The other day I walked from Kilnwick Percy to Bishop Wilton. Along the way I stopped to chat with several people out for countryside rambles with their dogs (being careful, of course, to address their dogs as I would their children--thank you, "Watching the English," for that heads-up) and also to cause consternation in the world of sheep by bleating back at them when they bleated at me. I paused in Bishop Wilton to have lunch at the (elegant) village pub--strong orange tea, and the standard, quintessentially English dish, to be found at all eating establishments no matter how small or remote; I refer of course to chicken curry. (I also laughed my fool head off at the print on the wall showing three gentlemen fishing in a punt, wearing top hats and sitting on straight-backed chairs.) By the time I got back home over the fields I was in a Lizzy Bennet condition--my petticoats three inches deep in mud. (For petticoat, read jeans; for mud, read cow shit.)
And then I came back to the retreat centre and attended a Wish-Fulfilling Jewel Puja.
--okay, maybe that last part wasn't so typically English.
Showing posts with label travellin'. Show all posts
Showing posts with label travellin'. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Friday, June 16, 2006
designated French-speaker
So now that our native French collaborator has left, I'm the most fluent speaker of French left working on the experiment. I'm actually quite proud of how I've done so far. I've managed to get a batch of targets made, to book taxis and hotel rooms, and to have a quite lengthy and detailed conversation with the police, all in French. Nevertheless, I have come out with some gems. Earlier today I found myself telling one of the administrators that "my boyfriend Alison and I have been expecting that the packet-parcel-thingy will arrive yesterday."
The only reason my French teachers aren't all rolling in their graves is that none of them are dead.
The only reason my French teachers aren't all rolling in their graves is that none of them are dead.
Friday, June 09, 2006
oh France
Graffito on an overpass near the outskirts of Paris:
CECI N'EST PAS UN TAG
Even spray-paint artists here are witty.
CECI N'EST PAS UN TAG
Even spray-paint artists here are witty.
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
A memo to the gods of English weather
It is almost June. Do you think you could stop with the hail?
You'll notice that I don't ask for warm, pleasant weather. I wouldn't want anyone here to die of shock. But the hail thing--it's getting old. I suppose I should have been warned when, after a few days of pleasant weather a couple of weeks ago, people would say to me, "So, did you enjoy summer?" and I would laugh--and I would be the only one laughing.
I mean, honestly. It's nice to have a bit of foul weather, so that you have a ready-made topic of conversation and can bond with your fellow-sufferers...but enough is enough. So no more hail, okay? At least not until...July.
thanking you for your kind attention to this matter...
You'll notice that I don't ask for warm, pleasant weather. I wouldn't want anyone here to die of shock. But the hail thing--it's getting old. I suppose I should have been warned when, after a few days of pleasant weather a couple of weeks ago, people would say to me, "So, did you enjoy summer?" and I would laugh--and I would be the only one laughing.
I mean, honestly. It's nice to have a bit of foul weather, so that you have a ready-made topic of conversation and can bond with your fellow-sufferers...but enough is enough. So no more hail, okay? At least not until...July.
thanking you for your kind attention to this matter...
Friday, March 10, 2006
jet-setter
So tomorrow morning I set out on my travels again--Austria for a week (workshop at a ski resort, woo!), then Germany for a weekend with my dear friend Kate and her fiance, then to Gaia House for a ten-day personal retreat, then "home" for a couple of days, to re-pack for my next trip: I'm spending April in Vancouver. After that it looks like I may have as much as five weeks here before I'm off to Paris for a couple of weeks.
...so if you don't hear much from me for a while, that's why.
Question: How silly is it that I'm leaving my home at a retreat centre to go on retreat?
Answer: Very. Which is typical.
...so if you don't hear much from me for a while, that's why.
Question: How silly is it that I'm leaving my home at a retreat centre to go on retreat?
Answer: Very. Which is typical.
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
Camping trip
So this weekend we went camping. Like, real camping. Like, hike three hours uphill in the dark to get to the campsite without knowing for sure that there'll be anywhere to put up your tent when you get there.
...okay, I shouldn't try to sound like I'm Tough Outdoors Chick or anything, or my camping partner is sure to point out that (a) I carried nothing heavier than a sleeping bag all weekend and (b) I never once had to pee in the bush, there being nicely maintained outhouses all over the landscape. But still. Tent. Hills. Packing out garbage. And views. Like this one. This is what we saw at breakfast the morning after we arrived.
Garibaldi Lake is a glacial lake in Garibaldi Park (between Squamish and Whistler). Its waters look like this.
On Saturday morning the plan was to climb Black Tusk. It's the little nubbin in the middle of this picture. It doesn't look like much from down there, does it?
Near the top there's a sign saying (essentially) "Don't go past this point if you know what's good for you." My hiking partner went on (duh), I went for a nap. It was quite cozy, curled up in the sunlight there. Of course I missed out on the stunning views from the top, but at that point I was too sleepy to care.
...of course, even from where I was, the views were pretty impressive. We were looking down on our campsite, more or less.
The next day we went to Panorama Ridge. About 4 pm I was completely exhausted (which I freely admitted), and also very scared (which I fiercely denied). What I find interesting about this photo is the non-dorkiness of my expression. This is something that's practically unique among photos of me. I try to smile nice for the camera, I come out looking dorky. I try to look sultry? Dorky. I try to look like a respectable upstanding citizen? Dorky. But in this photo I just look normal. Tired and normal.
We were most of the way up the mountain, and we kept meeting people who told us how great it was at the top, but I just really didn't think I could make it the rest of the way up. It was shale scree. I hate scree. It disturbs and upsets me on some deep existential level. It's just so...hostile. It doesn't want to be walked on. Somehow my hiking partner calmed me down and coached me over it, and then he stomped out little steps for me on the bit of glacier we had to cross to get to the top.
From the top we could see...everything. This is looking down on Garibaldi Lake.
Black Tusk also looks much more impressive from here.
And then we went home.
That makes it sound a lot less effort than it really was. From the moment I first thought "That's it, I'm done" to the moment I collapsed into bed there were six hours of hiking and two and a half hours of driving (with a break for steak. mmm...steak...).
There was never that much physical exertion--mostly because of the patience and generosity of my hiking partner, who carried all of the heavy stuff and never complained that I was strolling instead of striding--but even strolling gets taxing if you do it for ten hours. But I was left with this wonderful sense of ...physical ease, I guess, the next day (once a little bit of stiffness wore off). Everything seemed like less work than it did last week--both physically, because now I'm used to climbing big things for a long time, and emotionally, because hey, I can climb mountains!
...okay, I shouldn't try to sound like I'm Tough Outdoors Chick or anything, or my camping partner is sure to point out that (a) I carried nothing heavier than a sleeping bag all weekend and (b) I never once had to pee in the bush, there being nicely maintained outhouses all over the landscape. But still. Tent. Hills. Packing out garbage. And views. Like this one. This is what we saw at breakfast the morning after we arrived.
Garibaldi Lake is a glacial lake in Garibaldi Park (between Squamish and Whistler). Its waters look like this.
On Saturday morning the plan was to climb Black Tusk. It's the little nubbin in the middle of this picture. It doesn't look like much from down there, does it?
Near the top there's a sign saying (essentially) "Don't go past this point if you know what's good for you." My hiking partner went on (duh), I went for a nap. It was quite cozy, curled up in the sunlight there. Of course I missed out on the stunning views from the top, but at that point I was too sleepy to care.
...of course, even from where I was, the views were pretty impressive. We were looking down on our campsite, more or less.
The next day we went to Panorama Ridge. About 4 pm I was completely exhausted (which I freely admitted), and also very scared (which I fiercely denied). What I find interesting about this photo is the non-dorkiness of my expression. This is something that's practically unique among photos of me. I try to smile nice for the camera, I come out looking dorky. I try to look sultry? Dorky. I try to look like a respectable upstanding citizen? Dorky. But in this photo I just look normal. Tired and normal.
We were most of the way up the mountain, and we kept meeting people who told us how great it was at the top, but I just really didn't think I could make it the rest of the way up. It was shale scree. I hate scree. It disturbs and upsets me on some deep existential level. It's just so...hostile. It doesn't want to be walked on. Somehow my hiking partner calmed me down and coached me over it, and then he stomped out little steps for me on the bit of glacier we had to cross to get to the top.
From the top we could see...everything. This is looking down on Garibaldi Lake.
Black Tusk also looks much more impressive from here.
And then we went home.
That makes it sound a lot less effort than it really was. From the moment I first thought "That's it, I'm done" to the moment I collapsed into bed there were six hours of hiking and two and a half hours of driving (with a break for steak. mmm...steak...).
There was never that much physical exertion--mostly because of the patience and generosity of my hiking partner, who carried all of the heavy stuff and never complained that I was strolling instead of striding--but even strolling gets taxing if you do it for ten hours. But I was left with this wonderful sense of ...physical ease, I guess, the next day (once a little bit of stiffness wore off). Everything seemed like less work than it did last week--both physically, because now I'm used to climbing big things for a long time, and emotionally, because hey, I can climb mountains!
Thursday, August 19, 2004
Travelling
"Time and again we read of women travelers being thwarted by male officialdom simply because they were women, often through the agency of bureaucrats too timid to admit it," the travel writer Jan Morris notes in a foreword to the catalog.
"How different is it for women now," writes Ms. Morris, who was James Morris before undergoing a sex change. "I have had the peculiar experience of traveling both as a man and as a woman and I have reached the conclusion, on the whole, that during my own traveling years the female traveler has had it easier than the male." She added, "To this day, the human sorority is stronger by far than the fraternity."
--from http://www.nytimes.com/2004/08/19/arts/design/19wome.html?th
Those are encouraging words. I'm daydreaming about travelling in northern Africa, and feeling a bit daunted by the idea. Maybe things will work out better than I'm fearing. And how interesting. There can't be too many people in a position to make a first-hand comparison of the experience of travel as a man and as a woman. Call me Tiresias.
"How different is it for women now," writes Ms. Morris, who was James Morris before undergoing a sex change. "I have had the peculiar experience of traveling both as a man and as a woman and I have reached the conclusion, on the whole, that during my own traveling years the female traveler has had it easier than the male." She added, "To this day, the human sorority is stronger by far than the fraternity."
--from http://www.nytimes.com/2004/08/19/arts/design/19wome.html?th
Those are encouraging words. I'm daydreaming about travelling in northern Africa, and feeling a bit daunted by the idea. Maybe things will work out better than I'm fearing. And how interesting. There can't be too many people in a position to make a first-hand comparison of the experience of travel as a man and as a woman. Call me Tiresias.
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