Edinburgh
Posted by: lucie
Friday night:
We check into the hotel, put our bottle of champagne in the bathroom sink, shuttle coffee cups to the ice bucket in the hallway and back. Ten trips later the sink is full and we're confident the champagne will be chilled by the time we get back so we can raise another toast to my divorce papers and a first toast to Anna's new job.
Down to the locals-only pub to drink pints and listen to Scottish boys' accents. Hang around surveying the talent until some guys saunter up and start chatting to us. They are extremely drunk and not oil paintings, but their accents fulfill our requirements and they're in pure standup comic mode.
Stevie latches onto Anna, John latches onto me. They tell us we don't look a day over 23 and offer us drinks (is it me, or do you know you're getting older when guys start telling you how young you look? This is happening to me rather a lot these days). We say yes just to half pints of lager and Stevie dramatically laments the idea of ordering something as wussy as halves and returns with full pints. John, shifting out of funny gear, begins to brag about how he's in IT and made loads of money before Y2K, then starts throwing numbers around. I struggle not to roll my eyes as I tune him out and wonder whether this 'I'm minted' routine actually works on most girls. It bores the hell out of me. Buy a personality.
Stevie does a comedy bit about kilts and goes in for the kill, asking Anna for her phone number. She holds up her left hand to show him her wedding/engagement ring set. "What, does it have a four in it?" he says. She waves fingers in front of his face again. "It starts with a four?" he asks.
Anna spells it out for him. "Eh... excuse me, are you going to sleep with me?" he asks, and she politely declines. "Barmaid! Can I have my money back for these drinks?" he calls. "She's not going to sleep with me!"
We excuse ourselves and wander back to the hotel to eat chocolates and drink champagne out of coffee cups. We are not messing around; this is a proper girly weekend.
Saturday:
Having had a total of one gin and tonic on the train, three pints in the pub and half a bottle of champagne each in the hotel room, we wake up groaning and ask the hotel room walls why we are so stupid. There's nothing to do but soldier on. At 11:30 we make it out of the room and start wandering the sunny streets of Edinburgh in search of food. We find a Nepali restaurant, fall in love with our lunch and declare that if it's a fair representation of what actual Nepali people eat, we're never going to leave Kathmandu.
We shop, we walk around, we settle down in the park in the centre of town peoplewatching and admiring the trees, the palaces, the sky and the 5-a-side football teams who are in town to compete in the Homeless World Cup (stranger ideas have been conceived, but this one confuses me. Think how much it costs to fly a team of homeless people from, say, Brazil... know what I mean?).
We find a Lush shop and buy beauty products that smell like chocolate and a fresh face mask (girly weekend) to reward ourselves after our afternoon run. We wander up The Royal Mile, look around some cathedrals, pop into a whiskey heritage centre and taste the difference between a light whiskey and a peaty one. As the sun begins to turn our skin pink, we look at our watches and realize it's nearly time to fulfill our pledge to stick with the half-marathon training and do a 6-mile run through Edinburgh.
Back at the hotel Anna nearly falls asleep on the bed but we get back out the door and do, in fact, run six miles under the shade of the trees lining the river, which is magnificent. This is why I started running. It's so much better than the gym.
Dead proud of ourselves, we shower and pack honey and almond masks onto our faces, scrubbing them off to reveal our new glowing skin (they actually make a visible difference). We moisturize, apply makeup, put on dresses, choose our shoes wisely (we have each brought four pairs including running shoes) and head out for the night.
Dinner, more drinks, more drinks and we find ourselves at a gorgeous, though touristy, club with a giant open-air bar in front. We appear to be the only ones who aren't on a stag do or hen weekend and mill about the crowd looking at the different packs. A group of stag weekend boys encircles us and one sticks his ass out and points at it, looking expectantly over his shoulder at us. We each give him a good smack on the ass and he thanks us by having a squeeze each of ours. 'You have a lovely bottom,' he tells me most politely.
Back outside I am trying to imitate this in a Scottish accent but can't do it to save my life. Anna grabs a random cute boy and asks if he's Scottish. He says yes. She tells him to say 'You have a lovely bottom' and he says it in a crap imitation of a Scottish accent because he is, in fact, Irish.
No matter, because one of his friends is the travel editor of a newspaper. I get chatting with him about my upcoming trips and journalism experience and end up walking away with his card after being told 'I think you'll probably do at least one or two stories for me this year.' Fingers crossed, my stay in the monastery is going to be covered by the paper.
Anna and I drunkenly call it a night and, for no other reason than we're juvenile and it's fun to see the looks on their faces, we tell the boys we're a lesbian couple and hold hands as we set off back to our hotel all the way across town. At 2am we order cheese sandwiches from room service and wash them down with tall glasses of water and Anna's magical hangover remedy: seasickness pills. She's bragged about this many times but I've never tried it.
Sunday:
It works. We wake up woozy yet hangoverless. It doesn't feel right, but somehow it doesn't feel as wrong as it should. We walk around the city, try not to fall asleep in the park, purchase a Vegetarian Haggis (!) at a tourist shop, find a shirt for Anna's husband and finally give into temptation and duck back into a pub. We laze in the corner there, drooling over a bartender who looks like the gardener boy from Desperate Housewives.
One last stag group approaches and asks us to sign the groom's t-shirt. Out of energy for wit, I claim to have signed already (they are drunk and believe me) and Anna writes 'She's one lucky girl!' before slumping back into the booth to finish her pint.
There is nothing left of us by the time we get to the train station. We are girled out.
Firewalking
Posted by: lucie
This is going to sound really sarky, but I'm surprised at the number of people who, given the opportunity, wouldn't want to walk on thousand-degree hot coals and feel no pain.
People do it all the time and you never hear about anybody getting hurt, and it's not as if only zen masters try. I suspect with a bit of courage anyone could manage.
The other day I was brainstorming about thrillseeking activities to follow up the big naked romp. I walked into the kitchen at work and there was a poster for a charity firewalk. Given that I need to raise 250 pounds for my sponsored half-marathon in September, it's probably not the best idea to do any other charity gigs this year. But firewalking... I liked the sound of it.
A couple hours later I was properly fixated on the idea, trawling the internet for more information on firewalking and hunting down the company that organises charity firewalks all over the country. I asked if I could organise my own non-charity firewalk if I could get the people together and pay the fee. They said yes.
Anna and I are on the case. It's not cheap, but there only seems to be one professional company in the UK that does it, so I guess they can charge what they want. It's 1500 pounds for a minimum of 30 people, which includes a 3 hour prep session, setting up the fire, clearing it up, insurance and all that jazz.
Asking people to pay 50 pounds for the privilege of walking on hot coals is a tough sell, but you know who's going to say yes to this kind of thing before you even approach them. People either mull it over for a minute or two and say yes, or they instantly ask whether you're crazy and why on earth they would ever want to do that. Why wouldn't you want to do something like that?
I want to go first. It'll take ten times more courage to go first. I love doing things to convince myself that I'm brave. Bring it on.
Street Art in Newcastle
Posted by: lucie
Benchpeel
Mysterious Plaques
Strange Men at Night
Gateshead Architecture
Posted by: lucie
The Baltic (from the Millenium Bridge)
The Baltic is an old flour mill that has been converted into an art centre with the help of taxpayer money and European social funds. It has five floors of wide open gallery space filled with free modern art installations on at all times, an awesome giftshop filled with edgy art books, and a cafe with great chocolate cake. The Baltic hooked up the Newcastle/Gateshead Spencer Tunick shoot.
The Sage (from the inside)
The Sage is a gigantic music centre, again funded by taxpayer dollars! You can go into its 'explore music centre' and read all kinds of music magazines, listen to music, log onto the Internet and play with synths for free. They also have a few installations, like the one you can see here - those white things are salmon, I think.
The Sage (from the outside)
A lot of people say the Sage looks like a giant silver armadillo from the outside.
The New Jerusalem
Posted by: lucie
Friends, I have communed with a prophet of a prophet of the Lord, and he has said unto me that Missouri will be the new Jerusalem.
This holy interaction occurred on a GNER train from Edinburgh to Teesside. The prophet bounced onto the coach with rosy cheeks and a notepad and sat down next to a French guy and a German guy (this isn't a joke) just across the aisle from Anna and me. We eavesdropped on their conversation because Anna thought the prophet hot (beer goggles).
The French and German boys seemed to find him friendly and amusing, but he slowly turned the conversation to the Mormon version of the history of the world. I can't remember very much of it because we were very drunk. But it soon became apparent that he was bible banging. Our European friends were beginning to look pretty uncomfortable. German boy went from a forward-leaning, smiling travel companion to crossing one hand over his lap, then the other, then leaning back and crossing his legs, tying himself into a big Get Away From Me knot with a nervous 'Oh shit, he's going Jesus on me' half-smile on his face.
They needed our help and we came to the rescue (I thought the French boy was kind of hot). We leaned over and demanded to know what they were talking about. The prophet ignored us. The French boy looked relieved. The German boy looked nervous. We asked again. "Hey, what are you guys talking about?" I demanded. "Are you a Jehovah's Witness?" Anna yelled. The boy with the notepad replied that he was Mormon.
Incidentally, Mormons over here (and by that I mean Europe) are a lot more, shall we say, outgoing than at home. I mean, I knew Mormons when I was a kid/teenager and they didn't go knocking on doors trying to convert people. Over here they're just as fervent as Jehovah's Witnesses. In Eastern Europe you'd find big groups of them trying to convert people on the Charles Bridge - Americans, but they'd learn to speak fluently in Slavic tongues for the sake of ministry. But anyway.
"Can my friend have one of your cookies? She really wants one," I directed at the German boy, because she'd been eyeing them for several minutes saying "mmmm, Jammie Dodgers. He has Jammie Dodgers." Would you believe that his reaction was to pick the cookies up and move them to the far side of the table? How dare he! Have I mentioned how hot Anna is? He must have been gay, because what straight boy would deny a pretty girl a cookie?
What's worse, he then apparently decided that we drunken girls were even more obnoxious than the Mormon evangelist, because he turned back to him and said "Tell me the story again," directing at the prophet a look of such focus as to shut us completely out of his reality. French boy, in the meantime, was grinning at us as if the whole situation was the best entertainment he'd ever encountered on a train.
The storytelling continued, with German boy looking as if he may actually be converted, and French boy looking at us as if to beg for more amusement. We periodically commented and questioned (only after politely asking if we could please interject). For example, the prophet said Adam knew the earth was round. We didn't recall reading that in the bible and wanted to know if it was in the Book of Mormon. Apparently it wasn't, so it seems it was neither here nor there.
Finally the prophet began to tire of our comments. He passed judgment on our inebriated state and called us heathens. That ruled. I've never been called a heathen before but I liked it. I hope it happens again someday.
Then he called us obnoxious Americans. Anna's not American - she's from an hour South of where he lives. We pointed this out and got onto the topic of America. He wanted to know where I was from. I said the Northweast. He said Northwest was a nice place. I asked if he'd ever been there. He hadn't.
And that's when he told me. America is a good place, he said, because the new Jerusalem will be in America. In Missouri. Some prophet in Utah says so.
You heard it here first, my friends. The second coming is coming, and it's coming to Missouri. When Jesus touches back down on earth, he's headed for Missouri.
Anna asked if he regularly got on trains and preached at people. He demurred and offered his journal as evidence. I reached out for it but he wouldn't give it up. He said we could trade but I told him it wouldn't be a fair swap as mine was bound to be a lot more scandalous than his, and the good Lord might not like him reading the filth I'd written anyway. I did offer to send mine when I got home if he'd let me have his, but no deal. Probably for the best.
Anna and I got off at the next stop and left him to his converting. He was glad we were leaving, of course, because we were heathens. I do believe the French boy was sorry to see us go. I wonder if the German boy got converted. I bet he at least left with his own copy of the Book of Mormon.
Naked in Newcastle
Posted by: lucie
I've been putting off writing about this, partly because the experience was almost surreal and partly because, despite my best intentions, I was completely smashed. 50/50, maybe. But I'll attempt to recount it.
Matt and I left the hotel at about 3am. We zigged and zagged across the dark city, taking the long way around, still not entirely grasping what we were about to do. As we neared The Sage we saw hundreds of people, thousands of people, I guess, converging on the parking lot from all directions. Matt was on his mobile to Brian, who arrived before us and was already in line. Somehow, by some miracle, we picked him out of the crowd and reached the entry point together.
We exchanged 'model release forms' and photocopied ID for plastic bags in which to put our clothes, and we milled around with the other giddy souls, waiting for further instructions.
The place was absolutely buzzing, and 1700 people cover a lot of ground. Somewhere at the end of the stretch of bodies was the photographer with a megaphone, and it was all too exciting when he finally began to speak. We could only hear wobbly, echoing snippets of what he was saying, so there was a little misunderstanding straight from the jump.
'In a minute,' he said, 'I'm going to ask you to take off your clothes.' On hearing those words we tuned out and got naked. Oops. No one else did. Naked amongst the clothed masses we wondered whether it was worth redressing; after a few moments' hesitation, we covered ourselves up again. Easy enough for me as I was wearing nothing but a dress and flip flops. Slightly more involved for the boys.
If anyone had told me I'd be one of the FIRST to rip my clothes off that day, God would I have laughed. My favorite part of the whole experience, looking back, is knowing that the three of us jumped the gun.
Our practice run out of the way, finally the real order came: a resounding "Get your kit off!" The clothes flew. The crowd laughed and shouted. 1700 people got naked and then started flooding down a grass hill toward the Millenium Bridge.
I was a bit befuddled when he failed to stop us on the bridge because it's obviously one of the most significant landmarks in town, but we now know that he was saving the most iconic moment for the live tv programme in the evening. In the wee small hours of the morning we simply made our way across it and wound down along the river on the Newcastle side. This is where the first pictures were taken, after a couple of amusing attempts at a Mexican wave. We stood facing forward, serious as could be (he kept telling us not to smile), then laid on our backs three people deep on the wide sidewalk.
With the first round of photos in the bag, Matt and I darted out from the naked crowd to pop into the portable toilets that had thankfully been set up fresh just for this occasion. It felt a lot more vulnerable to be separated from the pack; being back in amongst the bodies was a relief.
Next we made our way up the winding Dean Street. There were observers on the bridges above, and hanging out of hotel rooms - cheaters! They must have felt left out. Crowded into the scenic bits of Dean Street I think we may have done the fetal position thing, or facing straight forward, or both, or both plus some. We milled around for quite a while as the photographer apologized that he hadn't quite set up the shot beforehand, shivering and stealing curious glances at other participants.
At this point the cold was really seeping into everyone's pores, and there were some grumbles about how the literature had claimed 'You will only be nude for short periods of time.' This was obviously not to be the case. We were a long long way from our clothes.
As we set off to cross the bridge back over to Gateshead side it started raining chunky plastic packets, which turned out to be transparent ponchos. These were an odd choice as it wasn't raining, they didn't afford any privacy and they weren't particularly warm, but everyone happily put them on and swished along to the echo of plastic on skin. Another pitstop several meters along offered buckets of sandals, which provided welcome relief to tender feet.
How odd it was to be asked to take it all off back once we had walked across the bridge! It seemed like a bit more trouble than it was worth. I've read elsewhere that this was down to some bureaucratic request that people not be nude the entire time, but haven't heard anything in much detail. In any case, it was bizarre.
Back on Gateshead side as we approached The Sage it seemed there were BBC videocameras everywhere, which made some participants edgy and brought out the exhibitionist in others. I was one of the former and spent a lot of time hiding behind Matt.
Then came the biggest request: "Thank you all so much! Okay, you guys don't have to do this if you don't want to, but I'm going to ask you a big favour. I want you guys to climb up to the side of the Sage. You don't have to do it if you don't want to!"
Now, being naked in public is one thing, but climbing up a hill covered in fencing whilst naked demands slightly more courage - just think of all the unflattering positions you put yourself in! But one doesn't participate in such experiences as this by halves, so there was simply nothing to it but to scale the hill as quickly as possible. A few pictures with everyone situated at all levels of the hill ensued - from the front, then from the back - and we climbed back down.
Note: if you're ever descending giant earthen steps covered in fencing and there are big steep drops, sitting at the top and sliding over the edge of each step isn't the safest way to do it. You'll get cuts on the backs of your thighs. I promise. If you are drunk and sleep deprived you may not realize this.
Finally, weary and shivering and buzzing just the same, we assembled in the parking lot. Results below.
When it was time to put our clothes on, this was almost as exciting as taking them off. People were hugging each other and saying 'We're wearing clothes! I love clothes!'
It was an amazing experience. My companions and I bounced back to the hotel most pleased with ourselves, already asking each other if we'd consider doing it again. Once was enough for me, I believe. But I'm glad I did it. It was thrilling and liberating and quite unique.
Here's a video of the whole escapade.
overload
Posted by: lucie
Hi. Oh my gosh. This weekend is CRAZY. Crazy.
Everyone is really nice. They also like to drink. A lot. This is fun. We are having big big fun.
Lots of people are planning on doing the naked photo thing, which means there is an alarming possibility that I am going to be getting naked with a group of people from this conference. I think anonymity might have been better but I'm feeling really devil-may-care at this point, so what the hell.
On the subject of boys: there are, kind of surprisingly, many fairly attractive men here. In real life I think they are probably nerdy and shy. For some reason, however, they don't feel so nerdy and shy with M women. Translation: a bit overconfident. I had this strange realization that I'm glad I'm not, like, REALLY HOT, because then life would be like this all the time. Honestly, the attention is nice, but there's such a thing as too much.
Presently I am in the internet cafe inside The Sage, an awesome music center. Outside a STEEL DRUM BAND is playing. You have not truly lived until you've heard a 25-member steel drum band play Take On Me.
Anyway, I'm glad I joined. I like these people. Tonight: dinner, dancing and then naked photo shoot.
Scott McDoomed
Posted by: lucie
I had never read a transcript of anything so ridiculous as Day One of the White House Press Corps vs. Scott McClellan rumbles on the subject of Deputy Chief of Staff Karl Rove... until the transcript of Day Two came out.
This is must-read material. It will boggle your mind that the President's Press Secretary can point blank refuse to answer a single question about Karl Rove, who everyone now knows is guilty of the federal offense of outing a CIA agent (ostensibly to punish her husband for getting off message) but still holds one of the highest offices, and one of the highest security clearances, in the country.
God bless the White House Press Corps, who are obviously sick to the teeth of rolling over. They have been transformed from a bunch of subservient wusses into a pack of rabid bulldogs.
Scott, the president said he would fire anybody involved in this leak. is that still his position?
(McClellan ducks)
Scott, did Karl Rove commit a crime?
(McClellan dodges)
Scott, do you stand by your statement from the fall of 2003 when you were asked specifically about Karl and Elliott Abrams and Scooter Libby, and you said, "I've gone to each of those gentlemen, and they have told me they are not involved in this"?
(McClellan sashays to the left)
Scott, does the President still have confidence in Mr Rove?
Scott, does the White House have a credibility problem?
Scott, Do you regret putting yourself so far out on a limb when you don't know the facts?
... and on and on. The transcripts are long but you really have to read them to believe them.
Yesterday's White House Press Briefing
Today's White house Press Briefing
Raindrops on roses & spraypaint on sheep
Posted by: lucie
Farmers in North Yorkshire color code their sheep. This is one of my absolute favorite things about the region - the cuteness of spray-painted sheep never ever fails to bring a smile to my face. I love cruising through the Yorkshire countryside when someone else is at the wheel and I can look out the window and check the different color markings. Green splotches, red splotches, red and blue dual-color splotches... They just do a quick swatch of spray paint on the sheep's booties so they'll know which belong to whom. I love that about North Yorkshire.
Yesterday I announced to the sheep that I didn't eat their friends anymore (unless they are friends with fish).
I whinge a lot about living here because it's not really my speed, but with the sun lighting up the countryside these days and lots of long walks and short jogs in the mix, a lot more of the beauty is shining through. It ain't gonna turn a city girl into a country girl, but it's refreshing.
On September 18, 50,000 people will be setting off from the starting line of The Great North Run - the world's biggest half-marathon, starting in Newcastle and ending at the seaside fair town of South Shields. I'll be one of them. I've never been a runner, nor a fitness fanatic of any kind, and presently I can only run about 3 miles without stopping for a break. The serious training only started a couple of weeks ago.
Saturday I went out for a proper run, and yesterday should have been a rest day, but I thought I'd have a nice walk instead - enjoy the countryside and maybe map out some new jogging routes.
So now I know I can at least walk a half-marathon. I didn't mean to walk 13 miles, but when you live in a rural town, once you've wandered 10 minutes you're out in the country where all roads look the same. I picked one and set off, planning on a nice, relaxed 6-8 mile trek through the countryside, thinking I'd just wander along until I hit an intersection, turn right and loop back home. Here, incidentally, are two more great things about North Yorkshire:
1) It's lovely that you can walk ten minutes and be in the countryside, strolling past horses and spray-painted sheep and goats and fields of wheat and rolling hills, which is all very countrylife idyllic, and
2) When your town is the biggest town in a five-mile radius, there are signs to it from every point within said five-mile radius. You can wander away and find a sign pointing you home at every intersection. This is exactly what a directionally challenged girl needs.
So I started walking down this country road, and it went uphill and downhill and looped aroundhill and rambled on. I kept thinking it would soon intersect with another road and reminding myself that roads do not simply wind their way across England without ever meeting other roads, so it would have to give me an opportunity to choose a new direction at some point. Six miles later, it finally did! From there it was a 2-mile hike into my ex-boyfriend's parents' village, then another five miles back home.
I now have a pronounced sportsbra tanline and a new 13-mile route I can practice every week or two, jogging a bit and walking a bit, then building up to more and more jogging until I'm a half-marathon-running machine... if I don't get hit by a car first.
Hot air balloon festival
Posted by: lucie
There was a hot air balloon festival a couple miles from my house today, so I thought what the heck. Mostly it appeared to be an excuse to haul out the fairground rides and sell a lot of junk food (including "Yankee Doodle Do'nuts"), but there were a few balloons. Mostly leftover special-made promotional balloons, such as the giant Panasonic battery and the Virgin Jumbo, which I thought looked a bit like a chicken.
Fun fact of the day: The balloon part is called the 'envelope,' and the envelope of the Panasonic battery weighs more than 900 pounds.
Here are some poor-quality photos to squint at!
England calling
Posted by: lucie
Today Dayita Kala had her name legally changed to Debra Carter. She hasn’t fully explained her reasons and I haven’t asked; the last name is a post-divorce thing, though I’m not sure her surname was ever Carter to begin with. And the first name… well, I guess she just didn’t want to be Dayita anymore.
It won’t change her skin color, which last night led to an unpleasant interaction with a carload of rowdy yobs. Windows rolled down as they drove past, they yelled, “We’re gonna kill ya! We’re gonna bomb ya!” at her and her 12-year-old son Joel. Deb is no terrorist, nor a Muslim, nor even from a Muslim country; she’s second-generation British Indian and holds prayer groups (Christian) at her house.
She sent Joel off to school today on strict orders to walk close to buildings on his way, and not on the edge of the sidewalk nearest to the road. “You just never know - people could throw things out the window,” she speculated. “People are ignorant.”
Anna and I spent Wednesday evening at Deb's house doing a last minute presentation intervention. She had an interview Thursday morning in which she would have to give a ten-minute talk supported by no more than two slides. At lunch she’d informed us that, not being a techy type, she planned to draw some kind of chart and hand out photocopies. We exchanged grave looks and made immediate plans to meet at her house that evening and sort her out.
The job was a mentoring type of position working specifically with what the Brits call “BME communities.” BME confusingly stands for Black and Minority Ethnic, all of which I think could be combined into the M, but that may just be American of me.
In the time we were at Deb's house helping her prepare a presentation about a job that required awareness of diversity and equality issues, etc, she made fun of two massive cultural groups. Early in the evening she did something ditzy and, laughing at herself, said, “I can’t believe I just did that. I must be Jewish.” (!!?!) Later she went off on a rant making fun of Chinese people, who are apparently also very stupid.
I’ve learned to keep quiet when people who grew up in cultures other than my own say things I consider to be ignorant. I cultivated this skill in Eastern Europe, where even seemingly intelligent and enlightened people would regularly drop bombs of ignorance about gypsies that could make your jaw hit the floor at warp speed. I bit my tongue and thought ‘If she doesn’t get the job, it’s going to be karma for talking this kind of ignorance.’ She didn’t get it.
So, moving on to London the next morning: ignorant people with bombs. Somehow I missed the news until 12:15. That’s 12:15pm British time. Listening to CDs in the car on the way to work, keeping too busy to remember to check the news sites as I normally would, somehow not being informed by coworkers. At 12:15 I flipped to the Guardian site, just before they announced that the explosions had, in fact, been caused by bombs.
A phone call frenzy ensued – trying to reach friends in the city with the mobile networks jammed, sending emails, checking people’s blogs until they were all accounted for; then going back for a second round to check that friends were emotionally intact, able to get home from work one way or another, able to get in touch with their families.
Round three consisted of fielding calls and emails from my friends and loved ones who still haven’t quite grasped that England isn’t synonymous with London.
It was all so eerily familiar that I found myself departing from work without a word to anyone at about 1:00, heading home to sit in front of the news for the rest of the day. No one commented when I came in this morning, which I take to mean that I must have looked sufficiently disturbed they thought it was for the best.
There’s a feeling of homelessness that bubbles up to the surface when you have friends near such a tragedy, not being able to reach them, being far away from your own closest friends and loved ones in other countries, them not being able to reach you, no one knowing if anyone is okay. It gives one an intensely lonely feeling of being a citizen of the world, and of nowhere.
Anyway, there has been much to be impressed by. London’s emergency services have dealt with the situation calmly and with dignity. The British media has been classy and humane. The English people have been… stereotypically English. Stiff upper lip and all that; far from terrorized.
The image of Tony Blair making his statement from the G8 conference is burnt into my mind - two things about it in particular. First, the impressive multiskincolored semicircle of leaders who stood behind him as he made his proclamations; this would have been a truly impressive and touching show of solidarity were it not for the blemish of George Bush on Tony's left serving as a reminder of how the incident would be twisted and used as fodder in his War On Terror.
Second, the moment Tony Blair declared that this was not an attack on one country, but on all countries, an attack on our civilized way of life. Leaders of the world's richest countries standing shoulder to shoulder and declaring themselves the civilized world, declaring that bombs on buses in their countries would not go unnoticed as they do every week in Israel and Palestine, in India and Pakistan, in Iraq and Afghanistan, in other countries in the uncivilized world. That part, not so impressive. That part was kind of chilling.
Secret naked photo communique
Posted by: lucie
So the organizers of the big naked Baltic installation sent out an email today with details of where to meet and what will happen.
It explicitly says details are to be kept amongst participants only, so I can't tell you everything... mostly for fear that some rabid Spencer Tunick groupies might find this entry and hunt me down.
I will say that it starts ridiculously early (like, it will still be dark out) and lasts for 6 hours! 6 hours of taking your clothes off, putting them back on again when asked, taking them off again when asked, and being shuffled around into naked en masse poses.
Hmm. I'll be out clubbing the night before, so this would mean showering, changing and heading down to the site. And not drinking too much, because drunk people aren't allowed.
Hmm.
A decision will have to be made on the night, I think.
a sea of nudity
Posted by: lucie
Oh. my. gosh. Spencer Tunick is going to be in Newcastle in two weeks, and he's looking for 5000 volunteers to get naked on the Newcastle/Gateshead quayside.
Getting naked in public is so not my style, but I think I might be able to overcome my hangups to participate in such a mad cultural happening.
d-i-v-o-r-c-e
Posted by: lucie
This past Wednesday I booked my ticket to Nepal and sent an official email to my boss and the HR department at my work: “Dear [manager], as discussed in our supervision meeting today I will be leaving the country in November and therefore can confirm that 28 October 2005 will be my last day of employment with [our company].’
Thursday a letter arrived from the county court saying my 'marriage' had been officially, legally dissolved on Tuesday. How’s that for synchronicity?
This whole ‘marriage’ thing is difficult to explain, but here it is in a nutshell: girl wanders to Eastern Europe, planning to move to Barcelona after a month. Girl meets boy on her birthday, a week after arriving, and falls in love. Girl signs lease on apartment in Eastern Europe, girl and boy get seriously involved, move in together, and 2+ years later decide to return to an English-speaking country to pursue ‘real careers.’
Girl says what the hell, I’ll move to England, but then realizes she won’t be allowed to work, so girl and boy get ‘married’ simply for a visa and pledge not to take it seriously, not to wear rings, not to change any names, not to invite parents to the wedding. They giggle through the 2 minute ceremony that results in their legal ‘marriage,’ promising each other that if/when they are ready to get married for real, they’ll do it properly in front of family and friends.
When I was in my late teens/early twenties, I used to have this strange feeling/thought/premonition that when I got married I would already know better. Like I would be walking down the aisle thinking ‘I know this isn’t going to work, I know this is a mistake, this isn’t the right person, now I'm stuck.' Or that I would be in the couple months leading up to my wedding thinking I should bail, but being too overwhelmed by the pressure of everyone else’s excitement to do so. For some reason I predicted my life as a character in The Hours.
The Hours, by the way, killed me, in that it was all about the dirty secret of strong women who looked like they had fantastic lives being desperately unfulfilled. I saw it in Eastern Europe with my boyfriend (later ‘husband’), and as we were going in we bumped into a couple of our friends who were just coming out of the last showing.
They looked deeply affected, and we asked what they thought of the movie. ‘I don’t know if I understand it,’ said Jiri, shaking his head and looking a bit vacant. ‘It was incredible,’ Lenka said, focusing only on me with her intense, tearful brown eyes. ‘It is the secret world of woman.’
Anyway, I feel I’ve cheated fate by getting 'married' instead of truly married. I haven't had a real marriage and a real divorce; more like a strange dress rehearsal. Being legally married, technically married, but not spiritually married or honestly committed is an interesting way to go through the motions. Main lesson learned: divorce is hard enough even when it's not real, and should be avoided at all costs by not fooling oneself into believing someone is 'The One' mostly out of a desire to settle down.
So the whole thing is finally over and I'm pleased I can get on with my life now. Yesterday Anna and her husband sent an absolutely stunning bouquet of fuschia and purple wildflowers accompanied by a card that read "Here's to the next exciting chapter, yet to be written.'
They sent me 'Congratulations on your divorce' flowers. How sweet is that?
