Please keep your arms and legs outside the vehicle while it is in motion (Budapest)

Signs on Hungarian train windows (sorry for the bad picture but circumstances were difficult).So, my best interpretation is: DO lean out the window, and DO throw objects, including bottles, out of the windows. I'm ashamed to admit that I didn't obey the signs, but the fat school children in my train car certainly did.

Did I take a train or a time machine to get to Hungary?
OK, to be fair, I'd estimate that only 1/5 to 1/4 of cars on the road here look like that. Everything else is quite modern - if you judge by the number of McDonalds and Burger Kings (and why not?) then this is the most modern city I have ever visited. That being said, the hot water in my hostel is produced by gas fires burning in boxes above the faucets. It produces wicked hot water. Since I'm accustomed to hostels where you really have to crank up the hot water, I nearly scalded myself when I first took a shower.

The above picture sums up much of the buildings in Budapest. Splendid but neglected. These doors are typical of entry ways to apartment buildings here, but as you can see the wood's in need of some treatment and there's graffiti. Hungarians, like the Portuguese, have a lot to say through spray paint (at least those aren't bubble letters). Even in the downtown, on pretty fancy shopping streets, you see graffiti.

The building that my hostel is in has a fancy wrought iron railing on the stair case that has gotten rusty and someone has attached an old can to it for use as an ashtray. The wallpaper which was once cream with a gold leaf pattern is water damaged and stained, as are the walls. There's stained glass windows from which the paint is flaking and panels are broken away. This city was very rich once, but they just can't keep it up like they used to.

Turkish baths are popular in Hungary, and they seem to have a lot of natural thermal springs so that works well. I went to the Szechenyi Baths one day, the largest one in Budapest. I didn't have my camera with me, so see the link for a photo. It was beautiful and definitely relaxing. In the outdoor pools, one is cooler, around 25-27 degrees Celcius, and the hot pool is 38 degrees Celcius and stays that warm even in winter. I spoke to an elderly Hungarian man who goes to the baths of senior discount days about 3 times a week year round and plays chess with his buddies (they hadn't shown up that day so he was bored and talking to me). He credits the minerals in the baths waters to his good health.

I liked this lion sculpture, and later read that when they first appeared on a bridge crossing the Danube (there are four lion sculptures), the sculptor was ridiculed because you can't see their tongues (they're in the backs of their mouths). He was so traumatized that he lept to his death from the bridge. Poor guy. I like his lions.

I went to the Castle district of Buda with two American girls, Meredith and Ellen, one night. It was magical with everything lit up, only a handful of people wandering about, and the air completely calm.

The bridge with the lions (chain bridge):

Just liked the way this looked - statue near the palace.
I went out to Statue Park, where the government placed all the old Soviet monuments from Budapest after the fall of the communist government. My favourite, that I couldn't get a picture of owing to it's size and orientation (on the ground), showed Communist soldiers shaking hands with the people, and one soldier holding a small child!

I went out to the town of Eger, north of Budapest, for the day. I strolled around the town, went to the baths for the hottest part of the day, and attempted to go out to see the vineyards but was thwarted by a flash rain and hail storm. This is part of the basilica; I took this because of the deep yellow colour that is used frequently in the town and that I really like (my bedroom walls in PEI are this colour).The square where everyone seems to bring their toddler so that he/she can ride around on his/her push trike. Eger Castle is in the background; it's famous for holding back the Turks I believe.

Friends don't let friends let their post offices become banks

If Canada Post ever proposes to offer banking services, fight it if you can. A lot of post offices in Europe (Portugal, France, Spain, Hungary) act as banks as well as post offices, and it really slows buying a stamp down. Even the UK's Royal Mail offers insurance and accepts tax payments and other transactions that involve people spending a lot of time with postal workers.

I thought it was bad enough when Canada Post started selling teddy bears and Royal Mint Harry Potter coins. At least you can still move through the line-up at a decent pace.

Passport stamps and shady dealings

As I mentioned, I'm now in Budapest. To get here, I first travelled from France into Italy, Milan to be exact. There I inquired at the ticket office about how to get to Budapest as soon as possible. The ticket agent spoke French so things wet smoothly. I showed her my rail pass, and she made me a required reservation on an overnight train from Venice to Budapest, 2nd class seating, and she told me the time for the next train to Venice, for which I didn't need a reservation.

So I was on my train from Venice to Budapest, which they could call the "ticket-and-passport inspection" special. Honestly, after the first hour it seemed that my ticket was inspected every 20 minutes. I kept falling in and out of consciousness - I was tired from travelling plus I was in the middle of a head cold - and being awoken by seemingly a different ticket inspector each time.

Then we crossed the border into Slovenia. Here I should mention that my rail pass is not valid in that country, and that I also had no idea the train was taking that route. I was under the impression that we were travelling via Austria, and the woman at the train station had not mentioned to me that I would be travelling where my pass is not valid.

I was made aware of the problem by the Slovenian ticket inspector. He informed me that we would be travelling through Slovenia and Croatia, both countries where my pass was not valid, so I would have to pay a supplement of 30.10 Euros.

As soon as he said the price, my heart sunk, so to speak, as I was pretty sure I did not have that much cash in Euros. Since Hungary doesn't have the Euro, I hadn't stocked up on cash. I had a little over 27 Euros, and some money in pounds sterling as well. I informed the ticket inspector of what I had. He didn't seem keen to accept pounds, and I was about ready to try hawking my 5 pound note for 3 Euros (a bargain, since it's worth about 7) since there was a lot of English-speaking people on the train and odds were some of them were from the UK. Then the girl next to me piped up with "How much do you need?" She gave me 3 Euros, proving to me once again that in general people in the world are kind and helpful. I got a receipt from the ticket inspector, gave the girl next to me a couple of chocolate bars that I had as an attempt at repayment, and started snoozing again.

Then we crossed into Croatia, which meant passport inspection. The Slovenian border police checked out all passports carefully, holding them up to the light and comparing photos with faces. I actually appreciated having that done, because often police just look at the cover of my passport and toss it back to me, and I think what's the point of having all the anti-fraud measures on my passport when no one looks at it? My passport got stamped with an exit stamp (although I never got an entry stamp to Slovenia) and I thought that was cool, because I rarely get stamps and my passport looks lonely with all the blank pages.

I was musing on how I thought it was a shame that with the EU, you don't get passport checks all the time, when the train then had to make another long stop while Croatian border guards checked our passports. By the time I had gone through two more passport checks (leaving Croatia, entering Hungary) I had grown to appreciate the ease of travel permitted by the EU. All those stamps take time, afterall.

Getting into Croatia meant a new Croation ticket inspector, who when I presented him with my rail pass, seat reservation, and supplement receipt, sternly informed me that I had to pay another supplement of 20 Euros because I had only paid for Slovenia, not Croatia. The Slovenian ticket inspector had kindly not informed me that I would be in trouble once I got across the border if I was out of money.

I told the ticket inspector my situation - that I had no Euros and only British pounds. He frowned and told me he would be back. So there I sat, waiting for him to return and wondering if I was going to be put off the train at some one-horse Croatian town at 3am. I had 75 pounds, and figured that 20 Euros would mean 15 pounds, and I even had the proper note for it. The question on my mind is whether pounds could be accepted - I figured it should be do-able, since the Euro isn't even the currency in Croatia anyway, and the pound is a good currency to get hold of. I was also wondering if I would have to "top-up" my supplement to encourage the ticket inspector to accept my UK notes, and considering how much it was worth to me not to end up off the train.

I tried staying awake waiting for the guy to come back, and he passed me a few times but didn't stop. I thought that perhaps he had just decided to leave me and eventually fell asleep, stretched out from my seat to the empty seats that were across from me (the helpful girl and the two other people seated with me and gotten off in Slovenia).

I was awaken, quite gently, by the ticket inspector tapping on my legs while seated across from me. He said to me "15 pounds, I write, 10 pounds, I not write." He was telling me that he'd write me up a receipt fo 15 pounds, like I thought, but that he'd cut me a deal if we left no paper trail and he could pocket the money. I was a bit reluctant to accept the "no write" deal at first because then I wouldn't have a receipt to prove I had paid to a different inspector.

Opening up my wallet, I said "15 pounds?" and the man, quickly and hopefully replied in a quiet voice "10 I no write." I guessed from the expression on his face that he wasn't going to let me get taken advantage of by this situation. He was doing me a favour if I'd do him one. Since every ticket inspector had been only concerned with their own country so far - Italian train station woman didn't care that I'd need to pay more outside of Italy, Slovenian guy didn't care that I1d need to pay more in Croatia - I figured I'd be alright.

I gave the man his 10 pounds and didn't see him again as we soon crossed into Hungary. It was my first dealing with a public official that was of a... I guess you wouldn't call it corrupt, so of a shady nature. I now think that it was sort of cool, as I felt a real part of that Eastern European state culture that we all hear about.

The Hungarian police not only checked our passports, but a guard moved along the corridor of all the carriages with a step ladder and opened up all the ceiling pannels to look inside. On top of my under-the-table dealings of the night, that extensive search just added to the feeling that I was in a different world now. And I won't ever attempt to smuggle something into Hungary. Those guards were stern and big. One had legs as long as me.

I have 3 new stamps in my passport, I'm 27 Euro plus 10 pounds poorer than I anticipated being, and I was very glad to get to a hostel bed this morning and take a nice nap there instead of sitting on a train platform in Növere'sz vyl, Croatia (I would like to visit Croatia someday, but under circumstances of my own choosing). Still, it's not a trip that I'll forget.

Congratulations France on getting ruled notepad paper

The lined notepad I bought in Bordeaux had the word "NOUVEAU" on the packaging. I wonder why it's taken so long?

Pedestrian crossing light update: the "green man" does not move (shucks!), but the ones near the train station look like they're marching. Vite! Cross the street!

Another perhaps quirky note: I am sure most of you have heard an announcement on a PA system at some point in your life that used a few tones at the start to call your attention. All Islanders, for example, should be familiar with the "bee-bee-boop" sound used to start the "welcome aboard" announcement on the ferries. Well, some train stations use the tone system as well. French train stations, however, decided to jazz it up a bit. They don't just have tones, they have short compositions that involve a woman singing along to the tones. It's quite upbeat, and after a few hours of waiting for a train I found myself even singing along.

So as I write this I'm now in Budapest. The details of my journey here will be in my next post. Some people may be wondering: what happened to visiting northern Italy? Well, it's all booked up I'm afraid, or it seems that way. I've gotten tired of fighting with hordes of other backpackers for accomodation so I'm leaving Italy for another time, perhaps in a less busy season.

I still haven't seen much of France, but I'm not too worried as I figure I'll be back. France is just so easy for me to travel in compared to other non-English speaking countries. I also toy with the idea of getting a work visa for France and living there to improve my French, as I'm beyond the level where classrooms can help me anymore.

For the first time in my life I feel really glad that I took the late French-immersion program (here's a brief description for any non-Canadians). It's not that I ever regreted it before, but I never really felt that it had done me a huge service or that I had come out of it very fluent.

Finally some photos!

I've gone and put my photos up in the appropriate posts because they will make the most sense that way. There's new photos as far back as April 28.

I will try to put photos up more frequently, but it really depends on the computer situation. I will try to try.

Am I charming or funny?

I'm not asking for answers to that question.


Pretty much every time that I have spoken while in Bordeaux (I'm referring to speaking in French since that's all I speak except with Anglophones that I've met at my hostel), I have noticed that people within hearing range all start smiling at me. Being paranoid, I wondered at first if they were laughing at my French - I do make the occasional grammatical error and my accent is different of course. The smiles, however, do not seem to be those of people who are laughing at me. First of all, they make no attempt at concealing their smiles; in fact they turn toward me and smile.

Still being paranoid, I asked myself if perhaps the smiles are patronizing ones - the way you would smile at a small child who cannot express himself well and that you find to be cute. Once again, the smiles don't quite match up, and I doubt people would overtly be patronizing towards me (at least, I hope not).

Also, people have been surprised to find out that I'm not a native French speaking Canadian, or at least they're acting that way (there goes the paranoia again). This has suprised me a lot, because of the aforementioned grammar mistakes.

So, I have been left to conclude that for some reason, the people in this region of France find the way I speak French to be charming or endearing. I have had one Frenchman tell me that he liked my accent, surprising to me because I had heard that many French view Canadian French with disdain. I've spoken to Francophone Quebecers who were asked to speak English in France.

Maybe the disdain is just for the Quebecois accent, and since I don't have that accent I don't get that treatment. I speak French with an Anglophone Maritimer accent (honestly, my French sounded different than that of my Anglophone Albertan classmates) and it seems that the people here like the sound of it. There's not a lot of Maritimers in the world, so my accent could be the first of its kind that many people here have heard. Funny, I used to be embarrassed to speak French in France because of my accent. I even felt embarrassed in my French classes in Edmonton until I decided that I wasn't going to let myself feel inferior to a bunch of Westerners.


At least there's one place in the world where I may sound charming! I never thought it would be France, if anywhere. Maybe I don't have to worry so much now about feeling big and awkard amongst the effortlessly elegant French women.

A day in Bordeaux, à la James Patterson

This is a bit of a lengthy (sigh, as always) rant, but I had fun with it so I'm putting it up.

I've been inspired once again! Not by large pieces of steel this time (you had to be there, alright?), but by a book that I was reading. "The Big Bad Wolf" by James Patterson is the book, a former New York Times bestseller.

You might think this is a strange book to be inspired by, but hear me out. You see, until I started reading this book (I found it abandonned on a train, by the way), I had never entertained the notion of being a fiction writer, much less a bestselling one. I'd always assumed that to do that took some writing ability or a knack for creating interesting characters and plot lines, neither of which I'm capable.

Now I know better! The Big Bad Wolf has neither of those. I'm not going to quote from the book to prove my point, because who knows what the hounds of copyright infringement can sniff out. Instead, I will present for your consideration an account of yesterday morning in the style of the book.

I woke up from a noise below me. The girl in the bunk below. Her alarm. I checked the time: 20 minutes before seven. Too early for breakfast yet, so I dozed a bit longer.

I went down to breakfast at 7:30am - half a baguette, cornflakes.

I walked to the train station to get a timetable. I walked to the centre of town. From there I walked to the tourist office.

It started to rain. Wet drops of water falling from the sky. The drops were damp, and also wet and moist. My hair became slightly wet, probably on account of the rain. I was wearing a green corduroy jacket.

I needed to contact a girl I know who lives in the area. I had her phone number, just needed a phone. Found a public phone - it only accepted calling cards. No coins. Another phone, same deal. And another.

It didn't seem possible. It wasn't possible. And yet, that's how it was. No money accepted. Welcome to France.

What was I to do? How could I contact her? Why was France against coins? And where in the world was Carmen Sandiego?

An internet cafe, email and reply. The girl was busy, unfortunately. Too bad, I would have liked to see her. Another time, another place.

I spent several hours walking around the city. Old buildings, new shops. Clothes, bakeries, chocolate. A girl like me could easily spend a lot of money in this city. I only need the money to spend...

Hopefully that gives you the drift of it.

Just for the record, I'm not literary snob. I'm usually easily entertained, even by weak characterization and storylines. I can let myself get carried away by a story. I've enjoyed many a bestseller. The last novel that I read was by Catherine Cookson, I will admit, and I enjoyed it well enough. For those in Canada, Catherine Cookson writes dramatic novels set amongst the lower classes in early 19th century Northumbria (northern England). The novel I read, The Dwelling, was summarized as follows: "Cissie Brodie - a girl of determination, a woman of passion".

Apparently, I have found my lower limit for writing in Mr. Patterson's works.

Oh, Mr. Patterson, if you somehow ever read this, I'm sorry for being mean (my mom always warned me to say nothing if I didn't have anything nice to say), but sir, someone paid 11 bucks (8 US) for your book. A lot of people did. I'm just glad that I wasn't one of them.

Now, as for my own "writing", I'll just sit back and wait for the publishers' offers to roll in.

Wrapping up Spain because I'm now en France

And struggling with the French keyboard that has letters where I'm not used to them being.

So when you last heard my location, I was in Granada, hanging out with international Trailer Park Boys fans. From there I journeyed north, via Madrid, to Bilbao. Seeing as I was planning on going to southwestern France it seemed like a good way to break the journey up - it took about 12 hours in two parts as I did it.

Bilbao is a nifty little city - I say little because it felt that way since wherever I was I could see the surrounding hills. The city's sort of nestled amongst rolling green mountains. So nestled, in fact, that it conceals certain parts of the city from view; hence the feeling of smallness. I like cities that feel smaller than they are. Edmonton always felt that way for me (until I had to walk to get around the South Common, but that's another, old tale).

A fountain in a park that I liked.

The famous Guggenheim Bilbao Museum, sitting on one ugly river (sorry Bilbao but it's true).

People are very friendly in Bilbao, as in the rest of Spain. Sadly, I can't understand what they are trying to say to me in a friendly manner. I do think that I do understand Spanish a bit better now - I can sort of get the gist of directions that are given to me now. When I'm told something, the price of goods being a good example, if I go with my instinct on the meaning then I'm usually right. If I try to think about it, I tend to screw it up.

I think Spanish is probably better suited to my linguistic abilities than French. French is a delicate language requiring proper ennunciation, so it is treated brutally by my heavy Maritime tongue and locked jaw.

Oh, if you thought that a continental breakfast involves toast and cereal, think again. From what I have ascertained, it is coffee, a croissant or some other type of bread roll, and a cigarette. The ash trays are sort of nifty: a ceramic ring for resting the cigarette on, and a ceramic dish under the ring containing water. Not realizing what it was when I first spied one in my hotel room at Vaughan Town, I picked the ashtray up and tilted it to examine it, promptly spilling the water all over the desk. Go Megan.

Pharmacies in Spain and France are indicated by electric signs in the form of crosses, generally green, that also read the date and the temperature. I wasn't aware it was a temperature at first (I'm not used to such courtesies from signage) and so wondered what exactly was on sale for 29.0 or whatever (I'm not the sharpest tool in the shed by times). The pharmacies also sell only what would be termed "salon" hair products in Canada, that is expensive. I held off buying toiletries until I found some in a supermarket.

If you see someone on the street in Spain who is using a shopping bag to carry something, it will inevitably be a blue paper bag from the clothing retailer Zara, or it will be a plastic bag from El Corte Ingles, a department store that's name translates to the English Court? I guess at home you'd generally spy me using an Atlantic Superstore or a Sobeys bag, since they're always in large supply.

After making that observation, I realized that I am not a typical person. Most people travelling are commenting on the lovely scenery, the buildings, the food. I'm noticing pharmacy signs and shopping bags. I'm sorry if you don't find shopping bags interesting, but I can't say the observations are going to change.

Finally, while in Bilbao I visited the Guggenheim Museum of modern art. There I had an experience that I was not expecting and calling it significant would be an understatement.

What struck me so fiercely was the sculptures of Richard Serra, in the exhibit A Matter of Time. The sculptures are huge, curved steel plates wrapped in spirals or forming corridors, and you walk through them. The experience was often bizarre - in one sculpture, I felt as though I was being physically pushed from one side to the other just because the slanting of the walls shifted. Another toyed with my sense of distance: inside it seemed much shorter than it did outside. Basically, the guy was sculpting space itself, an idea very simple but one that had never occurred to me previously. It blew my mind, as the expression goes, but I can't sum it up better. It was like my mind started considering things about space that it never had before. If there's truly a Platonic form of space, I may have had brief contact with it, even if I didn't entirely understand it. I actually had to go back to my room after leaving the museum in the early afternoon in order to sleep for about 6 hours. I had overexercised my mind, I guess.

I won't try to explain my Guggenheim experience any further because it won't come out coherently without hearing my enthusiasm and seeing my wild hand gestures (I'm not sure it will then either, but oh well). So you'll just have to ask me about it in person sometime if you want more details - maybe I'll have figured it out some more by then.

TPB Around The World

I forgot to mention this before, but it may be of interest to the East Coast folks. So when I was in Granada, one of the people I met was a guy from Norway. When explaining to some people where I'm from I made reference to Halifax. Upon hearing this, Mr. Norway exclaimed "Trailer Park Boys!"

Since I wasn't aware that the Trailer Park Boys aired anywhere other than Canada and the United States, I questioned him about how he knew of the show. Turns out he downloads the episodes from the internet (fair enough, as I've seen most of them that way since I didn't have Showcase). Who would have thought that Julien, Ricky, Bubbles and crew were making the Maritimes known around the world?

And for those of you who may be worried about the impression the world is getting of us Maritimers from Trailer Park Boys, rest assured that our Norwegian friend did not assume me to be gun-toting, nor did he ask to buy some hydroponic dope grown in a trailer or hash scraped from a "driveway".

If you have no clue as to what Trailer Park Boys is, then I'd recommend that you follow the Norwegians and download some for yourself. Just to be fair I'll warn you that it's not everyone's cup of tea (some people absolutely hate the show) and it does contain foul language, etc. But I likes it anyway.

Regarding Scandanavians: based on the ones I've met, I've come to two possible conclusions, neither of which I can rule out at present. The first is that all Scandanavians are good-looking. The second is that Scandanavian countires only allow the good-looking people to leave (if so, then going there would reveal a country full of the ugly and average-looking folk). Or perhaps I'm just a sucker for blonds and redheads.

Southern Portugal and Spain

Now with some photos! So you don't have to read my words.

Ok, so what follows is some descriptive "sentences" about the towns in the places in the title. I'm too lazy to write full sentences. It's sort of like what my teachers called "word pictures". You can pretend it's poetry if you like, but it's not. Just plain ol' laziness:

Brillant white smooth walls
Holes chipped away showing light brown stone
Red brown curved roof tiles
Windows, wrought iron with twisted bars and curicules outside, wooden shutters inside
Coloured tiles surround the frames
Rails enclose small upper floor terraces, just large enough to step out on
Potted plants fill the spaces, blue and white ceramic plates and pots line the walls and sills
Sheets and other laundry hang out on the railings in the burning sun to dry
Open doors show glimpses from the street of narrow staircases and long, shaded corridors with tiled walls
Narrow streets that wind and form nothing ressembling a grid. Sometimes stairs lead between streets
Street surface is rounded stones in concrete, rectangular bricks forming a narrow drain down the middle
Stones used in mosaics in some steets and squares - sometimes just patterns, sometimes pictures of plants or coats of arms
Over the walls bounding the streets spill climbing plants from shaded gardens. The trickle of fountains can sometimes be heard from the wealthier ones, but more commonly in the town plazas
Shops and restaurants spill out on to the sidewalks, wares and tables covered by awnings and umbrellas
Dogs wander of their own accord - watch where you step or squeltch! (come on, you knew I couldn't stay serious for long)

So there's some images for you to tide you over 'cause I don't have any pictures up.

Miscellanea or I Update More Often When Internet is Free

In theory the posts would be shorter if I write more often, but I defy theory.

Taking shelter from the rain and a bit of a thunderstorm. There's been a few of those in the past week, but always at night before.

The signals for "walk" in downtown Granada are green figures of a man walking, like pretty much everywhere else in Europe that I've seen, but these ones move! That has amused me far more than it probably should have.

I have found that shopkeepers in Spain and Portugal are unnaturally annoyed at having to break a bill. Like I paid for something that cost 1.40 Euro with a 10 Euro note and seemingly ruined a man's day. I felt bad, but what could I do - the bank machine gives me 20's, so I have to start breaking them somewhere. If I do not hand shopkeepers the exact change, they will interrogate me as to whether I have the appropriate change so that some whole number of Euros can be returned to me.

I had an active night of what I will call "sleepacting" since I didn't do any actual walking. I thought that I was having a conversation with some people that I had been hanging out with prior to going to bed, and that these people were standing beside my bunk. That couldn't have happened because they were not staying in my dorm, but it seemed real enough at the time. So real that I imagined/dreamed? that one person was trying to pass me something but I couldn't understand why my fingers weren't taking hold of it when I reached for it.

I love the pound sterling! I was doing some math this morning to see if I have been staying on budget. By "on budget", I mean not exceeding an amount per week that allows me to travel for the time I plan to. Because the pound is so strong, I've been doing very well without even really limiting my spending too much - I've spent a little over half of my limit, or I'm spending per week about what my actual take-home pay was in a week when I was working in Scotland. I'm not used to this strong currency thing, but I certainly could get used to it.

A strap on my sandals has ripped, and I have shoddily repaired it but I am disappointed with them. They are North Face brand which you usually pay quite a lot for although I got mine on sale. I got them in 2004, but given that I only wear sandals about 2 months out of the year they have only been worn no more than 8 months, not so long for supposedly quality footwear.

Shoes that I am quite pleased with (gee whiz, she's writing about shoes now, you exclaim. I thought this was a travel journal!) are some Kickers brand ones that I got in Dunoon about a month before I left. They are as comfortable as being barefoot, but an improvement as well given that they cushion my feet from stones and the like. And they can actually pass as a dressy shoe - they're a rugged version of that flat ballet shoe that's everywhere these days, and all black. I have no idea if all Kickers shoes are like these ones in comfort, but man are my pair excellent.

Water and the Heat, Sangria and Gelato (Granada)

Now with photos at the bottom of post!

I'm in Granada as I write, staying one more night and leaving tomorrow evening. I've been here since Monday afternoon. I've been enjoying it here. The hostel I'm staying at, Oasis Backpacker's, is excellent: 15 Euro a night for a dorm bed, with fridges in the rooms, lots of space, a roof-top terrace, backyard patio, good size kitchen, free breakfast, free internet. Basically everything a hostel can do right, which is why I had to book in advance to be able to stay here. They even put on events at the hostel, like dinner parties that cost 3.50 Euro for a three-course meal, of which I have partaken and been well-pleased.

Today I've been taking it easy, just spent the afternoon strolling around town with Andrea from Montreal and we stopped for drinks at one place and then gelato at another. A nifty thing about Spain is that you sometimes (always in Granada) get tapas (snacks) for free with your drinks. So not only do you not feel rushed away from your table like you often do in Canada when you don't order a whole meal, you actually feel welcomed to stay because they've brought you food. It also slows down the pace of people's drinking, I think, so that you don't get that problem with drunkeness that plagues other cities in the world.

The gelato here is like fluffy ice cream. It's soft, but it's not like soft serve ice cream because it still has the graininess to it that hard serve ice cream does. Whatever it is, it's real good.

It's a different schedule and pace of life entirely, and I must say that it's pleasant. Shops in Granada actually do close down for a siesta period in the afternoons, opening again in the evening. People go out into the streets and the squares later in the evening to chat with others, and often stay out quite late. In Madrid, the busiest I saw the streets was at midnight. People are everywhere at night, and it's not like they're all out drunk, they're just having dinner or sitting around. It's people of all ages out at night too, not just the young folk.

I asked some of the Spanish folk at Vaughan Town about the siesta break that they get from work - do they actually sleep, for example? I asked specifically about people who have to travel to get to work so that it wouldn't be feasible for them to travel home to take a rest, so I wondered if they slept at their offices. From what I gathered, many people do go home and take a nap, but those who are unable to go home don't sleep. So how people in Spain have the stamina to stay up to the wee hours of the night and then go to work for 9am day after day is still a bit of a mystery to me. I know I couldn't do it without a nap sometime.

I went to the Alhambra yesterday with a California girl, Shannon. We had to wait in line for almost two hours to get our tickets, and we arrived there at 7:45am. The wait wasn't too bad because we had each other to talk to and also some fellows from South Africa in the queue behind us. The worst part was that we had dressed for the usual 27-or-so degree weather and it was more like 12 degrees, so we felt cold.

Anyway, once in the gates Shannon and I checked out the gardens, the palace, and the fortress. Now, before I go on further, I should explain something. I never really had any interest in visiting Spain at all until I read a book called The Lions of Al-Rassan by Guy Gavriel Kay. Kay is described as a historical fantasy writer, in that he writes books that have some fantasy element to them (often not much) and they are very much inspired by some period in Earth's history, but they are not set on Earth but an alternative world. That may sound a bit out there, but really they do follow the history that inspired them quite well, or at least the spirit of it.

So the book I mentioned is set in a version of Moorish Spain in the days before the Christian Reconquest. The description of "Spain" in this book is what caught my interest in the country - of the land in the north versus the south, the intense heat in parts and the farming country elsewhere. Some of the characters are royalty, and so there are many scenes in palaces and gardens just like the Alhambra.

I mention all this because the Alhambra could just be viewed as "another palace" said with a groan, because although it's gardens are quite beautiful, and the palace interiors are decorated with coloured tiles and carvings in every stone service, after a few rooms of that it could get sort of boring. If I hadn't read The Lions of Al-Rassan, I probably wouldn't have been overly impressed by the palace and grounds, other than the fact that there was an awful lot of work put into that place and the wealth was tremendous. But I did read the book, so I was also imagining the people who would have once lived their and the events that would have taken place. So that made it have a little extra to me. What really grabbed me about the place, besides the obvious wealth involved, was the focus on water. Every courtyard, every garden, had at least one fountain or pool. In a place that can experience droughts, I suppose this could have just been another way of showing off wealth. However, referring back to my reading experience, I recalled descriptions of the intense heat of southern Spain (that I'm experiencing just a taste of now) and how the people in the novel really felt the relief and sustenance of water from its presence in gardens. You can still see that focus on water today in southern Portugal and Spain, where city squares often consist of benches around a fountain.

All these photos are from the Alhambra. If you want a photo of the fortress itself, I suggest you Google Image search it, because you'll find ones taken from better vantage points and with better cameras than mine.

I like mosaics. Europe is full of them.

I like the symmetry here.

This looked pretty.
Yep, a post.

Besides seeing the town, I've been having a great time talking to the other travellers at my hostel. I've come to realize that meeting other people is often more enjoyable for me than the places I see. I need to find a job where I'm always meeting new people - I guess the hotel trade was a good one, but then the hours are pretty intense as well. Anyone have any ideas?

Going to head back to the hostel and shower before the free Spanish lesson that's being offered - I figure anything will be of help! No more deleting blogs accidentally for me.

The very dry river and bank. Just thought the wall looked cool.

Megan's Guide to Art History

Was to the Thyseen Museum on Sunday in Madrid. I chose it because my guide book described it as a lesson in art history. And indeed it was. So what follows is my general outline of the history of art.

It started in medieval times with religious paintings of important figures in Christianity in medieval clothing. Then sometime in the late 1400's portraits became a thing, dark ones. The religious painters found some colours other than reds and golds - blue, for example - and the portrait guys followed suit.

Then, sometime in the 1600's, the Dutch and the Italians started painting landscapes and buildingscapes, usually in darker colours. The portraits continued, with rich people in more elaborate dress, sometimes posed to emulate someone in mythology.

In the late 1700's someone (Dutch again, I think) thought it would be cool to paint some fruit really, really well. Then the French painters said "Moi aussi!" This is when I noticed the effects of light were becoming more interesting and realistic - paintings appeared to have depth. The portraits continued, new and improved with lighting.

Some people started painting sentimental pictures of peasants. In the late 1800's the French stepped away from fruit for a while (although not completely) and so began the Impressionists and their ilk (post-impressionists, colourists, fauvists, etc. - I've read all sorts of terms but can't place them all). This is the art that I like the best. I'm very impressed by how a blotch of this colour here and this colour there, placed seemingly haphazardly, can form an amazing picture. I also really like how the light is captured in thse paintings (I have a thing for light, it seems).

In the early 1900's it all went weird. You go from Cubism with some recognizable shapes to what I would call abstract painting. I just don't get this stuff. Now, maybe these paintings are making reference to other periods in art history and because I don't know art well enough, I don't "get" them as a consequence. This idea occurred to me after Rob, the master of ceremonies at Vaughan Town, explained to me that post-modern art is art that refers to other art).

This would be analogous to, say, comedic television in the 1990's and on. The Simpsons, for example, is only truly funny if you understand all the numerous historical pop-culture references that it makes. Ditto for Family Guy (television history references) and the now-cancelled Futurama (science and science fiction references).

If a person from another time were to watch those shows, they would probably not find them very funny, whereas early television comedy, say "I Love Lucy", was more slapstick and probably more generally accessible, I think. Television had to wait a few decades to have enough material to be self-referential.

So in the same way that I don't know medieval symbology or religious lore well enough to get stained glass windows in cathedrals, perhaps I don't know art well enough to get post 1900's art.

On a final art note: I'm surprised how bothered people are today by women in skimpy tops, because if art of the 1400-1500's is accurate, women were falling out of their tops completely in those times. I learned on my first European trip that in museums the proper word to describe such clothing is "flimsy."

Back from Vaughan Town

The light in Spain makes colours so lively. Here's a building in Madrid's Plaza Mayor.Look at that red!

And here, at the hotel Gredos.

Vaughan Town folks hanging out at the river.

Being from an island that is essentially a big sand dune, I don't think I will ever ceased to be impressed by rocks, especially when you have so many of them that you just pile them into a fence. This is on the road outside the hotel.

Vaughan Town was interesting in two respects. I got to meet loads of Spanish people, a nationality I've not encountered frequently. And I had hour-long conversations with people, over-and-over again. It's not too often in everyday life that you spend that long speaking with just one person. As a result, I got to know many people very well in a short period of time. And I have to mention my fellow anglophones, who I had a great time with as well.

Prior to this experience, I must admit, my stereotype of Spanish people was that they are very emotional - similar to how I imagine Italians. I also held the idea of the macho-male, as well as the gregariousness in general for Spanish people. I have only really known one Spanish person up to the point I went to Vaughan Town, and that is Victor, the chef at the Coylet. As anyone who knows Victor can attest (and if you're reading this Victor, don't worry, I love you all the same for your ranting), Victor has a tendancy to passionate expression on certain issues, that wouldn't actually contradict my stereotype.

In the course of the last week I had discussions with 14 different Spanish people learning English, plus Carmen, the program director. And not one of them was that gregarious, over-the-top stereotype. In fact, I would say that the Spaniards started off the week more reserved than any of us anglophones, and being with us brought them a bit more out of their shells. Underneath the quiet reserve were friendly, funny people.

The machoness wasn't there, although there is still more chivalry - try as I may, I could not get a Spanish man to walk through a door that I held open for him, or let me bring him a drink from the bar.

I discussed the stereotype that I had held with some of the Spanish people. It seems that they also have that impression of the Italians. They also seem to have similar stereotypes of the French to what we have in Canada. Maybe I need a week in each of those countries to prove or disprove the stereotypes - I know I've definitely met loads of friendly French people, but also some not so friendly.

My general view of stereotyping is that cultures do tend to produce a certain mentality in their subjects, but there are always exceptions. As I've often put it, every country has its arseholes. If you meet just one person from a country, you never know if you've met the exception or the rule or somewhere in between. Unfortunately, people often treat any foreigner as an example of that country, even if that person probably shouldn't be.

For interests sake, I asked the Spaniards what their stereotypes of Canadians are, but they don't seem to have any. We're the country that no one in the world really thinks about. Many of them had never spoken extensively to a Canadian before meeting myself and the other Canadian girl at Vaughan Town.

I had a really good time last week, so good I'm going back the first week of July. Now I just need to find similar free experiences in other countries...

Oh, and if you'd like to see the people I spent the week with, and the place, everyone's been putting photos up on this album, so have a gander if you so desire.

How I Lost My Blog

You may have noticed, or not, that there was no blog at this address for a while. That is because, while trying to make some changes from an internet cafe in Madrid on Sunday, I accidentally deleted my blog.

When I log into Blogger, I've been getting all Spanish instructions, and I know how to make a new post from memory but changing anything else involves reading Spanish, which it seems I don't do as well as I think.

So I accidentally hit a button that said "delete everything", and then it took me a while to realize that everything was gone and even longer to figure out how to get help on it. I e-mailed the Blogger help people and from the help of one with the moniker Danish, you are now able to read what I have written once again. Hurray!

I had two posts written up on Sunday, ready to go, so I'll put those ones up first and then get to the present, which is me in Granada.

A week of silence (probably)

I'm headed to a thing called Vaughan Town (it sounds like a cult, doesn't it) tomorrow morning in the province of Avila, west of Madrid. It's a 6-day long program that puts together 15 native English speakers with 15 Spaniards who are learning English. The idea being that people learn English best speaking to native speakers, and even better when exposed to the different accents of the English-speaking world (so I'm exposing Spanish people to a Maritimer accent - I'll have da ticken' it up a bit, eh dere b'y?). The anglophones volunteer their speaking services for the week in exchange for free accomodation and food basically. I heard about the program from Fraser who did it in October and it seems like it'll be fun. We meet for a reception tonight that involves food (tapas) and then tomorrow morning hop on a bus at 9am and arrive around noon, I believe.

So the week of silence is that there's not convenient internet access, so I probably won't be updating until I get back to Madrid (where I am now, just off the train from Portugal this morning). It won't be a week of verbal silence, since they want me to talk, and we all know that I can do that without being pressed.

On the topic of silence, it's been interesting being in countries where I don't speak the local language, namely Spanish and Portuguese. It certainly cuts down on the casual conversations that one often has with people in shops or at the train station (generally eliminates them altogether). I've been doing a lot of smiling and nodding or shrugging. My lack of comprehension didn't deter one Portuguese lady from chatting away to me for several minutes, complete with gestures and pats on the arm, of which I understood "nada".

Something I found amusing - the metro in Madrid is so old-fashioned that the signs say that seats should be reserved not only for the elderly, the disabled, and pregnant women, but also for women in general. Enforced chivalry.

Well, I'm going to find a laundromat and clean some clothes, and then perhaps check out some sights in the city.

Portugal

I've spent the week hanging around the south of Portugal, in a region known as the Algarve. I've been staying in the town of Lagos, in a room in an apartment that I've had to myself, complete with a balcony, for 11 Euros a night, so not too shabby. It's like the height of mid-summer here. It was warm in Paris and Barcelona - in the 20-degree range most days - but here it's been in the high 20's or more, and in mid-day it's scorching. I've been taking in the beach scene, from the shade, sheltering my poor pale skin from the sun in the cloudless sky, and have thus accumulated a lot more freckles (I tan in splotches!).

I travelled to the town of Silves by train one day - it's to the east of Lagos, and was the capital of Portugal in the time of the Moors. Checked out the remenants of the castle there, wandered around town, and saw oranges growing on trees for the first time in my life. Also loads of poppies growing wild. I've been in places where these things grow before, just not at the right time of year I guess.

The Sé (cathedral) in Silves:
I took the bus westward to Sagres another day, and to Capo St. Vincente, the most south-westerly point in Europe as it's touted. Looking at the far-stretching blueness of the ocean, it's hard to believe that anything lies on the other side of it, let alone a whole couple of continents.

I also went to the fort in Sagres, and walking there was a long hot trek in the sun. It didn't make me feel any better that the landscape looked like this, with tough looking plants that I wouldn't want to meet down a dark alley.
Relgion seems to be everywhere in Portugal. There's little religious statues in alcoves in walls in the streets, or pictures hanging up. There is even a major bank called Banco Esprito Sancto (or some spelling to that effect), which if my memory of Latin serves me correct, is the equivalent of Holy Ghost Bank.

I commented on the graffiti in Lisbon - well, there is still graffiti here, even in the small towns. It always puzzles me that graffiti looks the same in every country I have ever been too. Do the graffit people have a conference or something to decide on the international standard? The style of lettering is the same no matter the culture or language. It also puzzles me why graffiti artists, who are generally trying to make some attention-getting statement or demonstrate their turf and toughness, choose to use what I would call "bubble letters", a style that I associate predominantly with 10-year-old girls.

I suppose that I've only seen graffiti in the Roman alphabet - perhaps if I was to see Greek or Cyrillic or Chinese graffiti it would have a different style. Probably it would just be in bubble letters again.

Shopping for food can be an adventure over here, as labels are often in Portuguese only of course, or other languages with which I'm not overly familiar. I'm often taking a guess as to what I'm buying, and if it's labelled in German that's usually my best hope after English and French. I did stumble upon a Lidl store in Lagos, and that's helpful because the food is usually labelled in about 8 languages. For you Canadians, Lidl is a German (I believe) chain of grocery stores that are quite cheap and have an unusual, unpredictable stock. Kind of like a dollar-store of food. The most amusing thing that I saw on my recent trip was weiners (i.e. hot dogs) in some sort of clear fluid in a jar. To my further amusment, the label indicated that these were "American Way" weiners - yes, yes, hot dogs always come in jars in the States.

Lidl also has the unhappiest employees that I have ever encountered. No amount of politeness, no friendly smile can crack their icey exterior and coax out any look other than pure hatred. Maybe it's company policy that they don't smile, kind of like an anti-thesis to company policies of the likes of McDonald's and WalMart.

I do enjoy the language lessons that I get off of my multi-lingual packaging. For example, from the wrapper of my Magnum ice cream bar the other day (I now love the Ecquador dark chocolate one) I learned that in French, vanilla flavoured ice cream is "glace parfum vanille". This was news to my Canadian French, as I've always called ice cream "creme glacee" (forgive the lack of accents), and I never recall seeing the word "parfum" on any food package in Canada. Then I learned that for ice cream to be "coated" in chocolate is "uberzogen" in German, a word that strikes my fancy for some reason.

Barecelona then Portugal

I took an overnight train to Barcelona, getting there the morning of May 2. It was a first class bunk, just a bit roomy then the 2nd class ones really (in case you're wondering, the rail pass that I won is a 1st class ticket).

I know I said I was going to Bilbao, but I discovered that Spain is much bigger than I thought. My apologies to Spain, I should know better to assume everything is close since I'm forever telling people that Toronto is no where near the "east coast of Canada". So I stayed in Barcelona for a couple of nights. It won't rank as my favourite city in the world, since it's very packed and grubby, but it does have a lot of neat old winding streets. And palm trees, and warm weather.

I wandered around La Rambla where human statues in bizarre costumes perform - a Edward Scissorhands look-a-like snapped his scissors at me when I gave him a few coins. I went to the Market de Bourqueta for fresh fruit.

I spent an inordinate amount of time booking a ticket on a train to Lisbon, my next stop. I won't go into that, but lets just say that they could organize the train ticketing system better, and open more than 1/4 of the ticket windows.

I went to La Sagrada Familia, a cathedral under construction for over a century. It's unusual in design with natural influences, like columns that ressemble bones and trees, stair cases that are single helixes, and bunches of fruit on tops of the towers. I tried to find a park designed by the same guy, Gaudi, but with no luck. The park was supposed to have been part of a town but Gaudi never finished that either. He seemed to have trouble actualizing his ideas, or completing them. I can identify with that.

I went up to Park Montjuic and it was there that looking down on the city that I felt really disturbed. It's such a heaping of buildings, most of which aren't all that pretty. It felt stiffling looking at it. It's funny, on the street the buildings don't look too bad with their terraced windows and plant pots, but from a far it looked terrible. So I'm off mixed feelings on Barcelona.

I left there yesterday afternoon, first on a train to Madrid where I had to ride in 2nd class (gracious me!). It was actually quite comfortable, with a Lindsay Lohan film (can't remember the name - she's really lucky, then she loses her luck via kissing to a previously unlucky guy and has to get it back) that was all in Spanish so I couldn't really understand it and it was probably better that way.

Got into Lisbon this morning and had to ride from south of city to north of city to change trains. The entire city seems to be concrete apartment buildings in pale stone colours, with graffiti everywhere. It didn't seem pleasant, and after having enough of grubbiness of big cities, I was glad of my choice to go down south to Lagos, in the Algrave region. I don't know if I'll go to Lisbon to spend time at all, maybe just an afternoon before getting my train back to Madrid.

Things I like about Paris

Since I was hard on France in my last post, here we go.

1. Rollerbladers are not treated as though they are evil. You see all sorts of people skating in groups, playing pickup games of hockey in parks, and in general not being shunned by the world. There's lots more skaters than in Canada as well. The municipal government even mentions "rollers" on their signs about scenic river routes, as well as pedestrians and cyclists (Charlottetown Boardwalk could learn something therre).

2. Free public toilets. Important when travelling.

3. Streets that are named after someone have info on the sign about the person - it's a nice touch.

4. Fresh bread at any time of day. Unlike Scotland where it seems to sell out at noon, and that's any bread.

And in general it is a nice city as far as cities go. It's very grand, in that you can tell from the buildings, the gold paint on the fences, the sculptures of winged horses and sphinxes and what-have-you, that this is a city that has been rich for a long time and isn't afraid to show it off.

May 1 seemed to be a holiday, so all of the tourist things I had planned failed due to closures save Notre Dame cathedral. It was huge, very dark inside, quite imposing. Stained glass windows were pretty but I always have trouble figuring out what they're about due to the ornateness and the fact that I don't speak medieval religious symbology.

Afterward I wondered, discovering that everything was closed, so I made my way to the Champ de Mars, the park on which sits the Eifel Tower, and sat watching Parisian families play football and hang out.

Unlike in the UK, where people seem to obey the signs that say "No ball games" on any stretch of grass, in Paris they just play ball right by the sign. The rules seem to exist to be broken. In Notre Dame, there were signs saying not to take pictures but everyone was. One guy was setting up a huge tripod!

And a final neat thing about Paris is that I was able to speak French all day and my accent even improved over the day. So then I went to Spain where it's not of much use. Another post...

Paris photos

Parks in Paris often consist of pebbly dirt like the one below, on which brave, masochistic Parisians run in the hot sun. Parks that let you sit on the grass, like the Champ de Mars (home of the Eifel Tower) fill up quickly on sunny days. The dust coats your shoes, so that my black shoes looked grey, and I had to empty little stones out of them frequently.

People sitting outside the closed Louvre. A common occurrence, it would seem.

A bridge in the typical grandeur of Paris, with some of the restaurant boats that makes trips along the river Seine.

Some old photos plus an update on travelling

Here's a few photos that I managed to upload. First of all, the mountain alongside the Coylet and you can see a clear line through the trees which is the forestry road that I used to walk on. And here's just some photos of the loch reflecting that I took the other day when it was nice and sunny.

Anyway, back to what I'm up to now. I managed to sleep a bit in the airport last night but was still quite tired this morning on my flight. When I got to Beauvais airport the simplest thing to do seemed to me to go into Paris and find out information about where I wanted to go, Normandy, from there, as more than likely any trains would connect through Paris anyway. Now, I'm really tired and frustrated as I write this (and that's with having had a nap), so it may be complaining.

Finding information proved more difficult than I ever imagined. I recalled a main tourist office that was quite helpful being on Avenue des Champs-Elysees, and my Lonely Planet guide claimed it was there as well, but it must have just disappeared. So after spending an hour or two dragging myself along to find that and not finding it, I got on the metro to find the only other tourist office I knew of, near the Louvre. Bear in mind that I was looking at every tourist map of Paris that was posted on the street and although they showed me where museums and monuments were, none indicated tourist offices.

So I got to the tourist office to find that it contained about 10 different pamphlets about Paris and when I enquired about getting information on other parts of France the woman at the desk basically laughed at me. She gave me a number that she said might help, but she couldn't even tell me if there were other tourist offices in the city that catered to other regions. Now at one point I walked by Italy's national tourist office so I don't see why France couldn't have one. Anyway, I grabbed a booklet on accomodation and a map of the city.

I think the Paris authorities want you to tell them years in advance before you come here. For example, in my map of the city, under the heading of "internet cafes", I was directed to a website where I could find a list. All well and good if I had gotten this pamphlet before I came over here, while I still knew where I could use a computer.

Then, in the hostels section of my accomodation guide, I was informed that all reservations were to be made in writing, as well as any cancellations. Again, kind of hard for me to do that now that I'm in the city.

Also, I wonder why the tourist officials and transportation officials seems to be annoyed when you ask them to provide you with information, when they are sitting under a sign that says they will give you information. Sort of the wrong career choice if that's not your thing.

So I went to the appropriate train station to see if I could just get to Normandy myself and maybe find out accomodation info as well. Well, the lines were horrendous and the prospect of arriving in a small town well into the evening without a room seemed too much for me in my tired state. I hopped on the metro again to go to a hostel, choosing it solely because it was easy to get to by metro, checked in, and slept.

After getting up and showering I decided that I'm getting out of this country at the moment, so I went and hunted up and overnight train to Barcelona. I'm hoping to get to Bilbao once there, but will see how things go. So I'm spending tomorrow here until around 9:30pm.

On a lighter note: motor scooters scare me, because people drive them on the sidewalks here and even use crosswalks with them, then switch to the streets when it suits them. There's a lot of them and they just like to cut through people. They're not as bad as I remember in Rome though.

Secondly, it now seems strange for vehicles to be driving on the right side of the road again, and to be on a bus that goes through a roundabout anti-clockwise. Incidentally, the French seem to be as fond of roundabouts on their highways as the British. And then there's the roundabout around the Arc de Triomphe, where about 20 roads converge into one.

That's my complaining done, hopefully Spain goes better.

Glasgow photos

Glasgow's filled with grand old buildings (largely Georgian architecture, if you know what that means) that have modern shops in the ground floors. This one is a home decorating shop if I recall correctly. When walking down the streets, it's easy to not notice the buildings themselves because at street level they consist of the usual plate-glass windows displaying clothing and shoes and the like.

The interior of the Kelvingrove Museum. This picture does not properly convey the sheer size of the place. That's a pipe organ in the back that is played daily.

In Glasgow about to set off...

So my time at the Coylet has come to an end and I headed for Glasgow Friday evening, driven to the ferry courtesy of Fraser before getting the train on the other side. I left some things that I don't want to travel with over the summer (like winter clothes) in a small backpack there, so I'll be back not only for a visit but to collect my things.

Well, I'm killing time in Glasgow today before I had to Preswick airport (south west of the city by a fair bit) at 11pm. That's the last train I can catch if I'm going to be there in time for my 6am flight to France. The things one does for a plane ticket that costs under £20.

In anticipation of travelling abroad, I have changed my phone number to a network that will work outside the UK, namely Vodafone, and will be using that now as my permanent number. If for some reason you need that number, let me know by comment or e-mail. I won't be using my phone for other than emergencies abroad because roaming is expensive, although I can probably get away with the occasional text, but no one that I know outside of people I've met abroad uses texting anyway.

There's an election coming up in Scotland next week, for the devolved Scottish parliment at Holyrood. Julie showed me her postal ballot instructions when she received them, and it's a complicated voting procedure. Because they have proportional representation for Scottish parliment, there's two votes - one for the constituency representative, and then one for so many regional seats that are given out according to proportion of vote received. There's also a list of something like 20 parties running for those seats, some of whom seem to be a party of one, and some with very specific agendas: the indoor smoking party (Scotland passed a law last year prohibiting smoking in public places that are more than 50% closed on their perimeters. Basically, you can't smoke in anything approximating indoors unless it's your own home. Even separately-ventillated smoking rooms are not permitted.), the UK-independence party (the lets-get-out-of-the-EU and keep all the foreign workers like the Polish from coming in, as far as I understand their policies). There's several socialist-to-communist parties, many of whom were out loudly spreading their messages on the streets of central Glasgow yesterday. There's also several Christian parties involving titles like "Proclaiming Christ's Lordship".

The main race is coming down to the Scottish National Party (SNP), the pro-independence party, and Labour, the current ruling party. It seems that SNP may do quite well not because of support for independence but because people are sick of Labour. It's looking like a minority government for SNP though, so they'll need to form a coalition, probably with the Liberal Democrats as the Conservatives won't really comply.

I went to the Post Office yesterday in an attempt to find a postcode for a community, and discovered that since they have computerized their directory they cannot find a post code unless I have the full street address. If I had that I don't think I would need the post code. I was hoping to find a directory like Canada Post has, where you look up the community and it tells you that the post code on this side of such-and-such a street is this for so many numbers, etc. Then I could probably have figured out an approximate one.

Then I bought some Euros as the Post Office doesn't charge commission. I was then offered travel insurance by the teller, and then subsequently informed that they also offer home and auto insurance, which I declined saying that I didn't have those things to insure. I thought Canada Post had really branched out when they started selling teddy bears and Harry Potter collectible coins, but Royal Mail has got them beat. They seem to offer a lot of other services as well, although they never have more than two teller windows open even when the building is equipped for 10.

An interesting thought (perhaps): Royal Mail has postmen (posties) to deliver the post; Canada Post has mailmen (no nickname!) to deliver the mail.

I've been hiking around the city a fair bit here since I haven't figured out the bus system and the subway hasn't been of much use because it's a big circle that misses most of the locations I've been trying to go to, so walking to the stations and back would save little time. I took the subway on a previous visit to go to the Kelvingrove Museum and the Museum of Transport (both great museums and free!). I was shocked to find how small the carriages are - and I mean in height. I practically had to duck to get through the door. Inside the upholstry is that of a 1970's living room, I believe, which reminded me much of the LRT in Edmonton. I'm not sure if the decorators thought that those patterns in harvest gold and autumn orange or whatever were esthetically pleasing or if they just figured that the pattern would conceal filth quite well.

Back to time at the Coylet: I got to go out in one of the boats that the hotel hires last week, namely the powan, named for a fish in the loch (the other is our non-motor boat called the char). The trip commenced with Chris driving and Julie and I sitting about admiring the view and the rain. Then when Chris tired of driving he convinced me to do it, which was easy enough although hard on the left arm after awhile because you have to hold it almost behind your back to keep the throttle down. We cut the engine as we approached some swans and Chris and Julie rowed us in, as shown below:


Then I started the engine up again with instructions from Chris, and we motored around some more over to some sheep on the shore, and then back to the hotel. The rain had stopped after the first few minutes, at least for awhile, so I got some photos.

Here is the Coylet Inn and the mountain that it sits in front of. It never seemed so big when I was just living below it; the Coylet looks so small by comparison. I climbed the bit toward the right of the photo, where there's no trees to the right of the bright green bits.

This photo I actually took when I walked part way up the hill on the other side of the loch; here you see the caravan park on the left and the Coylet to it's immediate right.

I have more photos but will get them off my camera when facilities permit.

Driving lesson and the old Coylet

I forgot to mention in my last post something rather exciting (to me at least) that I did recently: I got a lesson on how to drive a manual transmission car!

Pretty much every car in the UK, and in Europe as far as I know, is a manual, or standard as we call them in Canada, so I haven't been able to drive anything. I've been asking people I work with to teach me ever since I've been here, but of course it's tricky because I don't have my insurance and over here you're not covered insurance-wise just to drive someone else's car on a one-time basis. But a week ago Thursday, Fraser took me down to a forestry road that's at Ardentinny beach and we drove around in circles on the gravel road. My biggest problem was not letting the clutch off slow enough when I was starting from a dead stop, but I managed alright and even though the car had a loose gearbox and I would sometimes end up in fourth instead of second gear, I could definitely hear something was wrong and correct myself. So now I feel I could rent a car and then with practice driving I'd be quite fine. I haven't driven on the road, so there'd be that driving on the left-hand side to get used to (it was weird enough sitting on the right-hand side of the car) but I'm sure that difference can be over come as well.

And now for something different.

There's some old photos of the Coylet hanging on the walls here that date from late 1800's I'd guess from the clothing and modes of transportation. I've taken photos of them with my camera, so of course the images aren't great, but I thought it would be neat to try to show them at least. I find it interesting firstly that there's no trees on the hills, and also that the place basically looks the same as it does now.

The road used to end at the Coylet and to go farther north you either had to go around a coastal road or take a ferry up Loch Eck to where there was a road. I don't know if this picture is of the ferry, or of ships that used to just sail up the loch from the river to the south (they used to do tours on the loch as well), but whatever this pier was roughly opposite the hotel, as I recognize the shape of the mountains in the background (again with no trees on them).

It's hard to see it here, but those wagons have about 20 to 30 people each loaded on them. Travelling in comfort.

It rarely occurs to me just how old the Coylet Inn is - it's late 17th century from what I know, which means that it's 300 to 350 years old. When the inn was built, the ancestors of most Canadians were not in Canada - in my case they were in Scotland, Ireland, and England, with the bulk of them not even speaking English at the time and probably not yet converted from Catholicism to Protestantism.

The thing is, I've spent six months living and working in a building that's older than anything in PEI, but it doesn't feel old. Sure the staircase is small and quite steep, and the roof slopes in quite a bit in the upstairs, but the place doesn't remind me every day just how old it is. I'm not really sure what it would take for me to feel that it's old.

The post with no name

To be unoriginal, time is flying by. Karen made up our rota (work schedule) for the next upcoming two weeks a few days ago and I now have 4 days of work left at the old Coylet. I'll probably be leaving here on April 27 and travelling to Glasgow. I'll spend the weekend in the city, doing some touristy things (I really like Glasgow as far as cities go) and preparing to head off on my trip. I've got a plane ticket booked to fly to Beauvais, an airport north of Paris, on April 30, and then on May 1 I can start using my train pass and I'll be heading at first for Normandy.

I think I mentioned going to see a ceilidh last time I wrote. Well, that didn't pan out because by the time we got down to the ceilidh, at 11:30pm, we were told it was over. Having been told that they often ran well into the early hours of the morning that was somewhat of a disappointment, but we quickly formulated a plan B. The previously mentioned Jez of the kayak drove us to Sandbank (where the American naval base used to be) to a pub called the Oakbank where live music was on of the rock and roll format as opposed to Celtic. The "we" being Julie, Pickle, Matt, and I, to be later joined by Fraser, and of course Jez our driver. The only other times I have been in the Oakbank were with the staff boys to play pool and that was on weeknights. It's the kind of pub that has a very local, frequent clientele, and on one night I had been there before several people had brought their large dogs with them, and the dogs proceded to wrestle all over the pub, knocking into chairs and table occasionally. I thought that was brillant. Anyway, I have digressed. The band at the Oakbank, regulars called Electric Soup, proved to be entertaining so the evening was not lost.

The rain has returned here, although there's also been some sunny days as well. Yesterday I walked to the other side of the loch, and part way up the mountain to get a view of my home for the last six months. The hotel looks very tiny when seen against the backdrop of the mountain behind it.

Today I was planning to go to Inverary to see the castle that has been closed for the season during much of my stay here. Alas, the one bus I needed to catch was 10 minutes early and so I saw it go by as I was sitting inside finishing my tea and toast. So I've had a rather uneventful day off, but in an hour Julie and I are heading into Dunoon to go see a fiddle concert.

Work has quieted down after the Easter holidays, but we did have a wedding last Saturday that was quite fun to work. It was actually a "civil union" as I believe they're termed - two women who have a holiday caravan in the same park that I'm living in. The two ladies, and their assorted guests were all great people who were a pleasure to serve, and to top it off since we had been closed for food all day we all pretty much got off work at 8pm once the cleaning up was done, except for poor Karen who had to mind the bar.

Have to head off soon, so will leave more for later. There will definitely be some updates before I go to Europe.

A Whirlwind of Activity

I've been up to lots of fun stuff lately. Last I wrote the weather was cold - well, it's warmed up some and been quite sunny during the days so that it's been almost hot. It cools down overnight but the daytime has been fabulous. This has made for excellent opportunities for outdoor activities.

Also, since schools are on Easter Holidays here now (two weeks), business has been picking up and that meant new staff. We've got a "new" second chef - Chris, from Kirn (near Dunoon) who worked here before but then left and has just come back from British Columbia. Then we got Julie from Edinburgh about two weeks ago, and she's living in the caravan with me and Margaret who arrived from Poland a few days ago. We've been going on hikes together when we have the time, and having bonfires on the loch shore a few nights and gone out into the wild nightlife of Dunoon a few times (it's wild in an anti-social behaviour sort-of-way). I've gotten out on the loch in a kayak that a regular customer, Jez, has loaned us (very kind of him) and that was great. I also took a very brief swim in the loch because I figured I should at least get in the water once before I left here. It lasted about 20 seconds because the water is very cold (like glacial). And then there's plans for going to a ceilidh at Uig Hall down the road tomorrow night, and it's pronounced "wig", not "you-ig" as we say it in PEI.

Scotland's like any other place in the world that has a winter, in that it feels very different once the winter starts to end. It's a whole other atmosphere when the sun is out, and it's not raining. Of course there will be rain again at some point. And I'll be packing my bags in a few weeks time, as my Eurail train pass that I won commences on the first of May, so I'll be off to the continent. I'm going to miss the place, but the hope is that I'll have fun elsewhere (I'm sounding all sentimental now ;) ).