over my face. Joshua filled out all of my paperwork, and we were admitted into a little room where they quickly got urine sample and drew blood.
Absolutely miserable, I cried and sniveled as they took my temperature, blood pressure, and poked me in the back. When the doctor came in, he confirmed our suspicions: with an elevated white blood cell count, nitrates in my urine, and serious back pain, the tentative diagnosis was a Kidney Infection. Just to make sure, the doctor wanted to take a CT scan. He wanted to make sure that it wasn't kidney stones, appendicitis, or an abscess in my kidney.
Unfortunately, this wasn't going to happen. My dad has put me back on his insurance until I get a job, but that doesn't kick in until January 1. Our travel insurance ended yesterday. We're paying for this out of pocket, and already, our visit has cost us 650 dollars. A CT scan would cost nearly 2000.
The doctor tells us that we're playing with fire, but he understands. Instead, he puts me on a program of anti-biotics by injection for the next three days, and he tells us that if I start to feel worse, that I need to admit myself to the ER. For the rest of the visit, he hooks me up to an IV, and I receive a liter of water and extra-strength ibuprofen. He explains that he doesn't want to give me anything stronger because he wants me to be able to gauge if things get worse.
Just before I leave, two nurses come in to administer the anti-biotics. Working in sync, they inject large needles into each ass cheek, and I shriek. This is no Iv, and this is not drawing blood. This stuff hurts, and afterward, I feel like I've just done the stairmaster for four hours.
Back at home, I go to bed. Joshua looks up the details of our travel insurance on-line and comes in to tell me that there's hope: the policy says that they cover treatment for any conditions that started while traveling, and when he called the agency to clarify, they said that we would just have to send in our medical bills and see. So, it's not entirely reassuring, but it's not 'NO' either.
In addition, Joshua looks up Minnesota Aid, and he thinks that we qualify, given our monthly income (zero) and assets. He's looking hopeful about the whole thing, and reassured, I again fall asleep.
A few hours later, I wake up with cold sweats. Joshua has left to go see his dad, but he'll be back later in the day. Mom comes in to check on me, but I'm still tired, and I just go back to sleep.
Around 5 PM, I decide to take a shower and change out of my jammies. They're wet from cold sweats, and I'm enchanted with the ability to wear something different every day. In the other room, Mom starts making some soup for me to eat, and once I've done showering, I sit with her in the dining room and slowly sip a bowl of lentil soup.
I've only been upright for a half hour, but I'm already feeling tired again, and I pad over to the couch to check out what's on Netflix. Mom and I watch a terrible film called the Japanese Story (so very, very weird), and afterward, I watch the Bounty Hunter and part of Ondine. Sometime during the middle of Bounty Hunter my side starts to hurt again. It never really stopped hurting, and I've never been a very good judge of what hurts more or less or the same, but I suspect that it's hurting more. When I try to laugh at funny scenes in the Bounty Hunter, I feel a searing pain in my side, and soon, it just hurts to breathe.
Mom leaves to take David to his home, and I try to lie as still as possible, so that my side doesn't hurt. Joshua comes home about 30 minutes later, and by that time, I'm gasping little tiny breaths and shivering with the pain. Crouching by my side, he asks me if I want to go to the hospital, and the answer is no. I don't like hospitals; I hate waiting rooms; and we're not sure that we have insurance. The answer is definitely no.
It's also 'yes' because I'm terrified. I don't know if I've ever been in so much pain.
Joshua looks up an ER on-line, and when Mom comes home, they again put socks and shoes on me and bundle me into the car. We drive to Fairview Riverside, and Mom drops us off at the waiting room. Inside, there are only a couple of people (one man with an ice pack over what appears to be a couple missing teeth), and although this should be reassuring to me, I'm too busy focusing on putting one foot in front of the other, gingerly lowering myself onto a seat, and wiping the resulting tears from my face.
Mom comes in, and I tell Joshua to tell me about his visit with his dad and my dad. Mom smooths the hair out of my face, and they ask me if I need water, tissues. Eventually, they say my name over the speaker.
Walking to the reception desk makes me cry again, but the triage nurse and receptionist are really nice. They give me a whole box of kleenex, and when we tell them that we don't have insurance, they shake their heads in sympathy and bemoan our country's medical system and the fat cats who get rich off of other people's pain.
After a few questions and a number assignation to my level of pain (I said 8, and they looked at me and said, maybe more like a 10?), they got me into a wheelchair and rolled me into a large room with a bed. After they left, Joshua changed me into the hospital robe, wiping away the tears that leaked out the whole time. It hurt like hell to move.
I peed into another cup, and another nurse to another four vials of blood. A doctor came in and examined me, and looking at the blood and urine results from earlier in the morning, she seconded the first doctor's opinion: I have a kidney infection. She also said that I needed to be admitted. While she didn't think that I needed a CT Scan - the chances of me having any of those other conditions are very small, and I'm almost a textbook case of someone with a kidney infection - my pain levels were hard to manage outside of the hospital, and she wanted me on morphine and an IV for the next 24 hours.
It was more money, and I was still worried about the insurance, but I wasn't about to object. I could barely move, and after the first dose of morphine, the pain had let up enough that I was already falling asleep. Pain pills meant sleep, and sleep meant getting better.
At 2 AM, a hospital nurse came down to transport me from the ER to the 11th floor. Luckily, the room on the 11th floor could also accommodate a cot for Joshua, and for the rest of the night, we dozed off and on between nurses coming in to administer morphine and check my blood pressure and temperature.
December 21, 2010
We woke up, and Joshua checked to make sure that our flight was still scheduled for take off. It was.
David went out to get the car, and we shoulder our enormous packs. By now, they not only contain everything from our three months in Asia, but they also contain some of our things from the bike trip. They are huge, and they are heavy.
On the way to Heathrow, Joshua and David talked in the front, and I fell asleep in the back. This early in the morning the roads were completely clear, and we arrived at the terminal in less than an hour.
Heaving our packs onto our backs again, we hugged David goodbye and thanked him. It's not easy to play host when you have a busy family and a full time job, but David did it beautifully, and we felt lucky to have a safe port away from home.
David got in the car and drove away, and as Joshua and I turned to walk into the airport, we glanced up at a sign. With a full-length photo of a young backpacker, laden down with an oversize backpack, a backpack on front, a side bag over his shoulder, and a bag in each hand, he was the spitting image of - well - us. With his ticket between his teeth, the caption read, 'This is why we have free baggage carts.' We laughed, and getting the message, we picked out a cart and loaded it up with our bags.
Inside, clean-up was under way, but it was clear that Heathrow was only just emerging from chaos. There were still families sleeping on pieces of torn padding and cardboard, and in the lines, there were more than a few grumpy travelers getting into arguments. The air fairly crackled with frustration.
The line for Continental was incredibly long, and we uttered a sigh of relief that David had convinced us to leave a half hour earlier. It took ages for us to get through the line, but finally, we were at the desk, our bags had been checked, and we had our tickets in hand.
On the other side of security, Heathrow was practically empty. Apparently, the airport had elected to limit their incoming and outgoing flights to International destinations, and as a result, there were very few people or flights coming in or out of London today.
By 9 AM, we had boarded our enormous plane, and we were bound for take off. Plugging our headphones into our personal entertainment systems, Joshua and I set in for the ride.
I watched Eat, Pray, Love and Going the Distance, and I have to say that they were both rather disappointing. Julia Roberts was gorgeous and so was Javier Borden, but the movie struggled to retain the things that had been so winning in the book. It lost Ms. Gilbert's sense of humor and the complexities of her relationships. In the end, it seemed like the movie-makers had taken the easy way out and just made it into a romance.
Going th Distance was total crap, and I just wonder why I didn't give up half way through and pick something else.
For the rest of the flight, I wrote my sixth draft of my Personal Statement. I'm not sure if it's much better than my first draft, and it still has problems, but I'm seriously getting ready to through in the towel.
Ten hours after we had left London, we arrived in Houston. In the last hour on the plane, I had slowly begun to feel worse and worse, and by the time we were walking through Immigration, I felt like I had been hit by a truck. I had a splitting headache, and all of a sudden, I had this pain beneath my ribs on the right side of my back. Every time I took a deep breath, it hurt more, and I felt so crappy, I wasn't even able to revel in the fact that we were stateside.
At the baggage claim, we retrieved our bags without a problem, and then we began the long process of going through customs, rechecking our bags, and going through security again. I felt absolutely crappy, and by the time we were at our gate, I was ready to lay down on the filthy floor and go to sleep (which is exactly what I did).
Our plan was an hour late departing the Houston airport because it needed a tire change, and as I passed in and out of sleep, I listened to the sweet nasal twangs of a Minnesotan accent keeping us updated.
We boarded the tiny plane (just three seats across), and within minutes, we were in the air. I read to try and keep my mind off the pain in my side, and before we knew it, we were coming into Minneapolis. Down below,the streets were lit up with headlights and streetlamps, and everything had a fluffy, white cover.
We landed, disembarked, and walked down to the baggage claim. I felt so crappy that it was hard to keep my eyes fully open, but while Joshua went to get our bags, I looked out over the crowd, hoping to see a familiar face.
Sitting on one of the rows of seats, looking at his computer, was David. I walked over and poked him on the shoulder, and he looked up at me, taking off his headphones. 'How did you see me before I saw you?' he asked. I laughed and gave him a hug.
With our bags in tow, Joshua came to join us, and David explained that he had taken the train in. Mom was on her way, and he called her to see where she was. Announcing that she was just a couple minutes away, we all headed out into the cold to wait.
Mom came, and we hugged. I always love coming home and seeing Mom. She gives good hugs, and I've missed her.
Loading our bags into the trunk, we bundle into the car, and I tell Mom that I'm feeling like crap. She wants to know what I think might be going on, and with a growing feeling of dread, I tell her:
On December 9, the day that we left India, I developed a UTI. I took a course of ciprofloxcin to get rid of it, and although my condition had improved, it had never quite gone away. Now, with a serious pain in my side, I was worried that I might have a kidney infection.
Both Mom and Joshua asked if I wanted to head straight to the Emergency Room, but after being awake for nearly 24 hours, I couldn't fathom waiting in an ER. I wanted to go to bed and see how I felt in the morning.
December 20, 2010
On our last morning in London, we woke up and went for a run. With snow under our feet, it took us nearly an hour to cover the same distance it had taken us forty-five minutes to cover in the Summer, but it felt wonderful to breathe crisp, cold air and see the city covered in a frosty layer.
Once we had showered and changed, we waved goodbye to the family and headed into London. When Joshua and I had shown David our prized poster from the National Gallery, he had laughed and told us that there's actually a Gauguin exhibit at the Tate right now. Feeling a bit silly for our hasty poster purchase, we decided to make our way back to the Tate and check it out.
On the ground floor of the Tate, the curators arrange large-scale, temporary installations that tend to be provocative and obscure. Right now, the floor is covered in 100 million individually hand-painted sunflower seeds made out of porcelain. It's certainly odd, but once I had read the artist's statement and watched the film, I was absolutely in love.
On one level, the sunflower seeds are a commentary on community, individualism, and Maoist China. In a lot of Maoist propaganda, Mao was represented as the sun, and the loyal citizens were represented as Sunflowers, turned to face him. The artist also has memories of sunflower seeds as a common street food, and he associates a feeling of community with the buying, sharing, and eating of these sunflower seeds on the road.
The artist stretches this symbolism through quantity. There are 100 million sunflower seeds, and to the human eye, this seems an endless, incomprehensible number. And yet, they've each been hand painted. They are unique. A team of mostly women from one community were hired to painted these by the thousands. They were not artists or even painters, but they banded together to complete this formidable task.
The film is gorgeous. We see the women sitting in a large room, chatting and painting the sunflower seeds. We see the artist supervise the harvesting of the porcelain, its refinement, the sunflower seed molds, their painting, their firing... I don't want to ruin the experience by assigning my own interpretation to the whole thing, but if you can, you should look it up.
Upstairs, we entered the Gauguin exhibit with David's member card. It was an extensive showing, with nearly a dozen rooms and plenty of paintings from each stage of his career. I was familiar with the paintings he had done in Brittany, and once again, these were some of my favorites. I love the broad expanses of wheat, white, and red.
But while I love his colors, I'm less enchanted with Gauguin's perspective. He loved to travel, and he loved to experience things entirely different, but he was also a narcissist and his paintings reveal his misogyny and exploitation. In the end, he was more interested in portraying his fantasies of Tahiti than its realities.
When we walked into the gallery shop at the end of the exhibit, we were relieved to discover that the poster we had bought yesterday at the National Gallery was still our favorite of all the Gauguin.
We wandered through the Tate for a little while longer, but after nearly 6 hours of art museums in two days, we'd had enough. Walking back to the train station, we hopped on a line headed for Greenwich. Joshua wanted a snack from the market, and the two of us hoped to find another bookstore for some more home inspiration.
Unfortunately, the Greenwich Market is closed on a Monday night, but we were able to find a little cafe nearby for a couple of cheese and tomato paninis. We savored them slowly, and looking at the paper, fretted about the state of Heathrow. Although the airport had not allowed news or media crews onto the premises, frustrated travelers had taken photos and film with their cell phones and leaked them to the press. On the front page, headlines announced that Heathrow was at a standstill, and the photos showed travelers sleeping in rows all over the floors. One photo captured two men in the middle of a bloody fight, and in all, it looked like chaos.
Trying to ignore our fears, we paid and headed to Waterstones. The DIY/home decor section was lacking, so instead, I read up on making your own stencils and stamps. Joshua read about radiant heating.
As the sun began to set, we decided to walk home. Our Oyster cards are nearly at zero, and we like the cool air anyway.
Back at the house, we joined the Naylor Roll family for a baked cheese and bread appetizer, pasta, and salad. The food was delicious, and afterward, we sat down in the living room to show off all of our photos.
For the rest of the night, Joshua and I packed up what was left of our things and researched our flight on-line. When we called Continental, they reassured us that the flight was scheduled to take off as planned, and we crossed our fingers. Setting the alarm for 4:30 AM, we said our goodbyes to the family and went off to bed.
December 19, 2010
On Sunday morning, we woke up, bundled up, and rode the train into London. From the London Bridge Station, we crossed Trafalgar Square and stopped to admire the frozen fountain. Families and children posed for photos, commemorating such a rare display of the arctic element.
Behind the fountain, The National British Gallery spans one whole side of the square. Made of grey stone, with columns and a wide main staircase, it looks quite formidable, but it's open to the public, and people were streaming in the side entrance.
Inside, we picked up a map of the galleries. Containing art from the 13th to the 21st centuries, this museum is both large and monumental. Its artwork is among some of the most famous in all of Western Art History.
Thankfully, the curators have made the galleries viewer friendly, and they've organized the artworks by date, artist, and almost by default, movement. We immediately headed for the wings that housed the later centuries, and I slobbered over Gainsborough's country scenes, Turner's revolutionary atmosphere, Le Brun's cherub-cheeked ladies, and Delaroche's doomed Lady Jane. In the corners, I spied Delacroix's tiny study of a dappled horse and fell in love. I saw a Caspar David Friedrich, and it was everything I had hoped it would be, and even Joshua's jaw dropped.
I grow less and less interested in the Impressionists and their ilk, but I must say that Van Gogh's colors still woo me and Manet is probably every bit as good as everyone always said he was. Off to the side, I see a Gauguin, but it's even better than usual. I love his large patches of dusky, jeweled colors, but his misogyny and exploitation always seem to show through in his subject matter. Not so here; in this rare still-life, he stuck to flowers with no intrusions, and it was lovelier than everything else in the room.
From the later centuries, we head back. WE decided to make a detour through the Dutch painters, and as we examine their precise and perfect paintings, I suspect that the Dutch possess superior skills. Josh is bored.
We skip the Italian Renaissance. I have to be honest; they all look the same. Somehow, all these masterminds managed to use the exact same colors, models and I'm pretty sure they were all trying to say the same thing. Instead, we head over to the earliest centuries, where artists believed in the powers of gold paint, and no one remembers who made what. While the individual pieces don't particularly move me, the rooms are suffused with vibrant gold, red, and blue, and without artists' egos in the way, there is a feeling of devotion.
It's been nearly three hours, but before we leave to make our lunch date, we stop in at the gallery shop. Grandma Vivienne has framed posters of some of the museums or exhibits that she's been to in her living room, and I want to copy her. We browse through their posters, and amazingly, they have the odd Gauguin that we had both loved so much. That settled, we picked out a few postcards of our favorite pieces, and then we made our way to the counter.
Back outside, we wandered through the side streets of Trafalgar Square trying to find Liecester Square. Now, you might think that you pronounce each syllable in that word, but you would be wrong. It's pronounced, 'Lester.'
Eventually, we found Joy King Lau, our pre-arranged meeting place for lunch. Joshua and I were the first to arrive, so we made our way up to our table and made our way through a highly-caffeinated pot of tea before Ruth and Paul came.
Looking pink cheeked and just a bit travel weary, Ruth and Paul swooped in a few minutes later with tales of traveling in England through snow and ice - always an eventful and revealing experience. Then, very seriously , they informed us that there were NO FLIGHTS coming in or out of Heathrow today. Joshua and I looked at each other in horror. As far as we knew, it hadn't been snowing for over 24 hours. What were these people doing? Sitting on their bums and drinking tea? Come on! You used to rule an empire! Saddle up!
Before David and the kids arrived, we each ordered Dim Sum, little steamed or fried dough pockets with whatever you please inside of them. We each ordered a Special Dim Sum soup, and while we waited, we continued our banter (I'm not sure if I've mentioned this before, but I may have led Ruth and Paul to believe that my husband loves sheep, and they may or may not have taken this the wrong way. Actually, they did take it the wrong way - on purpose and with much humor - and they won't let him live it down. Joshua has been told that only the Welsh feel that way about sheep, and they're not sure how they feel about a Welshman in the family. As a gag gift, Joshua was given Dolly, the amorous sheep.)
After a bit, our Dim Sum Special Soup came, and it was pretty good. David and the kids came soon after that, and we spent the next four hours ordering little bits of this and that, eating, chatting, and teasing one another. We had a wonderful time, but David soon confirmed Ruth and Paul's news: there were NO FLIGHTS coming in or out of Heathrow, and there were no promises about the next couple of days.
After hours of eating and talking, everyone else at the restaurant had left, and Ruth and Paul decided that they had better be on their way too. Bundling back up, we headed outside and gave hugs all around. Joshua and I reiterated our latest invitation/demand: Ruth and Paul are to come for an extended stay on our farm. Paul can do projects of his choosing if he likes, and I can boss Ruth about in the kitchen or she can be her own boss out in the garden or with the animals. They agreed obediently.
David and the kids headed back towards home, and Joshua and I decided to stay in the city until it was time to meet up with them a little bit later for Rosemary's carol concert. Walking over to a Waterstones, we hunkered down in the reading area with a stack of books. While Joshua read up on roofing and flooring, I read about DIY and flea-market interior design. After an hour of reading, we headed back to the train station and boarded the next train headed for Greenwich. It doesn't take much to get us excited about the house though, and after just a few books we were rushing over our words to get out all of our new ideas. We can't wait.
At Greenwich Station, we disembarked and walked the short distance to St. Alphage Cathedral. Inside, people were already cramming into the pews and lighting their candles. We found Rosemary, rushing about in the fray, and we wished her good luck. We found a spot to sit, and within a few minutes, David found us and joined us.
The Carol Service was comprised of nine carols and nine readings, and it was lovely. The congregation sang along with some of the carols, but mostly, the well-trained choir did their thing. Rosemary had a solo, and as she sang 'In the Deep Midwinter,' I realized for the first time how beautiful the lyrics are and that it was written by Christina Rosetti. Rosemary has this gorgeous, high, clear and round voice, and she sounds like she's in perfect control even at the highest notes. When we complemented her afterward, none of it was forced: she really was the loveliest singer of the bunch.
At the end of the service, we joined the rest of the congregation in the community room for mulled wine and mince pies. Rosemary came in buzzing, and we talked to her and some of the other choir members about the songs, what they liked, disliked.
After a bit, David, Joshua, and I said goodbye to Rosemary and decided to walk home. Rather than take the train or bus, we decided to stretch our legs and walk.
Back at the house, we sat around the table, snacking on cheese and crackers and talking, and once it got late, we all headed off to bed.
On Christmas Eve morning, I woke up to a woman asking me if she could draw my blood. Trying out my voice for the first time in hours, I told her she could.
Joshua looked over at me and wished me a Happy Christmas Eve. I resolved to get the hell out of this hospital.
It took two more hours to get a nurse to give me pain meds and another two more hours to get a doctor to come and see me. In the mean time, I slept and Joshua called the Urgent Care that we had visited on our first day. Apparently, they had the results of my culture back, but they wouldn't share it with anyone but a doctor.
When my favorite (sarcasm) doctor finally arrived, she told us that I couldn't leave because the culture hadn't come back yet. When we told her that it had come back from the Urgent Care, she said that it hadn't; we were wrong. Giving her the phone number we had just called, we asked her to try again.
Apparently, our culture had come back, and the doctor went out to get the fax. When she came back, she handed us a sheet of paper and explained that my culture had revealed an extremely rare bacteria with a resistance to all but one anti-biotic. The bacteria is not quite as resistant to ciprofloxcin - which might explain why that antibiotic had been able to stave off the infection for a week - but ultimately, it was able to resist and grow back.
Getting the culture back meant that our doctor was able to prescribe both the correct antibiotic and a course of painkillers for the next week. Basically, everything the hospital was doing - pumping me with fluids, monitoring my temperature, giving me painkillers and antibiotics - we can do at home. Even so, I would have to sign a waiver, acknowledging that my doctor didn't want to discharge me quite yet. It had only been 12 hours since my temperature was at 102, and their policy was to wait until 24 hours after the presence of a fever.
Warily, I penned my signature. While I want to get out of here, and I definitely want to spend Christmas Eve in my new house with family, any insurance coverage we might have definitely will not cover me if I have to readmit myself.
Mom came to pick us up, and back at the house, I showered. Joshua ran to Walgreens to fill up my prescriptions, and after a piece of toast and a round of goodbyes, Joshua and I were out the door and on our way to the new house.
It takes about an hour to get from St. Paul to Ellsworth, and I woke up just we turned off onto the country road that would lead us home. Still feeling weak, and still feeling as though I'm not quite sure what has happened in the past day, week, six months, I reached out and grabbed Joshua's arm. Steering over the snow and ice, looking out at rolling, frozen white fields dotted with silos and barns and farms, my husband turned his head to look at me. We're going home, he said.
December 23, 2010
I spent the day before Christmas Eve lying in a hospital bed. My dad, Mandy, Hannah, and Eamon came to visit me, and they welcomed me home. Mom came in before and after work, and so did Yvonne. The room was filled with family for the whole day, and although I was feeling somewhat more stable, the pain in my side remained. With the pain meds, I fell in and out of sleep, and mostly, I my visitors spent time watching me, telling me stories, or talking to one another. I wasn't much for conversation.
My third doctor decided that I needed to have a CT Scan, and reassured again and again that either the Travel Insurance or Minnesota Aid would cover it, I agreed. Later in the day, when everyone had left for the afternoon, the Social Worker came in and although I was half sleeping, I overheard her say that we did not qualify for Minnesota Aid. Feeling absolutely panicked by the prospect of a medical bill nearing 10 thousand dollars, I began to sob, and it was a long while before Joshua could calm me down enough to explain to me that we qualify for another form of aid and that, while it's not retroactive, that doesn't mean that we'll have a 10 thousand dollar bill at the end of all of this.
Ugh. More happened today, but I'd almost rather forget it. I had my fourth doctor, and while the three before her hadn't hesitated to diagnose me with a kidney infection, this woman insisted on calling my condition a UTI. To make matters worse, she spoke to me like I was a little child and explained how people get infections and how you can prevent yourself from getting an infection even thought I had already told her that this has actually been a chronic problem that has occured upwards of 25 times in the past six years and that I've been told this very same information over and over again.
The doctor looked at my chart again. Well, we don't know which bacteria is causing the problem, so I'm just putting you on a broad spectrum anti-biotic until we get the culture back from our tests. The CT Scan didn't show much, except for an inflamed kidney, so as soon as you're ready, we should be able to get you out of here.
Once she had left, both Joshua and I vented. She seemed to know the least out of all of the doctors, and yet, she was already talking about discharging me. In the mean time, I was still running a fever.
December 22, 2010
As it was, I didn't have to wait until the morning. In the middle of the night, I found myself barely able to walk, and by 6 AM, I could only lie in one position, my side hurt so much. Joshua looked up an Urgent Care and made an appointment for 7 AM. Waking up my mom, they both dressed me (because I could no longer tie my own shoe laces or get out of bed myself) and got me in the car.
At WestHealth Urgent Care, I entered the waiting room clutching my side, gasping with pain, and tears leaking out all over my face. Joshua filled out all of my paperwork, and we were admitted into a little room where they quickly got urine sample and drew blood.
Absolutely miserable, I cried and sniveled as they took my temperature, blood pressure, and poked me in the back. When the doctor came in, he confirmed our suspicions: with an elevated white blood cell count, nitrates in my urine, and serious back pain, the tentative diagnosis was a Kidney Infection. Just to make sure, the doctor wanted to take a CT scan. He wanted to make sure that it wasn't kidney stones, appendicitis, or an abscess in my kidney.
Unfortunately, this wasn't going to happen. My dad has put me back on his insurance until I get a job, but that doesn't kick in until January 1. Our travel insurance ended yesterday. We're paying for this out of pocket, and already, our visit has cost us 650 dollars. A CT scan would cost nearly 2000.
The doctor tells us that we're playing with fire, but he understands. Instead, he puts me on a program of anti-biotics by injection for the next three days, and he tells us that if I start to feel worse, that I need to admit myself to the ER. For the rest of the visit, he hooks me up to an IV, and I receive a liter of water and extra-strength ibuprofen. He explains that he doesn't want to give me anything stronger because he wants me to be able to gauge if things get worse.
Just before I leave, two nurses come in to administer the anti-biotics. Working in sync, they inject large needles into each ass cheek, and I shriek. This is no Iv, and this is not drawing blood. This stuff hurts, and afterward, I feel like I've just done the stairmaster for four hours.
Back at home, I go to bed. Joshua looks up the details of our travel insurance on-line and comes in to tell me that there's hope: the policy says that they cover treatment for any conditions that started while traveling, and when he called the agency to clarify, they said that we would just have to send in our medical bills and see. So, it's not entirely reassuring, but it's not 'NO' either.
In addition, Joshua looks up Minnesota Aid, and he thinks that we qualify, given our monthly income (zero) and assets. He's looking hopeful about the whole thing, and reassured, I again fall asleep.
A few hours later, I wake up with cold sweats. Joshua has left to go see his dad, but he'll be back later in the day. Mom comes in to check on me, but I'm still tired, and I just go back to sleep.
Around 5 PM, I decide to take a shower and change out of my jammies. They're wet from cold sweats, and I'm enchanted with the ability to wear something different every day. In the other room, Mom starts making some soup for me to eat, and once I've done showering, I sit with her in the dining room and slowly sip a bowl of lentil soup.
I've only been upright for a half hour, but I'm already feeling tired again, and I pad over to the couch to check out what's on Netflix. Mom and I watch a terrible film called the Japanese Story (so very, very weird), and afterward, I watch the Bounty Hunter and part of Ondine. Sometime during the middle of Bounty Hunter my side starts to hurt again. It never really stopped hurting, and I've never been a very good judge of what hurts more or less or the same, but I suspect that it's hurting more. When I try to laugh at funny scenes in the Bounty Hunter, I feel a searing pain in my side, and soon, it just hurts to breathe.
Mom leaves to take David to his home, and I try to lie as still as possible, so that my side doesn't hurt. Joshua comes home about 30 minutes later, and by that time, I'm gasping little tiny breaths and shivering with the pain. Crouching by my side, he asks me if I want to go to the hospital, and the answer is no. I don't like hospitals; I hate waiting rooms; and we're not sure that we have insurance. The answer is definitely no.
It's also 'yes' because I'm terrified. I don't know if I've ever been in so much pain.
Joshua looks up an ER on-line, and when Mom comes home, they again put socks and shoes on me and bundle me into the car. We drive to Fairview Riverside, and Mom drops us off at the waiting room. Inside, there are only a couple of people (one man with an ice pack over what appears to be a couple missing teeth), and although this should be reassuring to me, I'm too busy focusing on putting one foot in front of the other, gingerly lowering myself onto a seat, and wiping the resulting tears from my face.
Mom comes in, and I tell Joshua to tell me about his visit with his dad and my dad. Mom smooths the hair out of my face, and they ask me if I need water, tissues. Eventually, they say my name over the speaker.
Walking to the reception desk makes me cry again, but the triage nurse and receptionist are really nice. They give me a whole box of kleenex, and when we tell them that we don't have insurance, they shake their heads in sympathy and bemoan our country's medical system and the fat cats who get rich off of other people's pain.
After a few questions and a number assignation to my level of pain (I said 8, and they looked at me and said, maybe more like a 10?), they got me into a wheelchair and rolled me into a large room with a bed. After they left, Joshua changed me into the hospital robe, wiping away the tears that leaked out the whole time. It hurt like hell to move.
I peed into another cup, and another nurse to another four vials of blood. A doctor came in and examined me, and looking at the blood and urine results from earlier in the morning, she seconded the first doctor's opinion: I have a kidney infection. She also said that I needed to be admitted. While she didn't think that I needed a CT Scan - the chances of me having any of those other conditions are very small, and I'm almost a textbook case of someone with a kidney infection - my pain levels were hard to manage outside of the hospital, and she wanted me on morphine and an IV for the next 24 hours.
It was more money, and I was still worried about the insurance, but I wasn't about to object. I could barely move, and after the first dose of morphine, the pain had let up enough that I was already falling asleep. Pain pills meant sleep, and sleep meant getting better.
At 2 AM, a hospital nurse came down to transport me from the ER to the 11th floor. Luckily, the room on the 11th floor could also accommodate a cot for Joshua, and for the rest of the night, we dozed off and on between nurses coming in to administer morphine and check my blood pressure and temperature.
December 21, 2010
We woke up, and Joshua checked to make sure that our flight was still scheduled for take off. It was.
David went out to get the car, and we shoulder our enormous packs. By now, they not only contain everything from our three months in Asia, but they also contain some of our things from the bike trip. They are huge, and they are heavy.
On the way to Heathrow, Joshua and David talked in the front, and I fell asleep in the back. This early in the morning the roads were completely clear, and we arrived at the terminal in less than an hour.
Heaving our packs onto our backs again, we hugged David goodbye and thanked him. It's not easy to play host when you have a busy family and a full time job, but David did it beautifully, and we felt lucky to have a safe port away from home.
David got in the car and drove away, and as Joshua and I turned to walk into the airport, we glanced up at a sign. With a full-length photo of a young backpacker, laden down with an oversize backpack, a backpack on front, a side bag over his shoulder, and a bag in each hand, he was the spitting image of - well - us. With his ticket between his teeth, the caption read, 'This is why we have free baggage carts.' We laughed, and getting the message, we picked out a cart and loaded it up with our bags.
Inside, clean-up was under way, but it was clear that Heathrow was only just emerging from chaos. There were still families sleeping on pieces of torn padding and cardboard, and in the lines, there were more than a few grumpy travelers getting into arguments. The air fairly crackled with frustration.
The line for Continental was incredibly long, and we uttered a sigh of relief that David had convinced us to leave a half hour earlier. It took ages for us to get through the line, but finally, we were at the desk, our bags had been checked, and we had our tickets in hand.
On the other side of security, Heathrow was practically empty. Apparently, the airport had elected to limit their incoming and outgoing flights to International destinations, and as a result, there were very few people or flights coming in or out of London today.
By 9 AM, we had boarded our enormous plane, and we were bound for take off. Plugging our headphones into our personal entertainment systems, Joshua and I set in for the ride.
I watched Eat, Pray, Love and Going the Distance, and I have to say that they were both rather disappointing. Julia Roberts was gorgeous and so was Javier Borden, but the movie struggled to retain the things that had been so winning in the book. It lost Ms. Gilbert's sense of humor and the complexities of her relationships. In the end, it seemed like the movie-makers had taken the easy way out and just made it into a romance.
Going th Distance was total crap, and I just wonder why I didn't give up half way through and pick something else.
For the rest of the flight, I wrote my sixth draft of my Personal Statement. I'm not sure if it's much better than my first draft, and it still has problems, but I'm seriously getting ready to through in the towel.
Ten hours after we had left London, we arrived in Houston. In the last hour on the plane, I had slowly begun to feel worse and worse, and by the time we were walking through Immigration, I felt like I had been hit by a truck. I had a splitting headache, and all of a sudden, I had this pain beneath my ribs on the right side of my back. Every time I took a deep breath, it hurt more, and I felt so crappy, I wasn't even able to revel in the fact that we were stateside.
At the baggage claim, we retrieved our bags without a problem, and then we began the long process of going through customs, rechecking our bags, and going through security again. I felt absolutely crappy, and by the time we were at our gate, I was ready to lay down on the filthy floor and go to sleep (which is exactly what I did).
Our plan was an hour late departing the Houston airport because it needed a tire change, and as I passed in and out of sleep, I listened to the sweet nasal twangs of a Minnesotan accent keeping us updated.
We boarded the tiny plane (just three seats across), and within minutes, we were in the air. I read to try and keep my mind off the pain in my side, and before we knew it, we were coming into Minneapolis. Down below,the streets were lit up with headlights and streetlamps, and everything had a fluffy, white cover.
We landed, disembarked, and walked down to the baggage claim. I felt so crappy that it was hard to keep my eyes fully open, but while Joshua went to get our bags, I looked out over the crowd, hoping to see a familiar face.
Sitting on one of the rows of seats, looking at his computer, was David. I walked over and poked him on the shoulder, and he looked up at me, taking off his headphones. 'How did you see me before I saw you?' he asked. I laughed and gave him a hug.
With our bags in tow, Joshua came to join us, and David explained that he had taken the train in. Mom was on her way, and he called her to see where she was. Announcing that she was just a couple minutes away, we all headed out into the cold to wait.
Mom came, and we hugged. I always love coming home and seeing Mom. She gives good hugs, and I've missed her.
Loading our bags into the trunk, we bundle into the car, and I tell Mom that I'm feeling like crap. She wants to know what I think might be going on, and with a growing feeling of dread, I tell her:
On December 9, the day that we left India, I developed a UTI. I took a course of ciprofloxcin to get rid of it, and although my condition had improved, it had never quite gone away. Now, with a serious pain in my side, I was worried that I might have a kidney infection.
Both Mom and Joshua asked if I wanted to head straight to the Emergency Room, but after being awake for nearly 24 hours, I couldn't fathom waiting in an ER. I wanted to go to bed and see how I felt in the morning.
December 20, 2010
On our last morning in London, we woke up and went for a run. With snow under our feet, it took us nearly an hour to cover the same distance it had taken us forty-five minutes to cover in the Summer, but it felt wonderful to breathe crisp, cold air and see the city covered in a frosty layer.
Once we had showered and changed, we waved goodbye to the family and headed into London. When Joshua and I had shown David our prized poster from the National Gallery, he had laughed and told us that there's actually a Gauguin exhibit at the Tate right now. Feeling a bit silly for our hasty poster purchase, we decided to make our way back to the Tate and check it out.
On the ground floor of the Tate, the curators arrange large-scale, temporary installations that tend to be provocative and obscure. Right now, the floor is covered in 100 million individually hand-painted sunflower seeds made out of porcelain. It's certainly odd, but once I had read the artist's statement and watched the film, I was absolutely in love.
On one level, the sunflower seeds are a commentary on community, individualism, and Maoist China. In a lot of Maoist propaganda, Mao was represented as the sun, and the loyal citizens were represented as Sunflowers, turned to face him. The artist also has memories of sunflower seeds as a common street food, and he associates a feeling of community with the buying, sharing, and eating of these sunflower seeds on the road.
The artist stretches this symbolism through quantity. There are 100 million sunflower seeds, and to the human eye, this seems an endless, incomprehensible number. And yet, they've each been hand painted. They are unique. A team of mostly women from one community were hired to painted these by the thousands. They were not artists or even painters, but they banded together to complete this formidable task.
The film is gorgeous. We see the women sitting in a large room, chatting and painting the sunflower seeds. We see the artist supervise the harvesting of the porcelain, its refinement, the sunflower seed molds, their painting, their firing... I don't want to ruin the experience by assigning my own interpretation to the whole thing, but if you can, you should look it up.
Upstairs, we entered the Gauguin exhibit with David's member card. It was an extensive showing, with nearly a dozen rooms and plenty of paintings from each stage of his career. I was familiar with the paintings he had done in Brittany, and once again, these were some of my favorites. I love the broad expanses of wheat, white, and red.
But while I love his colors, I'm less enchanted with Gauguin's perspective. He loved to travel, and he loved to experience things entirely different, but he was also a narcissist and his paintings reveal his misogyny and exploitation. In the end, he was more interested in portraying his fantasies of Tahiti than its realities.
When we walked into the gallery shop at the end of the exhibit, we were relieved to discover that the poster we had bought yesterday at the National Gallery was still our favorite of all the Gauguin.
We wandered through the Tate for a little while longer, but after nearly 6 hours of art museums in two days, we'd had enough. Walking back to the train station, we hopped on a line headed for Greenwich. Joshua wanted a snack from the market, and the two of us hoped to find another bookstore for some more home inspiration.
Unfortunately, the Greenwich Market is closed on a Monday night, but we were able to find a little cafe nearby for a couple of cheese and tomato paninis. We savored them slowly, and looking at the paper, fretted about the state of Heathrow. Although the airport had not allowed news or media crews onto the premises, frustrated travelers had taken photos and film with their cell phones and leaked them to the press. On the front page, headlines announced that Heathrow was at a standstill, and the photos showed travelers sleeping in rows all over the floors. One photo captured two men in the middle of a bloody fight, and in all, it looked like chaos.
Trying to ignore our fears, we paid and headed to Waterstones. The DIY/home decor section was lacking, so instead, I read up on making your own stencils and stamps. Joshua read about radiant heating.
As the sun began to set, we decided to walk home. Our Oyster cards are nearly at zero, and we like the cool air anyway.
Back at the house, we joined the Naylor Roll family for a baked cheese and bread appetizer, pasta, and salad. The food was delicious, and afterward, we sat down in the living room to show off all of our photos.
For the rest of the night, Joshua and I packed up what was left of our things and researched our flight on-line. When we called Continental, they reassured us that the flight was scheduled to take off as planned, and we crossed our fingers. Setting the alarm for 4:30 AM, we said our goodbyes to the family and went off to bed.
December 19, 2010
On Sunday morning, we woke up, bundled up, and rode the train into London. From the London Bridge Station, we crossed Trafalgar Square and stopped to admire the frozen fountain. Families and children posed for photos, commemorating such a rare display of the arctic element.
Behind the fountain, The National British Gallery spans one whole side of the square. Made of grey stone, with columns and a wide main staircase, it looks quite formidable, but it's open to the public, and people were streaming in the side entrance.
Inside, we picked up a map of the galleries. Containing art from the 13th to the 21st centuries, this museum is both large and monumental. Its artwork is among some of the most famous in all of Western Art History.
Thankfully, the curators have made the galleries viewer friendly, and they've organized the artworks by date, artist, and almost by default, movement. We immediately headed for the wings that housed the later centuries, and I slobbered over Gainsborough's country scenes, Turner's revolutionary atmosphere, Le Brun's cherub-cheeked ladies, and Delaroche's doomed Lady Jane. In the corners, I spied Delacroix's tiny study of a dappled horse and fell in love. I saw a Caspar David Friedrich, and it was everything I had hoped it would be, and even Joshua's jaw dropped.
I grow less and less interested in the Impressionists and their ilk, but I must say that Van Gogh's colors still woo me and Manet is probably every bit as good as everyone always said he was. Off to the side, I see a Gauguin, but it's even better than usual. I love his large patches of dusky, jeweled colors, but his misogyny and exploitation always seem to show through in his subject matter. Not so here; in this rare still-life, he stuck to flowers with no intrusions, and it was lovelier than everything else in the room.
From the later centuries, we head back. WE decided to make a detour through the Dutch painters, and as we examine their precise and perfect paintings, I suspect that the Dutch possess superior skills. Josh is bored.
We skip the Italian Renaissance. I have to be honest; they all look the same. Somehow, all these masterminds managed to use the exact same colors, models and I'm pretty sure they were all trying to say the same thing. Instead, we head over to the earliest centuries, where artists believed in the powers of gold paint, and no one remembers who made what. While the individual pieces don't particularly move me, the rooms are suffused with vibrant gold, red, and blue, and without artists' egos in the way, there is a feeling of devotion.
It's been nearly three hours, but before we leave to make our lunch date, we stop in at the gallery shop. Grandma Vivienne has framed posters of some of the museums or exhibits that she's been to in her living room, and I want to copy her. We browse through their posters, and amazingly, they have the odd Gauguin that we had both loved so much. That settled, we picked out a few postcards of our favorite pieces, and then we made our way to the counter.
Back outside, we wandered through the side streets of Trafalgar Square trying to find Liecester Square. Now, you might think that you pronounce each syllable in that word, but you would be wrong. It's pronounced, 'Lester.'
Eventually, we found Joy King Lau, our pre-arranged meeting place for lunch. Joshua and I were the first to arrive, so we made our way up to our table and made our way through a highly-caffeinated pot of tea before Ruth and Paul came.
Looking pink cheeked and just a bit travel weary, Ruth and Paul swooped in a few minutes later with tales of traveling in England through snow and ice - always an eventful and revealing experience. Then, very seriously , they informed us that there were NO FLIGHTS coming in or out of Heathrow today. Joshua and I looked at each other in horror. As far as we knew, it hadn't been snowing for over 24 hours. What were these people doing? Sitting on their bums and drinking tea? Come on! You used to rule an empire! Saddle up!
Before David and the kids arrived, we each ordered Dim Sum, little steamed or fried dough pockets with whatever you please inside of them. We each ordered a Special Dim Sum soup, and while we waited, we continued our banter (I'm not sure if I've mentioned this before, but I may have led Ruth and Paul to believe that my husband loves sheep, and they may or may not have taken this the wrong way. Actually, they did take it the wrong way - on purpose and with much humor - and they won't let him live it down. Joshua has been told that only the Welsh feel that way about sheep, and they're not sure how they feel about a Welshman in the family. As a gag gift, Joshua was given Dolly, the amorous sheep.)
After a bit, our Dim Sum Special Soup came, and it was pretty good. David and the kids came soon after that, and we spent the next four hours ordering little bits of this and that, eating, chatting, and teasing one another. We had a wonderful time, but David soon confirmed Ruth and Paul's news: there were NO FLIGHTS coming in or out of Heathrow, and there were no promises about the next couple of days.
After hours of eating and talking, everyone else at the restaurant had left, and Ruth and Paul decided that they had better be on their way too. Bundling back up, we headed outside and gave hugs all around. Joshua and I reiterated our latest invitation/demand: Ruth and Paul are to come for an extended stay on our farm. Paul can do projects of his choosing if he likes, and I can boss Ruth about in the kitchen or she can be her own boss out in the garden or with the animals. They agreed obediently.
David and the kids headed back towards home, and Joshua and I decided to stay in the city until it was time to meet up with them a little bit later for Rosemary's carol concert. Walking over to a Waterstones, we hunkered down in the reading area with a stack of books. While Joshua read up on roofing and flooring, I read about DIY and flea-market interior design. After an hour of reading, we headed back to the train station and boarded the next train headed for Greenwich. It doesn't take much to get us excited about the house though, and after just a few books we were rushing over our words to get out all of our new ideas. We can't wait.
At Greenwich Station, we disembarked and walked the short distance to St. Alphage Cathedral. Inside, people were already cramming into the pews and lighting their candles. We found Rosemary, rushing about in the fray, and we wished her good luck. We found a spot to sit, and within a few minutes, David found us and joined us.
The Carol Service was comprised of nine carols and nine readings, and it was lovely. The congregation sang along with some of the carols, but mostly, the well-trained choir did their thing. Rosemary had a solo, and as she sang 'In the Deep Midwinter,' I realized for the first time how beautiful the lyrics are and that it was written by Christina Rosetti. Rosemary has this gorgeous, high, clear and round voice, and she sounds like she's in perfect control even at the highest notes. When we complemented her afterward, none of it was forced: she really was the loveliest singer of the bunch.
At the end of the service, we joined the rest of the congregation in the community room for mulled wine and mince pies. Rosemary came in buzzing, and we talked to her and some of the other choir members about the songs, what they liked, disliked.
After a bit, David, Joshua, and I said goodbye to Rosemary and decided to walk home. Rather than take the train or bus, we decided to stretch our legs and walk.
Back at the house, we sat around the table, snacking on cheese and crackers and talking, and once it got late, we all headed off to bed.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Long Buckby to Sawbridgeworth to Charlton
December 18, 2010
After another run, we showered and packed. Joshua made a full breakfast for himself, but unlike my husband, I'm about the same size I've always been, and I have no need to gain about 20 pounds.
Before we head down to the station, I show Grandma Vivienne the rest of our slide show. We talk for a little while, and once Joshua's brought our packs downstairs, we give hugs and say goodbye.
Outside, it's snowing like mad, and we acquire a thick layer of snow as we walk to the station. Once we arrive, we swat at each other's packs and shoulders, knocking of clumps of white.
The train arrive a couple of minutes late, and by the time it pulls in, the snow is coming down in blinding sheets. Off in the distances, naked, white branches sway in the wind, and everything is covered.
On the train, we watch the snow fall. It's wonderful to see our family and winter in England, but as we sit there, we sense - without talking - that we're both ready to go home. It's time to go home.
In London, we take two short underground connections, and eventually, we board the train headed for Charlton Station. The ride doesn't take long, and as I wait, I listen to a mother and daughter debate in another soft, lilting language.
Finally, we arrive, and once we disembark, we realize that, here, the snow lies almost four inches deep. Outside in the streets, the citizens of London are shoveling and scraping their sidewalks. One family has built an enormous snow man, and they've stuck a whole carrot out of the top for his nose. People stop to take photos with their cell-phones.
At David and Rosemary's, we find them all in the living room. School let out on Friday, and today, their first day of holiday, they are decorating the Christmas tree. They have a bowl of popcorn on the coffee table, and they've strung colored lights. David shows us a couple old Santas that the girls made when they were little girls, and they roll their eyes like the teenagers they are and explain that they made these cardboard men ages ago.
Before long, Rosemary is getting ready to go off and sing for yet another event. During the holidays, she has quite a few concerts and private ceremonies. As she dresses in her long, black dress, she warms up her voice, and we can hear her lovely high, clear voice all the way downstairs.
After Rosemary leaves, I head over with Sophie to feed a neighbor's cats. Yoddeling for food, they practically pounce over each other to reach their smelly, wet food, and afterward, they curl up in our laps for a little cuddle.
Back at the house, we busy about in the kitchen, drinking tea and helping David prepare a dinner of baked fish stuffed with mushroom. While we cook, we chat about his last term and our travels. Sophie listens in, stretching, pirouetting, and kicking her feet high into the air like the ballerina she is.
The fish cooks, and we all sit at the table to eat it. Owen isn't feeling well, and we pass the meal listening to teenagers ribbing their little brother. It's been a long time since I've had a normal family meal, but the sounds and conversations are humorously familiar.
After dinner, we devour a delicious chocolate pudding with custard. Owen and Jessica drift off, and Sophie, David, Joshua, and I stay at the table, surfing the internet, talking, and sharing funny youTube videos.
Just before Rosemary got home, I sat down to write, and one by one, everyone headed off to bed. Now, I think it's my turn :)
December 17, 2010
I've left off writing the blog again, and now the days are running together. A bit of what I've written for yesterday may have actually happened today, but I'm not sure...
Joshua and I went for a run again in the morning, heading off in a completely new direction and exploring a few streets we'd never seen before. It had snowed a bit overnight, and the trees were lined with a thin coating of silver.
Back at the house, Joshua cooked another breakfast, and this time, I requested boiled eggs. They were done to perfection, and as usual, Joshua teased me that boiled eggs are more of a vehicle for salt and pepper than anything else. It's true, and that's why I love them.
It's another slow day, and although Grandma Vivienne worries that we'll grow bored, it's just nice to relax and do a bit of nothing. Joshua and I work some more on job applications and my personal statement, and although I'm still not finished, I've resolved to spend just an hour more and be done with it.
Midday, Joshua and I head off into town again to pick up a few more things for dinner. Spying a charity shop, I make Joshua peek in with me, and we try on jackets and shoes. Nothing quite fits, but I do purchase a small pair of earrings shaped like roses.
In the house again, we snack on more crackers and cheese, and just generally loll about in the living room, working, reading, and chatting. Snow begins to fall outside, and Grandma Vivienne grimaces while we make annoying comments about Winter Wonderlands and Christmas frosts.
For dinner, Grandma Vivienne makes a wonderful fish pie, and we scrape our plates clean, sipping glasses of red wine. It's delicious, and I vow to make fish pies of our own once we get home.
Afterward, we sit and chat, and I pour through Grandma Vivienne's lovely cook books. I love the gorgeous photos, and I'm particularly enchanted with recipes for soups. In Delia's Frugal Foods, I come across recipes for souffles, and copying them into our little cooking journal, I resolve to make the souffles just as soon as I've made the fish pies.
December 16, 2010
This morning, Joshua joined me for a run. We ran down to the train station first to check on times for this weekend. Although public transportation in England is light-years ahead of the United States, they have this wonderful habit of striking and repairing things on the weekends just before Christmas. It's the perfect time of year to disrupt people's traveling plans, and while you might think it useful to post such disruption on the internet, you would be wrong. It's best to just show up at the station and ask someone who knows.
Sure enough, Sunday's schedule is screwy, and instead of hourly trains, they're bringing in buses. We commit the schedule to memory and continue on our run.
It's frosty outside, and as we pound the pavement, we can see our breath creating great clouds before us. Our ears turn pink, and our noses begin to drip. Out across the frosty fields, we see a horizon grey and heavy.
Back at the house, we do a wimpy set of sit-ups and I skip push-ups all together. Up in the bathroom, I turn on the water heater and take a scorching shower. I like the water to be so hot that it stings a bit.
Once I've toweled off and dressed, I pad downstairs to find Joshua serving up plates with fried tomato, toast, and omlettes. He's even steeped Irish Breakfast tea in a couple of mugs, and I surreptitiously doctor it with some milk and sugar.
As we eat, Grandma Vivienne gets ready for her monthly meetings with a medical research board. Dressed in one of my favorite colors, a jewel-like teal, she looks very smart indeed, and she tells us how she'll give those smarty-pants doctors and research a reality check (excuse me, sir, but do you think it might be possible to speak in plain English?).
Just after midday, someone picks up Grandma Vivienne, and Joshua and I resolve to get some work done. Heading upstairs, I hop on the internet and begin filling out the application for a Masters in Social Work in earnest. Luckily, everything is on-line, and my resume is updated. I'm able to notify the people I've chosen to write my letters of recommendation, and I'm even able to upload an unofficial transcript. Within three hours, I'm completely finished with the basic information and transcript section, and now, all I have to do is make sure that my letters of recommendation make it in and complete my personal statement and writing research sample.
Once I've finished the application, Joshua does some more job searching and I go downstairs to work on my personal statement. You might think that after six months of writing as much as I have, a personal statement would be no problem. You would be wrong. I've now written 2,000 words four different times, and it's still not quite write. I assure you I'm not being a perfectionist; every time I hand it off for someone to read, I get different feedback. I seem to be getting no-where, and it's quite frustrating.
Before Grandma Vivienne gets home, Joshua and I hurry into town to buy some frozen spinach and eggs. We link arms to ward off the cold, and when Joshua slips on the ice, he doesn't fall because I'm standing right next to him.
At the grocery store, we picked up the spinach and eggs, and just before we went to pay, we nabbed a small box of flapjacks for good measure.
Back at the house, we watch an episode of Scrubs while we nibble on crackers and cheese. Grandma Vivienne gets home, and we catch one another up on the events of our days.
After a bit, Grandma Vivienne goes off to the kitchen to whip up mushroom risotto, and I go back upstairs. Joshua has found a couple of jobs he thinks I should apply to, so I hammer out a cover letter, tweak my resume, and send it off.
Just as I've clicked the 'Send' button, Grandma Vivienne calls me down for dinner. The risotto is lovely, and we each sip of glass of wine. Everything is delicious, and the company is lovely as well. There's something very wintry and Christmassy about a warm dinner with wine and family when there's snow outside.
After dinner, I work on my personal statement and grow more and more frustrated. Eventually, I hand it off to Joshua, and he reads through it. Once he's done with his comments and edits, we sit next to one another and he tells me what to axe and add, and I finally feel that I may only have an hour's left of work.
Before we know it, it's nearly 11. Weary from, well, not very much, we give hugs and kisses and well wishes and head off to bed.
December 15, 2010
I woke up and ran down the same path, crossing the canal and shuffling across the frozen bits. Next to me, the frozen branches clicked as the wind rustled them. Ducks waddled across the canal, looking ungainly on the ice.
Back at the house, I showered and joined Joshua in the bedroom, packing. Ruth and Paul returned from a visit at the doctor's office, and I pulled out some of the jewelry and gifts that we had purchased in India and Nepal. Ruth agreed that the embroidered shawl that I had chosen for Lesley was just the thing, and I gave her the stories on each little item: I bought the shoes in Delhi, but they were hand-made in Rajastahn... Oh, that's the Buddhist mandala that I bought outside of the Dalai Lama's residence in Dharamsala... That's one of my favorites - I bought that in this little alley filled with a thousand of these glittering, multi-colored beads in Kathmandu...
Downstairs, Ruth put soup on the 'Hob,' and Joshua and I flicked through the last of our photos while Ruth and Paul flitted about the house, working hard on this and that.
With the soup warmed and bread toasted, we sat on the floor of the dining room and ate. Ruth has a quick, goofy sense of humor, and the two of us have a fun time ribbing one another. She teases me, I tease her, and when she teases herself a bit too meanly, I swat her on the shoulder and tell her to 'shush.' Both Joshua and I have absolutely demanded that they come and make an extended visit to the farm. We've promised to give Paul the space and freedom to start up all sorts of projects, and I've told Ruth that she's more than welcome to come and join me in the kitchen if she can bear to relinquish the reigns. She sighs and says that she thinks that she might be able to manage it, but only if it's my kitchen.
Just before two, Paul and Joshua load our bags into the trunk, and the four of us drive down to the Long Buckby train station. Up on the platform, we give hugs, and the train sweeps in. Joshua and I board, stow our bags, and wave good-bye.
The train ride from Long Buckby to Tottenham Hale takes about an hour. Pulling out the computer, we finished our grand slide show. From 13,000 photos, we've narrowed it down to 1,000. It's a surprisingly comprehensive record of our six months of traveling, and it takes a little over an hour to play out.
At Tottenham Hale, we put our packs on and walked through the station. On the other side, we caught another train headed for Ely. The train was filled with commuters, and we ended up standing near the doors, drooping from under the weight of our packs.
After about 30 minutes, we arrived at the Sawbridgeworth station. It's funny, but although I've been to Sawbridgeworth a number of times, I don't think I've ever been on this side of town. Grandma Vivienne had recommended that we hail a taxi, but we're cheap and stubborn, and we decided to walk.
Following signs for the town center, we clomped up dark side streets and into town. Eventually, we came across territory we recognized, and after a bit, we were walking down the quiet lane to Grandma Vivienne's flat.
Grandma Vivienne has lovely straight, silver hair and the softest skin. For as long as I can remember, she's been the image of aging gracefully, and after a cold walk with heavy packs, she's a welcome sight. We come in, take off our shoes, and sit down for a cup of tea (or four).
Looking up at the familiar posters, paintings, and knick-knacks, we felt as though we had come full-circle. This is where we came first, and now, we are nearing the end. We told Grandma Vivienne about our highlights and low lights, and she told me about reading the blog. It's nice to have fans :)
For dinner, we ate soup and stir-fry, and afterward, we drowsily cleared away the dishes and drank more tea. Just before 10, I complained that the jet-lag was finally hitting me and called off to bed.
After another run, we showered and packed. Joshua made a full breakfast for himself, but unlike my husband, I'm about the same size I've always been, and I have no need to gain about 20 pounds.
Before we head down to the station, I show Grandma Vivienne the rest of our slide show. We talk for a little while, and once Joshua's brought our packs downstairs, we give hugs and say goodbye.
Outside, it's snowing like mad, and we acquire a thick layer of snow as we walk to the station. Once we arrive, we swat at each other's packs and shoulders, knocking of clumps of white.
The train arrive a couple of minutes late, and by the time it pulls in, the snow is coming down in blinding sheets. Off in the distances, naked, white branches sway in the wind, and everything is covered.
On the train, we watch the snow fall. It's wonderful to see our family and winter in England, but as we sit there, we sense - without talking - that we're both ready to go home. It's time to go home.
In London, we take two short underground connections, and eventually, we board the train headed for Charlton Station. The ride doesn't take long, and as I wait, I listen to a mother and daughter debate in another soft, lilting language.
Finally, we arrive, and once we disembark, we realize that, here, the snow lies almost four inches deep. Outside in the streets, the citizens of London are shoveling and scraping their sidewalks. One family has built an enormous snow man, and they've stuck a whole carrot out of the top for his nose. People stop to take photos with their cell-phones.
At David and Rosemary's, we find them all in the living room. School let out on Friday, and today, their first day of holiday, they are decorating the Christmas tree. They have a bowl of popcorn on the coffee table, and they've strung colored lights. David shows us a couple old Santas that the girls made when they were little girls, and they roll their eyes like the teenagers they are and explain that they made these cardboard men ages ago.
Before long, Rosemary is getting ready to go off and sing for yet another event. During the holidays, she has quite a few concerts and private ceremonies. As she dresses in her long, black dress, she warms up her voice, and we can hear her lovely high, clear voice all the way downstairs.
After Rosemary leaves, I head over with Sophie to feed a neighbor's cats. Yoddeling for food, they practically pounce over each other to reach their smelly, wet food, and afterward, they curl up in our laps for a little cuddle.
Back at the house, we busy about in the kitchen, drinking tea and helping David prepare a dinner of baked fish stuffed with mushroom. While we cook, we chat about his last term and our travels. Sophie listens in, stretching, pirouetting, and kicking her feet high into the air like the ballerina she is.
The fish cooks, and we all sit at the table to eat it. Owen isn't feeling well, and we pass the meal listening to teenagers ribbing their little brother. It's been a long time since I've had a normal family meal, but the sounds and conversations are humorously familiar.
After dinner, we devour a delicious chocolate pudding with custard. Owen and Jessica drift off, and Sophie, David, Joshua, and I stay at the table, surfing the internet, talking, and sharing funny youTube videos.
Just before Rosemary got home, I sat down to write, and one by one, everyone headed off to bed. Now, I think it's my turn :)
December 17, 2010
I've left off writing the blog again, and now the days are running together. A bit of what I've written for yesterday may have actually happened today, but I'm not sure...
Joshua and I went for a run again in the morning, heading off in a completely new direction and exploring a few streets we'd never seen before. It had snowed a bit overnight, and the trees were lined with a thin coating of silver.
Back at the house, Joshua cooked another breakfast, and this time, I requested boiled eggs. They were done to perfection, and as usual, Joshua teased me that boiled eggs are more of a vehicle for salt and pepper than anything else. It's true, and that's why I love them.
It's another slow day, and although Grandma Vivienne worries that we'll grow bored, it's just nice to relax and do a bit of nothing. Joshua and I work some more on job applications and my personal statement, and although I'm still not finished, I've resolved to spend just an hour more and be done with it.
Midday, Joshua and I head off into town again to pick up a few more things for dinner. Spying a charity shop, I make Joshua peek in with me, and we try on jackets and shoes. Nothing quite fits, but I do purchase a small pair of earrings shaped like roses.
In the house again, we snack on more crackers and cheese, and just generally loll about in the living room, working, reading, and chatting. Snow begins to fall outside, and Grandma Vivienne grimaces while we make annoying comments about Winter Wonderlands and Christmas frosts.
For dinner, Grandma Vivienne makes a wonderful fish pie, and we scrape our plates clean, sipping glasses of red wine. It's delicious, and I vow to make fish pies of our own once we get home.
Afterward, we sit and chat, and I pour through Grandma Vivienne's lovely cook books. I love the gorgeous photos, and I'm particularly enchanted with recipes for soups. In Delia's Frugal Foods, I come across recipes for souffles, and copying them into our little cooking journal, I resolve to make the souffles just as soon as I've made the fish pies.
December 16, 2010
This morning, Joshua joined me for a run. We ran down to the train station first to check on times for this weekend. Although public transportation in England is light-years ahead of the United States, they have this wonderful habit of striking and repairing things on the weekends just before Christmas. It's the perfect time of year to disrupt people's traveling plans, and while you might think it useful to post such disruption on the internet, you would be wrong. It's best to just show up at the station and ask someone who knows.
Sure enough, Sunday's schedule is screwy, and instead of hourly trains, they're bringing in buses. We commit the schedule to memory and continue on our run.
It's frosty outside, and as we pound the pavement, we can see our breath creating great clouds before us. Our ears turn pink, and our noses begin to drip. Out across the frosty fields, we see a horizon grey and heavy.
Back at the house, we do a wimpy set of sit-ups and I skip push-ups all together. Up in the bathroom, I turn on the water heater and take a scorching shower. I like the water to be so hot that it stings a bit.
Once I've toweled off and dressed, I pad downstairs to find Joshua serving up plates with fried tomato, toast, and omlettes. He's even steeped Irish Breakfast tea in a couple of mugs, and I surreptitiously doctor it with some milk and sugar.
As we eat, Grandma Vivienne gets ready for her monthly meetings with a medical research board. Dressed in one of my favorite colors, a jewel-like teal, she looks very smart indeed, and she tells us how she'll give those smarty-pants doctors and research a reality check (excuse me, sir, but do you think it might be possible to speak in plain English?).
Just after midday, someone picks up Grandma Vivienne, and Joshua and I resolve to get some work done. Heading upstairs, I hop on the internet and begin filling out the application for a Masters in Social Work in earnest. Luckily, everything is on-line, and my resume is updated. I'm able to notify the people I've chosen to write my letters of recommendation, and I'm even able to upload an unofficial transcript. Within three hours, I'm completely finished with the basic information and transcript section, and now, all I have to do is make sure that my letters of recommendation make it in and complete my personal statement and writing research sample.
Once I've finished the application, Joshua does some more job searching and I go downstairs to work on my personal statement. You might think that after six months of writing as much as I have, a personal statement would be no problem. You would be wrong. I've now written 2,000 words four different times, and it's still not quite write. I assure you I'm not being a perfectionist; every time I hand it off for someone to read, I get different feedback. I seem to be getting no-where, and it's quite frustrating.
Before Grandma Vivienne gets home, Joshua and I hurry into town to buy some frozen spinach and eggs. We link arms to ward off the cold, and when Joshua slips on the ice, he doesn't fall because I'm standing right next to him.
At the grocery store, we picked up the spinach and eggs, and just before we went to pay, we nabbed a small box of flapjacks for good measure.
Back at the house, we watch an episode of Scrubs while we nibble on crackers and cheese. Grandma Vivienne gets home, and we catch one another up on the events of our days.
After a bit, Grandma Vivienne goes off to the kitchen to whip up mushroom risotto, and I go back upstairs. Joshua has found a couple of jobs he thinks I should apply to, so I hammer out a cover letter, tweak my resume, and send it off.
Just as I've clicked the 'Send' button, Grandma Vivienne calls me down for dinner. The risotto is lovely, and we each sip of glass of wine. Everything is delicious, and the company is lovely as well. There's something very wintry and Christmassy about a warm dinner with wine and family when there's snow outside.
After dinner, I work on my personal statement and grow more and more frustrated. Eventually, I hand it off to Joshua, and he reads through it. Once he's done with his comments and edits, we sit next to one another and he tells me what to axe and add, and I finally feel that I may only have an hour's left of work.
Before we know it, it's nearly 11. Weary from, well, not very much, we give hugs and kisses and well wishes and head off to bed.
December 15, 2010
I woke up and ran down the same path, crossing the canal and shuffling across the frozen bits. Next to me, the frozen branches clicked as the wind rustled them. Ducks waddled across the canal, looking ungainly on the ice.
Back at the house, I showered and joined Joshua in the bedroom, packing. Ruth and Paul returned from a visit at the doctor's office, and I pulled out some of the jewelry and gifts that we had purchased in India and Nepal. Ruth agreed that the embroidered shawl that I had chosen for Lesley was just the thing, and I gave her the stories on each little item: I bought the shoes in Delhi, but they were hand-made in Rajastahn... Oh, that's the Buddhist mandala that I bought outside of the Dalai Lama's residence in Dharamsala... That's one of my favorites - I bought that in this little alley filled with a thousand of these glittering, multi-colored beads in Kathmandu...
Downstairs, Ruth put soup on the 'Hob,' and Joshua and I flicked through the last of our photos while Ruth and Paul flitted about the house, working hard on this and that.
With the soup warmed and bread toasted, we sat on the floor of the dining room and ate. Ruth has a quick, goofy sense of humor, and the two of us have a fun time ribbing one another. She teases me, I tease her, and when she teases herself a bit too meanly, I swat her on the shoulder and tell her to 'shush.' Both Joshua and I have absolutely demanded that they come and make an extended visit to the farm. We've promised to give Paul the space and freedom to start up all sorts of projects, and I've told Ruth that she's more than welcome to come and join me in the kitchen if she can bear to relinquish the reigns. She sighs and says that she thinks that she might be able to manage it, but only if it's my kitchen.
Just before two, Paul and Joshua load our bags into the trunk, and the four of us drive down to the Long Buckby train station. Up on the platform, we give hugs, and the train sweeps in. Joshua and I board, stow our bags, and wave good-bye.
The train ride from Long Buckby to Tottenham Hale takes about an hour. Pulling out the computer, we finished our grand slide show. From 13,000 photos, we've narrowed it down to 1,000. It's a surprisingly comprehensive record of our six months of traveling, and it takes a little over an hour to play out.
At Tottenham Hale, we put our packs on and walked through the station. On the other side, we caught another train headed for Ely. The train was filled with commuters, and we ended up standing near the doors, drooping from under the weight of our packs.
After about 30 minutes, we arrived at the Sawbridgeworth station. It's funny, but although I've been to Sawbridgeworth a number of times, I don't think I've ever been on this side of town. Grandma Vivienne had recommended that we hail a taxi, but we're cheap and stubborn, and we decided to walk.
Following signs for the town center, we clomped up dark side streets and into town. Eventually, we came across territory we recognized, and after a bit, we were walking down the quiet lane to Grandma Vivienne's flat.
Grandma Vivienne has lovely straight, silver hair and the softest skin. For as long as I can remember, she's been the image of aging gracefully, and after a cold walk with heavy packs, she's a welcome sight. We come in, take off our shoes, and sit down for a cup of tea (or four).
Looking up at the familiar posters, paintings, and knick-knacks, we felt as though we had come full-circle. This is where we came first, and now, we are nearing the end. We told Grandma Vivienne about our highlights and low lights, and she told me about reading the blog. It's nice to have fans :)
For dinner, we ate soup and stir-fry, and afterward, we drowsily cleared away the dishes and drank more tea. Just before 10, I complained that the jet-lag was finally hitting me and called off to bed.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Delhi to Oxford to Long Buckby
December 14, 2010
I woke up and went for a run. The sky was grey, and although it wasn't raining, the mist was so thick that my hair was completely wet within minutes. I ran along the tow path, admiring long boats and small arched bridges and the leaves fallen from the trees, and at thirty minutes, I turned around and ran back.
Back at the house, I showered and dressed, and downstairs, Ruth told me the game plan. With the weather looking dismal, we decided to skip a pub walk and instead drive into Northampton for some shopping and eating.
Ruth and Paul finished up some last minute business, and we all bundled into the car. Stopping in at a couple of department stores, we made our way to The Malt Shovel pub. Inside, it was well lit and decorated with typical pub paraphenalia as well as some Christmas lights and flickering fire. Ordering jacket potatoes, soup, and pints, we gathered around the table for a warm meal.
Although I had expected to experience a bit of culture shock on our way back from Asia, I haven't felt too startled or displaced thus far. Nevertheless, eating food that I'm fairly certain won't make me sick with family in a warm and clean pub is a welcome change, and we thoroughly enjoyed our meal and company.
Back outside, we zipped up our jackets to ward off the chill and drizzle. Ruth and Paul popped into Debenhams to get some last minute stuff for Christmas, and Joshua and I wandered about the Home section, admiring all the nice crockery and cooking things. For a while, Joshua was seduced by the Try Me! massage seat, but I finally managed to draw him away to meet back up with Ruth and Paul.
We returned to the car and drove back to Wharfdale. Gathering in the kitchen and living room, Ruth cooked fish pie (which was fabulously delicious with a glass of white wine) and I tried to catch up on my posts. I must admit: after six faithful months, I've been slacking a bit, and I had six days to catch up on. I'm committed to finishing out the full six months, but I am getting to the point where I'm a little tired of the plot. I worry that it's boring for the reader. After six months, I feel like I can write the events of our days without thinking, and I'm not being nearly as creative. It's not as rewarding or exciting when I've lost the drive to make things funny or interesting, but I can't say that I regret having written as much as I have or the way I have.
So while my posts may not be as interesting for you or for me in these last days of our travels, I'm still glad that I've stuck with it. I've loved being able to update friends and family in such a detailed way, and I've loved having the opportunity to share my travels. It's satisfying to look back at the many posts I've written, and in many ways, this is my lasting souvenier. I will always have a detailed account of our six months to look back on. What's more is that I now have the confidence that I can stick with writing, that I can make time, and that when I do, I enjoy it.
So thank you for reading my posts and thank you for the kind words of appreciation and encouragement. Please know that they mean the world to me.
December 13, 2010
We woke up early and tumbled into the car with Ruth. Every month, she has a meeting in Reading, and although she and Gloria, who is Grandma Vivienne's cousin and also lives in Reading, have had multiple failed attempts to meet up, Joshua and I have finagled a meeting.
The drive from Long Buckby to Reading takes about an hour and half, and once we were there, Ruth dropped us off at a train station. We rode in the rest of the way to Reading, and at the main station, we called Gloria to have her come and pick us up. Gloria is a few years younger than Grandma Vivienne, but her back has recently been causing her problems, and we tried to arrange a pick up that would prevent her from causing undue stress. Unfortunately, although our plans were quite detailed, Joshua and I managed to go to the wrong pick-up parking lot, and Gloria ended up having to walk all the way across the station to come and find us.
I've met Gloria a few times before, and on every occasion, I've come away with the impression of a very smart, classy lady. This meeting was no different, and within minutes, Gloria had handily steered us back to the correct parking lot. The drive from the station to Gloria's flat took less than ten minutes, and we arrived at a modern-looking apartment complex.
Inside, I couldn't help but note each every beautiful element. I loved the living room, with a sleek, gorgeous plum couch, a Chagal print, and dozens of sweet and quirky owl figurines. In the kitchen, blue cabinets matched decor in different shades and tints of the same hue. The kitchen table is both 70s and modern.
Gloria set about putting the water on the kettle and gathering a plate of crackers and cheese. While she worked, Joshua and I asked her about her job and her travels.
Originally trained as a classicist, Gloria went on to get her degree in Psychotherapy from Ohio State. Since then, she's both taught at University and worked as a consultant. Now, she's slowly doing less and less with her consultancy, but she's also taken up Jewish Studies and Art History classes. Twice a week, she tries to go into London for concerts or ballet or the opera, and in the past, she's gone on a number of adventurous trips to China, Australia, and New Zealand.
We exchanged a few traveling stories and Gloria told us a little bit about growing up and other members of the family. For lunch, we ate flan and veggies, and before we knew it, Ruth was already at the door.
We sat at the table, chatting and laughing. The sun set, and we all had a bit of cake and tea. Just before we left, Gloria brought down a couple old dresses that her mother had made. All three of them were gorgeous, with lovely beaded and lace detailing. We admired the handiwork and all wished that we were half as talented.
Back in the car, Ruth, Joshua, and I continued the conversation, and before long, we were back in Long Buckby. Joining Paul in the living room, we drank more tea and relaxed. By 10 PM, Joshua and I were dead on our feet (even though we hadn't done much more than sit, drink tea, and eat all day), and we went to bed.
December 12, 2010
In the morning, Joshua's belly had finally begun to settle down. He took an Immodium for good measure, and Eric joined us in the living room while we packed our bags.
At 10:30 AM, Ruth and Paul knocked on the door. We said goodbye to Eric, and carrying out our bags, headed for Ruth's car.
Long Buckby is about 40 miles from Oxford, but two Sundays before Christmas, traffic is pretty crazy, and it had taken them a while to drive into the city. Fortunately, they had found their way, and now, we were headed back out. Paul had planned a circular walk with a pub stop along the way, and we drove for about 30 minutes before we reached Fringford, a small but posh village in Oxfordshire.
Walking through streets lined with golden, thatched homes, we entered a pub and asked for their menu. Although it was barely noon, they were already fully booked. We sat down for drinks instead and decided to continue on with our walk. Hopefully, the pub mid-way would have a bit of grub.
Outside, it was grey and cold, but we warmed up as we walked. Ruth and Paul told us about their whirl-wind fall, and Joshua and I were exhausted just contemplating it. After their holiday in Kephalonia, the two of them had jumped back into their consultancy business with both feet. Since then, they've been working like crazy to pull off high-profile events and please clients. They both look a bit weary, but Ruth reassures me that she loves her work, and judging by her smile, I decide to believe her.
As we walk along fallow fields and bushes and trees that have lost their leaves, pheasants spring up and fly off, creating an enormous racket. I love their colorful heads and collars.
After a couple of miles, we find another small village and a little-known pub. Ruth and Paul warn us that the owner is a bit mad, and before we go in, we try to remove as much mud from our caked boots as we can. Inside, the man turns us right around and tells us to take off our boots. In our socks, we re-enter the small room, and the man immediately directs our jackets to their proper coat rack.
Finally properly seated in chairs near the fire, we order pints and take in the scenery. The walls are lined in photos and old publican paraphenalia. Old newspaper articles tell about times when pint was a pound, and that was considered highway robbery. Behind the bar, the mad owner strokes his lopsided beard, and locals look at us a bit suspiciously before they go back to their own drinks.
Luckily, the woman of the house does rolls with cheese or ham, and we order a roll apiece. It's surprisingly hearty and tasty, so we tuck in, and when we're done, we're not quite so hungry.
Warmed, watered, and fed, we continue on our way. Paul's worried about sunset, and the rest of us implicitly trust what Ruth has coined 'Paul's Tours' (said in a posh accent so that it sort of rhimes). Ruth and I link arms, and we catch up on family news. Mine is that Hannah has applied to a ton of colleges, and so far, she's gotten into all of them. I'm so happy for her, and she's thrilled that she's already gotten into two of her top three choices. She's fashioning herself as a bit of a city girl, and she's narrowed down her selection into one city in particular: Chicago.
Back at the car, we get in and I lay down. After months of buses in India and Nepal, I'm still horribly carsick. Fortunately, it's little more than 30 minutes back to Wharfdale, and we're home before we know it.
Inside the house, small changes are apparent. Slowly but surely, the bottom floor has been completely renovated, and it's beginning to look quite put together.
Settling in the living room, we half watch TV and half chat while Ruth makes mushroom risotto. Joshua's still looking a bit pale, and Ruth teases him that he's left half of himself in Asia. It's true; when we look at photos from the beginning of the trip, his face looks fuller and his pants fit. Now, his pants flap about his legs, and his jaw is terribly thin.
We eat dinner, and a little after nine, we give hugs all around and head off to bed.
December 11, 2010
It was a long night. Joshua was in and out of bed, visiting the toilet and fighting down nausea. The next morning, he was still feeling very sick, and although he hadn't thrown up, he felt like he might at any moment. Eric and I slowly got ready and ate breakfast, hoping he might feel better, but by 11 AM, he was still laying in bed and grimacing.
Urging us to go off without him, we tucked him in and headed out. Walking through Oxford, we watched tourists and shoppers swarm the shops and department stores, frantically stocking up for Christmas. On the other end of town, we walked by a few more college campuses and then a residential area. Eventually, we came to a large open meadow alongside a canal.
The weather had warmed up a bit, and we walked the towpath, dodging cows and watching rowers skull across the water. Eric talked about his research and plans for the future, and I told him a bit more about our travels and the farm. It was a lovely walk, and after a couple of hours, we headed back.
With the sun already setting, we returned to the house just before four. Joshua still wasn't feeling well, but he hadn't vomitted. Eric looked up Evensong times at Christchurch, and we relaxed for an hour or so before we headed out again.
Christchurch is another one of the more restricted campuses, but Evensong is open to the public, so we were able to walk through the wide and manicured courtyard to reach the lovely, small cathedral. Inside, the detailing was well preserved and delicate, and we sat quietly, admiring our surroundings, and waiting for the choir to enter.
The Christchurch Evensong is sung by perhaps a dozen young boys and a dozen men. The boys' choir is culled from the boys' boarding school at Christchurch, and the men singers are traditionally vocal instructors, teachers, and sometimes even Oxford students. Whoever they are and whatever their training, their voices are lovely. Every night, they sing psalms and anthems, and their songs fill this gorgeous old cathedral.
I've sung in choirs for many years, and I can read a bit of music, but I'm by no means fluent. Eric knows much more about music, and he tells me that polyphony is a musical arrangement where voices sing different melodies at the same time. Whatever it's called, it's beautiful: the choir lines either side of the nave in two rows, and one voice calls out to another. I love when the soloists rise out from different locations in the choir, and the sound seems to pass from one section to another. The boys' voices are high and clear, and the mens' are round and controlled. The conductor, dressed in a long, white robe, cups his hand around a sound he can touch. If there is a god, she would hear this.
Most of Evensong is sung, but at intervals, passages are read from the Bible or prayers are said. Mostly, these readings and prayers are overshadowed by the beautiful songs, but the prayer for Evening was particularly lovely.
Afterwards, we walked home. Joshua still wasn't feeling well, and he made it back just in time for another bout of diarrhea. Eric and I prepared dinner in the kitchen, and unfortunately, the one toilet in the house also happens to be attached to the kitchen. Naturally, it has brilliant accoustics, and as we chopped vegetables, we could hear everything. We all ended up laughing.
Joshua sipped a cup of water while Eric and I ate roast veggies. Eric's roommates came in and expressed more shock at the sight of Eric eating vegetables and - gasp - volunteering for seconds.
For the rest of the evening, we sat and chatted and looked at photos while Joshua ran in and out of the bathroom. At 11 PM, we went to bed.
December 10, 2010
The next morning, Joshua and I woke up and went for a run. Like Bath, the lovely, old buildings of Oxford are made from soft, golden-colored stone, and after a few days in Delhi, it was refreshing to run on clean, wide sidewalks and cross roads with traffic signals that are strictly obeyed.
England has been experiencing a serious cold-snap, and we pulled our sleeves down over our fingers as we ran. The cold air woke us up, and both of us felt great. Although we haven't run in a couple of months, our weeks of walking seem to have paid off: we sprinted down the road, feeling very alive and fit.
After 50 minutes, we returned back to Eric's place and quickly showered. Eric had already left for his college, and once we had dressed, we followed in his footsteps. Just before 11 AM, we met him at the gate to his college, and he waved us up to the modern college chapel.
Sitting in the packed, small room, we waited for the choir to enter. Lined up on the stairs, they began singing 'Ding Dong Merrily On High,' and walked in. For the next hour, they sang in acapella, and during one song, Eric even had a solo. It was lovely, and when the choir finished, we all went down to the community room for mulled wine and mince pies. Just in case you were wondering, mulled wine is red wine that has been sweetened, spiced, and warmed, and it's absolutely delicious. Mince pies are sweet little pastries, and apparently, the two are a classic English pairing.
We congratulated Eric on his excellent solo, and he walked us around his modern college campus. Nuffield, the namesake of this particular college, was a very wealthy philanthropist, and the college is one of the wealthiest in Oxford. Eric took us to see his office, and afterwards, we followed him to the dining hall, were we filled our plates with fresh vegetables and salads.
The food was delicious, and it was fun to see how these elite academians live. Eric explained that Oxford is actually a collection of many college campuses. The colleges aren't necessarily divided by subjects, and it's a bit unclear how or why certain students are placed in certain colleges. Almost all of the campuses have their own courtyard, cloister, chapel, dining hall, library, and student housing. Nuffield's campus was built in the 50s, but many of the other campuses were built as early as the 13th and 14th century.
Once we had finished eating, Eric took us on a tour of the other colleges. Many of the campuses aren't open to the public, but Eric told us to 'look like students,' and we walked in as though we knew where we were going. Eric pointed out Gothic and Romanesque and Medieval detailing as we wound our way through all the old, golden buildings. At All Souls, one of the snottiest and most elite colleges, Eric used his special reader card to get us in and show us a very old, lovely library. With ladders and two open stories, it looked a bit like the library in Beauty and the Beast.
It was a fun tour, and although neither Joshua nor I were aware of much Oxford lore, Eric's grasp of the history and architecture gave us a pretty good picture of Oxford's mysterious past and elite legacy.
Although Oxford is a lovely place filled with brilliant minds, not everyone seemed happy. Standing below the tallest tour on campus, we looked up to find a young woman ready to jump. Eric reached into his pocket to call the police, but luckily, they were already there, calling up to her and trying to prevent a tragedy. We quickly walked away, not prepared to see the outcome.
Shaken, we decided to go on with the tour. Eric took us through a couple more campuses, and we peaked into the lovely, old chapels. Apparently, Evensong is held in most of these chapels every night. Eric said that someone, at some point, donated lots and lots of money so that these choirs could sing worship into perpetuity. We resolved to attend before we left.
We continued our walk through Magdalen College (pronounced like Maudlin), and passed by their deer park where they keep dozens of tame deer. It was quiet, and with the leaves on the ground and the sun setting, it felt very wintry and English. We kept walking, and circumnavigating another college, we came to a canal and eventually a pub, where we stopped for a couple of pints for the boys and a Winter Pimms for me.
On our way home, we stopped in at Tescos to buy food for dinner. After months of paying for restaurant food, I'm so excited to cook again. Eric, never one to spend much time preparing food, seemed a bit apprehensive, but we promised him that we would take it easy on him and make simple, quick dishes.
Back at the house, we crowded into the little kitchen and chopped vegetables while we chatted. Eric sliced some cheese, and we snacked while we waited for the food to be ready. Eric's roommates came home, and they looked shocked to see Eric in the kitchen, cooking. They teased him and opened his cabinet to show us the four tubs of peanut butter, a loaf of bread, and a stock of pasta sauce and noodles. Eric took the ribbing well, and we told his roommates that not much has changed since we lived with Eric nearly five years ago when he lived mainly on a diet of taquitos and tortellini.
After a bit, I took our casserole dish out of the oven. Eric eyed the eggplant bake suspiciously, but he had seconds, and all of us had our fill.
For the rest of the evening, we checked our e-mail and chatted. Just before 10 PM, Joshua started to feel poorly, so we all said goodnight and headed off to bed.
December 9, 2010
From the internet cafe, Joshua and I wandered down the street, choking on the smell of generators and urine. I dragged Joshua into one shop when I spied walls lined with dangly earrings, and we stayed there for a bit while I carefully examined each row and column, selecting half a dozen. At the counter, I paid the equivalent of six dollars without even bargaining. We continued on down the road, walking by a lagoon of piss and shit and dead things. One woman came up to me with her hand outstretched and a child on her hip, and I realized that she must have been a bride burning victim. Every visible stretch of flesh was whorled and knotted with scars. She couldn't have been older than twenty.
Back in Connaught Place, we crossed the busy roundabout and walked the circular path a few times, just to stretch our legs. A sign announced the Delhi marathon, and Joshua and I wondered how you could possibly run in a city without sewage, homicidal rickshaws, and air pollution so thick you can taste it.
We returned to the restaurant in which we had eaten the night before. Ordering two more dosas, we played our last hand of cards and enjoyed two glasses of fresh lemon soda, which is neither too sweet nor too sour. When our dosas came, we savored them slowly. It's our last meal in India.
The sun began to set, so we paid and walked back. In some ways, it was almost scarier than the night before; like last night, it was fully dark, but it was also rush hour, and there were crowds and vehicles zipping about everywhere. Joshua took out the camera to take a few photos of what we now endearingly refer to as 'Gotham City,' and a number of people gathered around us to stare and point at our ostentatious display of whiteness and wealth. We hurried back to the hotel.
Joshua decided that he'd like a Kingfisher beer on his last night in India, so we walked to the rooftop of the hotel for a drink. Listening to the sounds of chaos from below, we agreed that it wasn't Delhi so much as it was us: in most ways, Delhi was much better than we had expected. It was dirty and smelled like a spicy fart, yes, but the boulevards are suprisingly wide, the buildings are modern, and the poverty wasn't so much more startling than many of the other places that we've been. In many ways, Delhi exceeded our expectations, but that doesn't mean that we particularly liked it. And it doesn't mean that it doesn't really look like a post-apocalyptic universe.
Back in our room, we packed up, and it was a relief to discover - once again - that everything fit. When we unpack, it does look a bit like a bomb has hit an entire village and the clean-up crew brought all the debris back to our little hotel room.
Afterwards, we stretched out in bed and watched Goldfinger. I fell asleep during the opening credits, but Joshua dozed on and off until the end of the film. At 10 PM, he turned the lights out, and we pulled up the scuzzy covers to ward off the chill.
At 1 AM, the reception desk buzzed up and informed us that our taxi had arrived. Blearily, we loaded our packs on front and back, and opening the door, we were abruptly greeted by a troop of three cleaners. They laughed at our sleepy surprise and wished us well on our way. As soon as we began to walk away, they ran into our room and immediately started whipping it into shape.
Downstairs, we said goodbye to the manager and met our taxi driver, a short man from Rajastan with a pashmina wound tightly around his neck. He took us to his car, and within seconds, we were off. I had that sort of sick feeling you have when you've woken up too early, and our driver insisted on darting through the narrow streets at top speed. For a while, he talked to us incomprehensibly about the glories of Rajastan and the dangers of Delhi, and we nodded politely. He flew through intersections without even looking, and at one point, he had to brake quite suddenly for a dozen cows, just chilling in the middle of the road.
At a roundabout, the man nearly ran down an autorickshaw. We gasped in fright, and although the driver seemed unpreturbed, it didn't stop him from slamming on the brakes, hopping out of the car, and leaning into the rickshaw to beat the poor rickshaw driver senseless.
I had the sinking feeling that we might not escape Gotham City after all. As our driver berated and slapped the quivering rickshaw driver, we shouted out at him: 'let's just go! Please don't!' He ignored us, but ultimately tired of his bullying and hopped back in the car with a giggle. He chuckled the rest of the way to the airport, and we half-heartedly chuckled along with him, certain at this point that he was entirely mad and he would be less likely to murder us if we shared his sick sense of humor.
In the end, we did survive, but not before our driver had - as they say - 'opened 'er up' on the straight away. The speed dial danced wildly at 120 kilometers per hour while he dodged much larger vehicles, and we sat, clutching hands and praying that we would make it out alive.
The airport felt like a safe haven. Clean and expansive, with plenty of security and orderly lines, it's a stark contrast to the rest of India. We checked in, and our bags were taken without complaint or extra charge (another relief). On the other side of a thorough frisking and multiple metal detectors, we made the long trek to our gate. While we waited to board, we took out my computer and flipped through some more photos, making yet another slide show to show the folks at home :)
On the flight from Delhi to Istanbul, we watched films that we hadn't really liked the first time around and enjoyed every minute. When the plane flew over Iran, Joshua pulled up the shade, and we peaked out at the rugged terrain. In the distance, we thought we might even be able to see Mount Aratat.
In Istanbul, we disembarked and walked through the airport. Joshua went in search of baklava and Turkish delight while I dozed off in a little corner.
After a couple hours of wasting time, we made our way to the next gate. After a bit of a delay, we boarded a little bus and drove out to our plane on the tarmac.
The plane from Istanbul to London was much smaller, and every seat was full. A somewhat wild-eyed veiled woman made a fuss about sitting next to a particularly large military English man, but when the airflight attendants moved her next to another vieled woman, she began screaming and cussing. Apparently, she didn't want to sit next to a 'stinking Arab criminal.' Heads swiveled about in shock, and the woman proceeded to scream loudly, swearing impressively all the while. When one of the flight attendants tried to calm her down, she just screamed louder. At one point, she stopped screaming and calmly requested to be moved up to first class. When she was refused, she resumed screaming. Somehow, they were finally able to quiet her, but not before the entire plane had erupted into a round quietly supressed laughter.
With the fuss ended and without individual TV sets to entertain us, I fell asleep soon after take off. Three hours later, we landed in London, and although it was only shortly after four in the afternoon, it was already dark. In the airport, we went through immigration and waited anxiously for our bags. Thankfully, they safely arrived, and we were soon able to walk out to the coach waiting area.
It costs 20 pounds per person for a coach ride from London Heathrow to Oxford, and although it seemed like an astronomical price to us after months of cheap transportation, it was very easy. As soon as we were seated in the warm, wide seats, I fell asleep. The ninety minute ride passed quickly, and when Joshua woke me up before our stop, I could hardly believe that we were already there.
Eric, dressed smartly in a black button-up jacket and leather shoes, was waiting for us at the bus stop. We apologized for making him wait - we were nearly two hours later than expected - but he generously shrugged it off and gave us welcoming hugs.
From the bus stop, we walked to Crowley Road, a residential area very near the colleges in Oxford. The main road has plenty of restaurants and shops lit up with twinkling lights, and it felt very Christmassy. We asked Eric how he was doing, and he told us that his backpack had just been stolen earlier in the day. Apparently, he had been sitting in Starbucks with his backpack tucked between him and the wall, and some man had knicked it from right under his nose. It was caught clearly on CCTV, but unfortunately, there's pretty little hope of apprehending the man or getting his computer, Boise headphones, TI calculator, or reading glasses back.
We felt horrible for him, but Eric seemed to be taking it pretty well. Fortunately, he's hyper-vigilant with backing up his research, so he didn't lose his work. As an Economic Historian pursuing his Doctorate at Oxford, that would have been catastrophic.
Back at Eric's house, we dumped our stuff in his small living room. The petite, two-story home has four bedrooms, and Eric has four other housemates. All of them are in different stages of a degree at Oxford, and Eric says that it's rare to have everyone home at the same time.
We decided to go out for pizza, and Eric took us to a little Italian place on Crowley Road. I felt a bit of culture shock at the prospect of eating fresh vegetables and drinking tap water; just imagine being able to drink water without treating it for an hour with chlorine or iodine!
The food was delicious, and we cleaned our plates while we caught up. Eric seemed happier and more relaxed, and he told us that his first term had gone very well. At Nuffield College, he has good funding as well as an office. The college also requires their students to eat lunch together in hall every day, and this has been a great way to build community. Research can be a pretty solitary occupation, and Eric is pleased to have built in excuses to socialize. It's also nice to have an office so that he can separate his work life from his home life. The change really suits him, and he was smiling when he told us, 'I love what I'm doing.' We're so happy for him.
Once we had finished eating, we paid and left. Back at Eric's place, Joshua and I got ready for bed, and Eric went off to drink mulled wine and eat mince pies with his roommates. It smelled very Christmassy, but after nearly 40 hours of travelling, we were exhausted and fell quickly asleep.
I woke up and went for a run. The sky was grey, and although it wasn't raining, the mist was so thick that my hair was completely wet within minutes. I ran along the tow path, admiring long boats and small arched bridges and the leaves fallen from the trees, and at thirty minutes, I turned around and ran back.
Back at the house, I showered and dressed, and downstairs, Ruth told me the game plan. With the weather looking dismal, we decided to skip a pub walk and instead drive into Northampton for some shopping and eating.
Ruth and Paul finished up some last minute business, and we all bundled into the car. Stopping in at a couple of department stores, we made our way to The Malt Shovel pub. Inside, it was well lit and decorated with typical pub paraphenalia as well as some Christmas lights and flickering fire. Ordering jacket potatoes, soup, and pints, we gathered around the table for a warm meal.
Although I had expected to experience a bit of culture shock on our way back from Asia, I haven't felt too startled or displaced thus far. Nevertheless, eating food that I'm fairly certain won't make me sick with family in a warm and clean pub is a welcome change, and we thoroughly enjoyed our meal and company.
Back outside, we zipped up our jackets to ward off the chill and drizzle. Ruth and Paul popped into Debenhams to get some last minute stuff for Christmas, and Joshua and I wandered about the Home section, admiring all the nice crockery and cooking things. For a while, Joshua was seduced by the Try Me! massage seat, but I finally managed to draw him away to meet back up with Ruth and Paul.
We returned to the car and drove back to Wharfdale. Gathering in the kitchen and living room, Ruth cooked fish pie (which was fabulously delicious with a glass of white wine) and I tried to catch up on my posts. I must admit: after six faithful months, I've been slacking a bit, and I had six days to catch up on. I'm committed to finishing out the full six months, but I am getting to the point where I'm a little tired of the plot. I worry that it's boring for the reader. After six months, I feel like I can write the events of our days without thinking, and I'm not being nearly as creative. It's not as rewarding or exciting when I've lost the drive to make things funny or interesting, but I can't say that I regret having written as much as I have or the way I have.
So while my posts may not be as interesting for you or for me in these last days of our travels, I'm still glad that I've stuck with it. I've loved being able to update friends and family in such a detailed way, and I've loved having the opportunity to share my travels. It's satisfying to look back at the many posts I've written, and in many ways, this is my lasting souvenier. I will always have a detailed account of our six months to look back on. What's more is that I now have the confidence that I can stick with writing, that I can make time, and that when I do, I enjoy it.
So thank you for reading my posts and thank you for the kind words of appreciation and encouragement. Please know that they mean the world to me.
December 13, 2010
We woke up early and tumbled into the car with Ruth. Every month, she has a meeting in Reading, and although she and Gloria, who is Grandma Vivienne's cousin and also lives in Reading, have had multiple failed attempts to meet up, Joshua and I have finagled a meeting.
The drive from Long Buckby to Reading takes about an hour and half, and once we were there, Ruth dropped us off at a train station. We rode in the rest of the way to Reading, and at the main station, we called Gloria to have her come and pick us up. Gloria is a few years younger than Grandma Vivienne, but her back has recently been causing her problems, and we tried to arrange a pick up that would prevent her from causing undue stress. Unfortunately, although our plans were quite detailed, Joshua and I managed to go to the wrong pick-up parking lot, and Gloria ended up having to walk all the way across the station to come and find us.
I've met Gloria a few times before, and on every occasion, I've come away with the impression of a very smart, classy lady. This meeting was no different, and within minutes, Gloria had handily steered us back to the correct parking lot. The drive from the station to Gloria's flat took less than ten minutes, and we arrived at a modern-looking apartment complex.
Inside, I couldn't help but note each every beautiful element. I loved the living room, with a sleek, gorgeous plum couch, a Chagal print, and dozens of sweet and quirky owl figurines. In the kitchen, blue cabinets matched decor in different shades and tints of the same hue. The kitchen table is both 70s and modern.
Gloria set about putting the water on the kettle and gathering a plate of crackers and cheese. While she worked, Joshua and I asked her about her job and her travels.
Originally trained as a classicist, Gloria went on to get her degree in Psychotherapy from Ohio State. Since then, she's both taught at University and worked as a consultant. Now, she's slowly doing less and less with her consultancy, but she's also taken up Jewish Studies and Art History classes. Twice a week, she tries to go into London for concerts or ballet or the opera, and in the past, she's gone on a number of adventurous trips to China, Australia, and New Zealand.
We exchanged a few traveling stories and Gloria told us a little bit about growing up and other members of the family. For lunch, we ate flan and veggies, and before we knew it, Ruth was already at the door.
We sat at the table, chatting and laughing. The sun set, and we all had a bit of cake and tea. Just before we left, Gloria brought down a couple old dresses that her mother had made. All three of them were gorgeous, with lovely beaded and lace detailing. We admired the handiwork and all wished that we were half as talented.
Back in the car, Ruth, Joshua, and I continued the conversation, and before long, we were back in Long Buckby. Joining Paul in the living room, we drank more tea and relaxed. By 10 PM, Joshua and I were dead on our feet (even though we hadn't done much more than sit, drink tea, and eat all day), and we went to bed.
December 12, 2010
In the morning, Joshua's belly had finally begun to settle down. He took an Immodium for good measure, and Eric joined us in the living room while we packed our bags.
At 10:30 AM, Ruth and Paul knocked on the door. We said goodbye to Eric, and carrying out our bags, headed for Ruth's car.
Long Buckby is about 40 miles from Oxford, but two Sundays before Christmas, traffic is pretty crazy, and it had taken them a while to drive into the city. Fortunately, they had found their way, and now, we were headed back out. Paul had planned a circular walk with a pub stop along the way, and we drove for about 30 minutes before we reached Fringford, a small but posh village in Oxfordshire.
Walking through streets lined with golden, thatched homes, we entered a pub and asked for their menu. Although it was barely noon, they were already fully booked. We sat down for drinks instead and decided to continue on with our walk. Hopefully, the pub mid-way would have a bit of grub.
Outside, it was grey and cold, but we warmed up as we walked. Ruth and Paul told us about their whirl-wind fall, and Joshua and I were exhausted just contemplating it. After their holiday in Kephalonia, the two of them had jumped back into their consultancy business with both feet. Since then, they've been working like crazy to pull off high-profile events and please clients. They both look a bit weary, but Ruth reassures me that she loves her work, and judging by her smile, I decide to believe her.
As we walk along fallow fields and bushes and trees that have lost their leaves, pheasants spring up and fly off, creating an enormous racket. I love their colorful heads and collars.
After a couple of miles, we find another small village and a little-known pub. Ruth and Paul warn us that the owner is a bit mad, and before we go in, we try to remove as much mud from our caked boots as we can. Inside, the man turns us right around and tells us to take off our boots. In our socks, we re-enter the small room, and the man immediately directs our jackets to their proper coat rack.
Finally properly seated in chairs near the fire, we order pints and take in the scenery. The walls are lined in photos and old publican paraphenalia. Old newspaper articles tell about times when pint was a pound, and that was considered highway robbery. Behind the bar, the mad owner strokes his lopsided beard, and locals look at us a bit suspiciously before they go back to their own drinks.
Luckily, the woman of the house does rolls with cheese or ham, and we order a roll apiece. It's surprisingly hearty and tasty, so we tuck in, and when we're done, we're not quite so hungry.
Warmed, watered, and fed, we continue on our way. Paul's worried about sunset, and the rest of us implicitly trust what Ruth has coined 'Paul's Tours' (said in a posh accent so that it sort of rhimes). Ruth and I link arms, and we catch up on family news. Mine is that Hannah has applied to a ton of colleges, and so far, she's gotten into all of them. I'm so happy for her, and she's thrilled that she's already gotten into two of her top three choices. She's fashioning herself as a bit of a city girl, and she's narrowed down her selection into one city in particular: Chicago.
Back at the car, we get in and I lay down. After months of buses in India and Nepal, I'm still horribly carsick. Fortunately, it's little more than 30 minutes back to Wharfdale, and we're home before we know it.
Inside the house, small changes are apparent. Slowly but surely, the bottom floor has been completely renovated, and it's beginning to look quite put together.
Settling in the living room, we half watch TV and half chat while Ruth makes mushroom risotto. Joshua's still looking a bit pale, and Ruth teases him that he's left half of himself in Asia. It's true; when we look at photos from the beginning of the trip, his face looks fuller and his pants fit. Now, his pants flap about his legs, and his jaw is terribly thin.
We eat dinner, and a little after nine, we give hugs all around and head off to bed.
December 11, 2010
It was a long night. Joshua was in and out of bed, visiting the toilet and fighting down nausea. The next morning, he was still feeling very sick, and although he hadn't thrown up, he felt like he might at any moment. Eric and I slowly got ready and ate breakfast, hoping he might feel better, but by 11 AM, he was still laying in bed and grimacing.
Urging us to go off without him, we tucked him in and headed out. Walking through Oxford, we watched tourists and shoppers swarm the shops and department stores, frantically stocking up for Christmas. On the other end of town, we walked by a few more college campuses and then a residential area. Eventually, we came to a large open meadow alongside a canal.
The weather had warmed up a bit, and we walked the towpath, dodging cows and watching rowers skull across the water. Eric talked about his research and plans for the future, and I told him a bit more about our travels and the farm. It was a lovely walk, and after a couple of hours, we headed back.
With the sun already setting, we returned to the house just before four. Joshua still wasn't feeling well, but he hadn't vomitted. Eric looked up Evensong times at Christchurch, and we relaxed for an hour or so before we headed out again.
Christchurch is another one of the more restricted campuses, but Evensong is open to the public, so we were able to walk through the wide and manicured courtyard to reach the lovely, small cathedral. Inside, the detailing was well preserved and delicate, and we sat quietly, admiring our surroundings, and waiting for the choir to enter.
The Christchurch Evensong is sung by perhaps a dozen young boys and a dozen men. The boys' choir is culled from the boys' boarding school at Christchurch, and the men singers are traditionally vocal instructors, teachers, and sometimes even Oxford students. Whoever they are and whatever their training, their voices are lovely. Every night, they sing psalms and anthems, and their songs fill this gorgeous old cathedral.
I've sung in choirs for many years, and I can read a bit of music, but I'm by no means fluent. Eric knows much more about music, and he tells me that polyphony is a musical arrangement where voices sing different melodies at the same time. Whatever it's called, it's beautiful: the choir lines either side of the nave in two rows, and one voice calls out to another. I love when the soloists rise out from different locations in the choir, and the sound seems to pass from one section to another. The boys' voices are high and clear, and the mens' are round and controlled. The conductor, dressed in a long, white robe, cups his hand around a sound he can touch. If there is a god, she would hear this.
Most of Evensong is sung, but at intervals, passages are read from the Bible or prayers are said. Mostly, these readings and prayers are overshadowed by the beautiful songs, but the prayer for Evening was particularly lovely.
Afterwards, we walked home. Joshua still wasn't feeling well, and he made it back just in time for another bout of diarrhea. Eric and I prepared dinner in the kitchen, and unfortunately, the one toilet in the house also happens to be attached to the kitchen. Naturally, it has brilliant accoustics, and as we chopped vegetables, we could hear everything. We all ended up laughing.
Joshua sipped a cup of water while Eric and I ate roast veggies. Eric's roommates came in and expressed more shock at the sight of Eric eating vegetables and - gasp - volunteering for seconds.
For the rest of the evening, we sat and chatted and looked at photos while Joshua ran in and out of the bathroom. At 11 PM, we went to bed.
December 10, 2010
The next morning, Joshua and I woke up and went for a run. Like Bath, the lovely, old buildings of Oxford are made from soft, golden-colored stone, and after a few days in Delhi, it was refreshing to run on clean, wide sidewalks and cross roads with traffic signals that are strictly obeyed.
England has been experiencing a serious cold-snap, and we pulled our sleeves down over our fingers as we ran. The cold air woke us up, and both of us felt great. Although we haven't run in a couple of months, our weeks of walking seem to have paid off: we sprinted down the road, feeling very alive and fit.
After 50 minutes, we returned back to Eric's place and quickly showered. Eric had already left for his college, and once we had dressed, we followed in his footsteps. Just before 11 AM, we met him at the gate to his college, and he waved us up to the modern college chapel.
Sitting in the packed, small room, we waited for the choir to enter. Lined up on the stairs, they began singing 'Ding Dong Merrily On High,' and walked in. For the next hour, they sang in acapella, and during one song, Eric even had a solo. It was lovely, and when the choir finished, we all went down to the community room for mulled wine and mince pies. Just in case you were wondering, mulled wine is red wine that has been sweetened, spiced, and warmed, and it's absolutely delicious. Mince pies are sweet little pastries, and apparently, the two are a classic English pairing.
We congratulated Eric on his excellent solo, and he walked us around his modern college campus. Nuffield, the namesake of this particular college, was a very wealthy philanthropist, and the college is one of the wealthiest in Oxford. Eric took us to see his office, and afterwards, we followed him to the dining hall, were we filled our plates with fresh vegetables and salads.
The food was delicious, and it was fun to see how these elite academians live. Eric explained that Oxford is actually a collection of many college campuses. The colleges aren't necessarily divided by subjects, and it's a bit unclear how or why certain students are placed in certain colleges. Almost all of the campuses have their own courtyard, cloister, chapel, dining hall, library, and student housing. Nuffield's campus was built in the 50s, but many of the other campuses were built as early as the 13th and 14th century.
Once we had finished eating, Eric took us on a tour of the other colleges. Many of the campuses aren't open to the public, but Eric told us to 'look like students,' and we walked in as though we knew where we were going. Eric pointed out Gothic and Romanesque and Medieval detailing as we wound our way through all the old, golden buildings. At All Souls, one of the snottiest and most elite colleges, Eric used his special reader card to get us in and show us a very old, lovely library. With ladders and two open stories, it looked a bit like the library in Beauty and the Beast.
It was a fun tour, and although neither Joshua nor I were aware of much Oxford lore, Eric's grasp of the history and architecture gave us a pretty good picture of Oxford's mysterious past and elite legacy.
Although Oxford is a lovely place filled with brilliant minds, not everyone seemed happy. Standing below the tallest tour on campus, we looked up to find a young woman ready to jump. Eric reached into his pocket to call the police, but luckily, they were already there, calling up to her and trying to prevent a tragedy. We quickly walked away, not prepared to see the outcome.
Shaken, we decided to go on with the tour. Eric took us through a couple more campuses, and we peaked into the lovely, old chapels. Apparently, Evensong is held in most of these chapels every night. Eric said that someone, at some point, donated lots and lots of money so that these choirs could sing worship into perpetuity. We resolved to attend before we left.
We continued our walk through Magdalen College (pronounced like Maudlin), and passed by their deer park where they keep dozens of tame deer. It was quiet, and with the leaves on the ground and the sun setting, it felt very wintry and English. We kept walking, and circumnavigating another college, we came to a canal and eventually a pub, where we stopped for a couple of pints for the boys and a Winter Pimms for me.
On our way home, we stopped in at Tescos to buy food for dinner. After months of paying for restaurant food, I'm so excited to cook again. Eric, never one to spend much time preparing food, seemed a bit apprehensive, but we promised him that we would take it easy on him and make simple, quick dishes.
Back at the house, we crowded into the little kitchen and chopped vegetables while we chatted. Eric sliced some cheese, and we snacked while we waited for the food to be ready. Eric's roommates came home, and they looked shocked to see Eric in the kitchen, cooking. They teased him and opened his cabinet to show us the four tubs of peanut butter, a loaf of bread, and a stock of pasta sauce and noodles. Eric took the ribbing well, and we told his roommates that not much has changed since we lived with Eric nearly five years ago when he lived mainly on a diet of taquitos and tortellini.
After a bit, I took our casserole dish out of the oven. Eric eyed the eggplant bake suspiciously, but he had seconds, and all of us had our fill.
For the rest of the evening, we checked our e-mail and chatted. Just before 10 PM, Joshua started to feel poorly, so we all said goodnight and headed off to bed.
December 9, 2010
From the internet cafe, Joshua and I wandered down the street, choking on the smell of generators and urine. I dragged Joshua into one shop when I spied walls lined with dangly earrings, and we stayed there for a bit while I carefully examined each row and column, selecting half a dozen. At the counter, I paid the equivalent of six dollars without even bargaining. We continued on down the road, walking by a lagoon of piss and shit and dead things. One woman came up to me with her hand outstretched and a child on her hip, and I realized that she must have been a bride burning victim. Every visible stretch of flesh was whorled and knotted with scars. She couldn't have been older than twenty.
Back in Connaught Place, we crossed the busy roundabout and walked the circular path a few times, just to stretch our legs. A sign announced the Delhi marathon, and Joshua and I wondered how you could possibly run in a city without sewage, homicidal rickshaws, and air pollution so thick you can taste it.
We returned to the restaurant in which we had eaten the night before. Ordering two more dosas, we played our last hand of cards and enjoyed two glasses of fresh lemon soda, which is neither too sweet nor too sour. When our dosas came, we savored them slowly. It's our last meal in India.
The sun began to set, so we paid and walked back. In some ways, it was almost scarier than the night before; like last night, it was fully dark, but it was also rush hour, and there were crowds and vehicles zipping about everywhere. Joshua took out the camera to take a few photos of what we now endearingly refer to as 'Gotham City,' and a number of people gathered around us to stare and point at our ostentatious display of whiteness and wealth. We hurried back to the hotel.
Joshua decided that he'd like a Kingfisher beer on his last night in India, so we walked to the rooftop of the hotel for a drink. Listening to the sounds of chaos from below, we agreed that it wasn't Delhi so much as it was us: in most ways, Delhi was much better than we had expected. It was dirty and smelled like a spicy fart, yes, but the boulevards are suprisingly wide, the buildings are modern, and the poverty wasn't so much more startling than many of the other places that we've been. In many ways, Delhi exceeded our expectations, but that doesn't mean that we particularly liked it. And it doesn't mean that it doesn't really look like a post-apocalyptic universe.
Back in our room, we packed up, and it was a relief to discover - once again - that everything fit. When we unpack, it does look a bit like a bomb has hit an entire village and the clean-up crew brought all the debris back to our little hotel room.
Afterwards, we stretched out in bed and watched Goldfinger. I fell asleep during the opening credits, but Joshua dozed on and off until the end of the film. At 10 PM, he turned the lights out, and we pulled up the scuzzy covers to ward off the chill.
At 1 AM, the reception desk buzzed up and informed us that our taxi had arrived. Blearily, we loaded our packs on front and back, and opening the door, we were abruptly greeted by a troop of three cleaners. They laughed at our sleepy surprise and wished us well on our way. As soon as we began to walk away, they ran into our room and immediately started whipping it into shape.
Downstairs, we said goodbye to the manager and met our taxi driver, a short man from Rajastan with a pashmina wound tightly around his neck. He took us to his car, and within seconds, we were off. I had that sort of sick feeling you have when you've woken up too early, and our driver insisted on darting through the narrow streets at top speed. For a while, he talked to us incomprehensibly about the glories of Rajastan and the dangers of Delhi, and we nodded politely. He flew through intersections without even looking, and at one point, he had to brake quite suddenly for a dozen cows, just chilling in the middle of the road.
At a roundabout, the man nearly ran down an autorickshaw. We gasped in fright, and although the driver seemed unpreturbed, it didn't stop him from slamming on the brakes, hopping out of the car, and leaning into the rickshaw to beat the poor rickshaw driver senseless.
I had the sinking feeling that we might not escape Gotham City after all. As our driver berated and slapped the quivering rickshaw driver, we shouted out at him: 'let's just go! Please don't!' He ignored us, but ultimately tired of his bullying and hopped back in the car with a giggle. He chuckled the rest of the way to the airport, and we half-heartedly chuckled along with him, certain at this point that he was entirely mad and he would be less likely to murder us if we shared his sick sense of humor.
In the end, we did survive, but not before our driver had - as they say - 'opened 'er up' on the straight away. The speed dial danced wildly at 120 kilometers per hour while he dodged much larger vehicles, and we sat, clutching hands and praying that we would make it out alive.
The airport felt like a safe haven. Clean and expansive, with plenty of security and orderly lines, it's a stark contrast to the rest of India. We checked in, and our bags were taken without complaint or extra charge (another relief). On the other side of a thorough frisking and multiple metal detectors, we made the long trek to our gate. While we waited to board, we took out my computer and flipped through some more photos, making yet another slide show to show the folks at home :)
On the flight from Delhi to Istanbul, we watched films that we hadn't really liked the first time around and enjoyed every minute. When the plane flew over Iran, Joshua pulled up the shade, and we peaked out at the rugged terrain. In the distance, we thought we might even be able to see Mount Aratat.
In Istanbul, we disembarked and walked through the airport. Joshua went in search of baklava and Turkish delight while I dozed off in a little corner.
After a couple hours of wasting time, we made our way to the next gate. After a bit of a delay, we boarded a little bus and drove out to our plane on the tarmac.
The plane from Istanbul to London was much smaller, and every seat was full. A somewhat wild-eyed veiled woman made a fuss about sitting next to a particularly large military English man, but when the airflight attendants moved her next to another vieled woman, she began screaming and cussing. Apparently, she didn't want to sit next to a 'stinking Arab criminal.' Heads swiveled about in shock, and the woman proceeded to scream loudly, swearing impressively all the while. When one of the flight attendants tried to calm her down, she just screamed louder. At one point, she stopped screaming and calmly requested to be moved up to first class. When she was refused, she resumed screaming. Somehow, they were finally able to quiet her, but not before the entire plane had erupted into a round quietly supressed laughter.
With the fuss ended and without individual TV sets to entertain us, I fell asleep soon after take off. Three hours later, we landed in London, and although it was only shortly after four in the afternoon, it was already dark. In the airport, we went through immigration and waited anxiously for our bags. Thankfully, they safely arrived, and we were soon able to walk out to the coach waiting area.
It costs 20 pounds per person for a coach ride from London Heathrow to Oxford, and although it seemed like an astronomical price to us after months of cheap transportation, it was very easy. As soon as we were seated in the warm, wide seats, I fell asleep. The ninety minute ride passed quickly, and when Joshua woke me up before our stop, I could hardly believe that we were already there.
Eric, dressed smartly in a black button-up jacket and leather shoes, was waiting for us at the bus stop. We apologized for making him wait - we were nearly two hours later than expected - but he generously shrugged it off and gave us welcoming hugs.
From the bus stop, we walked to Crowley Road, a residential area very near the colleges in Oxford. The main road has plenty of restaurants and shops lit up with twinkling lights, and it felt very Christmassy. We asked Eric how he was doing, and he told us that his backpack had just been stolen earlier in the day. Apparently, he had been sitting in Starbucks with his backpack tucked between him and the wall, and some man had knicked it from right under his nose. It was caught clearly on CCTV, but unfortunately, there's pretty little hope of apprehending the man or getting his computer, Boise headphones, TI calculator, or reading glasses back.
We felt horrible for him, but Eric seemed to be taking it pretty well. Fortunately, he's hyper-vigilant with backing up his research, so he didn't lose his work. As an Economic Historian pursuing his Doctorate at Oxford, that would have been catastrophic.
Back at Eric's house, we dumped our stuff in his small living room. The petite, two-story home has four bedrooms, and Eric has four other housemates. All of them are in different stages of a degree at Oxford, and Eric says that it's rare to have everyone home at the same time.
We decided to go out for pizza, and Eric took us to a little Italian place on Crowley Road. I felt a bit of culture shock at the prospect of eating fresh vegetables and drinking tap water; just imagine being able to drink water without treating it for an hour with chlorine or iodine!
The food was delicious, and we cleaned our plates while we caught up. Eric seemed happier and more relaxed, and he told us that his first term had gone very well. At Nuffield College, he has good funding as well as an office. The college also requires their students to eat lunch together in hall every day, and this has been a great way to build community. Research can be a pretty solitary occupation, and Eric is pleased to have built in excuses to socialize. It's also nice to have an office so that he can separate his work life from his home life. The change really suits him, and he was smiling when he told us, 'I love what I'm doing.' We're so happy for him.
Once we had finished eating, we paid and left. Back at Eric's place, Joshua and I got ready for bed, and Eric went off to drink mulled wine and eat mince pies with his roommates. It smelled very Christmassy, but after nearly 40 hours of travelling, we were exhausted and fell quickly asleep.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)