Did you want to know how it was? Sorry.
It was excellent.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Insert Title Here
For the second time, I've been to a movie in England. Only this time, it was Harry Potter.
That's right. And I get the book from Blackwell's in a week or so. [stuffs fist in mouth with glee]
I have been accused, at times, of being "obsessed" with "talking" in the "movies." I deny this. Categorically.
However, I will say that our theater was admirably calm, considering. With 200 tweens, many girls, in the audience, you don't exactly expect silence. But when the actual movie started (as opposed to the stupid previews and even stupider commercials), there was a chorus of loud "shhh"-ing. Excellent. I love this country.
What's not so lovable is the habit of taking real food into the theater. I always kind of wished for this in the US. At some theaters, such as the Angelica in NY, you can get pastry and sandwiches and beer for the show. People talk about this as a fantastic thing, and it is pleasurable if you're the one eating.
BUT, I learned today, if you're not eating, it can be a trial. Was it the stinky sandwich on my left, or the smell of an egg mcmuffin toward the end that offended me the most? Unsure. The only thing I'm certain of is that taking food into a darkened room where everyone is concentrating....that's not good. It's a stink-fest.
On the walk home, all sweaty from the new temperature spike (up to 72 degrees!!), we saw a very inviting pub. It said:
That's right. And I get the book from Blackwell's in a week or so. [stuffs fist in mouth with glee]
I have been accused, at times, of being "obsessed" with "talking" in the "movies." I deny this. Categorically.
However, I will say that our theater was admirably calm, considering. With 200 tweens, many girls, in the audience, you don't exactly expect silence. But when the actual movie started (as opposed to the stupid previews and even stupider commercials), there was a chorus of loud "shhh"-ing. Excellent. I love this country.
What's not so lovable is the habit of taking real food into the theater. I always kind of wished for this in the US. At some theaters, such as the Angelica in NY, you can get pastry and sandwiches and beer for the show. People talk about this as a fantastic thing, and it is pleasurable if you're the one eating.
BUT, I learned today, if you're not eating, it can be a trial. Was it the stinky sandwich on my left, or the smell of an egg mcmuffin toward the end that offended me the most? Unsure. The only thing I'm certain of is that taking food into a darkened room where everyone is concentrating....that's not good. It's a stink-fest.
On the walk home, all sweaty from the new temperature spike (up to 72 degrees!!), we saw a very inviting pub. It said:
Mmmmm....beer.
And plenty of it!
So those are my weekend plans. Oh, that and the Tower of London.
And plenty of it!
So those are my weekend plans. Oh, that and the Tower of London.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Nickel and dimed to death?
I'm not one to post links, but this article describing the horror the author experienced when he tallied the monthly and yearly subscription costs he faces for staying digitally connected in the multimedia world struck a chord with me.
Surcharge? What Surcharge?
Surcharge? What Surcharge?
Yoghurt
OK, so on the TGV trains the luggage rack above your head has a glass base. On some, it's etched, which is nice, but on others it's reflective.
When it's reflective, you can see the people in front of you as if in a mirror. You can watch them do whatever they do, and examine their bosoms and books and hand gestures and whatever.
Returning from Paris, I noticed a young woman eating lunch with her friend. Like anyone in France (at least like me), they had packed an enormous bag full of goodies. She kept dipping in and dipping in and bringing up various treats.
She ate yoghurt. And by "ate" I mean that she spooned out the obvious bits, then expertly cleaned the inside of the plastic cup with her spoon. Her moves reminded me of a plasterer, who makes it look easy even though you know it's actually nearly impossible. She had the touch. And I thought, "seriously? It's only yoghurt, honey."
But then, this morning, I realized I was doing it,too. Scraping that last tiny bit of pear and butterscotch yoghurt (Marks and Spencer, 59 pence per tub, also in Honey Heather and Ginger flavor) out and greedily consuming it.
It's not our fault. The yoghurt here (in Europe, not just England) is dirty. Absolutely unlike American yoghurt. It's definitely not a health food, in the sense that it tastes good. Also, it's full of fat and ridiculously creamy. The Kjerulf's eat a vanilla version for dessert, and no wonder.
Each and every morning I sit at the table and think, "I could have another one." And you know I'm not taking any on the darn train when I return to Paris.
Because everyone will see.
When it's reflective, you can see the people in front of you as if in a mirror. You can watch them do whatever they do, and examine their bosoms and books and hand gestures and whatever.
Returning from Paris, I noticed a young woman eating lunch with her friend. Like anyone in France (at least like me), they had packed an enormous bag full of goodies. She kept dipping in and dipping in and bringing up various treats.
She ate yoghurt. And by "ate" I mean that she spooned out the obvious bits, then expertly cleaned the inside of the plastic cup with her spoon. Her moves reminded me of a plasterer, who makes it look easy even though you know it's actually nearly impossible. She had the touch. And I thought, "seriously? It's only yoghurt, honey."
But then, this morning, I realized I was doing it,too. Scraping that last tiny bit of pear and butterscotch yoghurt (Marks and Spencer, 59 pence per tub, also in Honey Heather and Ginger flavor) out and greedily consuming it.
It's not our fault. The yoghurt here (in Europe, not just England) is dirty. Absolutely unlike American yoghurt. It's definitely not a health food, in the sense that it tastes good. Also, it's full of fat and ridiculously creamy. The Kjerulf's eat a vanilla version for dessert, and no wonder.
Each and every morning I sit at the table and think, "I could have another one." And you know I'm not taking any on the darn train when I return to Paris.
Because everyone will see.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
The vagaries of travel
As Fiona indicated, BritRail is happy to sell a rail pass that stops at the borders of Wales and Scotland. Further investigation revealed that they have another flavor of pass that gets you to Scotland and Wales as well. However, it was not entirely clear one could get it on short notice or after arrival. It is only available to foreigners as well. (For all you Americans reading this, yes, you can get them. In this context - gasp - you are among the foreigners.) in any event, the potential cost savings was real, but we did score first class tickets at the second class price for half the trip without the passes.
As far as I can tell, you can often do very well on train prices if you book far in advance. By very well I mean you can sometimes see an order of magnitude price difference between the cheapest fare - only available in limited quantities, supplies going fast - and the basic, buy it today and ride now fare. The system is maddening to say the least.
To complicate things further, just last week I saved 26 pounds on two tickets by waiting a week to book, after which time the super secret deluxe low advance fare for 8 pounds became available for one leg of my Liverpool to Oxford journey after having once been available, only to disappear overnight before I booked it. This price was down from about 21 pounds, the lowest price available after the mystery disappearance of the good fare. I actually had the temerity to ask the agent why the price disappeared overnight and after much persistence was told that it was because it was raining and that if I checked in a week I'd probably get the lower price.
I was sure he was full of shit until the lower price showed up.
So, it seems like I'll get there, but I'm no travel agent, that's for damn sure.
Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile
As far as I can tell, you can often do very well on train prices if you book far in advance. By very well I mean you can sometimes see an order of magnitude price difference between the cheapest fare - only available in limited quantities, supplies going fast - and the basic, buy it today and ride now fare. The system is maddening to say the least.
To complicate things further, just last week I saved 26 pounds on two tickets by waiting a week to book, after which time the super secret deluxe low advance fare for 8 pounds became available for one leg of my Liverpool to Oxford journey after having once been available, only to disappear overnight before I booked it. This price was down from about 21 pounds, the lowest price available after the mystery disappearance of the good fare. I actually had the temerity to ask the agent why the price disappeared overnight and after much persistence was told that it was because it was raining and that if I checked in a week I'd probably get the lower price.
I was sure he was full of shit until the lower price showed up.
So, it seems like I'll get there, but I'm no travel agent, that's for damn sure.
Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile
More France
Dominique sends two pictures of our trip to France:
This is Brian, Fiona and Charles just before walking across the Maine river toward the cathedral in Angers.
This is us in a bar after our dinner out in Angers. Note the color of our shirts. Note the slight flush caused by wine and (in Charles's case) beer. Note giddy smiles caused by three days of French food, beautiful French towns, and charming French folks.
This is Brian and Dominique, the same evening. If you look at the sign behind them, you'll see that we are in the James Joyce pub, an Irish bar in Angers. Because it's all about the Guinness, folks.
This is Brian, Fiona and Charles just before walking across the Maine river toward the cathedral in Angers.
This is us in a bar after our dinner out in Angers. Note the color of our shirts. Note the slight flush caused by wine and (in Charles's case) beer. Note giddy smiles caused by three days of French food, beautiful French towns, and charming French folks.
This is Brian and Dominique, the same evening. If you look at the sign behind them, you'll see that we are in the James Joyce pub, an Irish bar in Angers. Because it's all about the Guinness, folks.
Honestly...
So, hotels and train companies are supposed to be businesses, right? Right. And yet...they seem so unbusinesslike.
First, Charles sought train tickets for the four of us (the Hallorans plus the Frumins) to Edinburgh. After two phone calls, 45 minutes on the website and a moment of panic when it emerged that we cannot pick up the tickets here in Oxford or at either Victoria or Waterloo stations (picking up the tickets began to feel something like finding Platform 9 and 3/4. And if you don't know what that means, shame on you), and about $1000, Charles had four tickets to Edinburgh from Oxford and back to London. Whew!
Then, one intrepid member of our little band mentioned the BritRail pass. Why didn't we get one, since it's a bit less for a 4-day pass than we'd just paid? Well, the answer is: the pass only gets you to the border of England. Not into Scotland or Wales.
Are you getting this? We'd like to travel up England and into a country that's part of the UK. A reluctant and rather grumpy part, but part nonetheless. But no. BritRail says that their pass covers only travel within England, and if you want to go up to Scotland (and God only knows why you would), then that's up to you.
On to the hotel. After 30 minutes online and a variety of sighs, Charles finally said, "I can't figure out how to get to this place!" Turns out that we have reservations in a building of small apartments. The building and the check-in are not in the same place. You can make a reservation, but the confirmation doesn't tell you where the check-in is. What about the website? It shows you where the apartment is, but not the check-in. No use having an apartment without keys, dude. And the directions say "keep going on Queen street. Proceed to central office." Ok, how? Where? No idea.
Google to the rescue. The address is 6 Queen Street, which allowed us to Mapquest it. But honestly, how absurd is it to take a reservation and then provide no phone number, no address, and no directions!!?!
I begin to understand why Scotland is the nation that gave us the deep-fried Snickers bar. More than even the British (who, as you will recall, consider a cup of tea a delightful luxury because the weather is so dreary), the Scots need a little something to get them through the day.
So when they get tired of BritRail dropping tourists at the border, and when they run out of hapless Americans with reservations but no keys to their room, stalking the streets of Edinburgh complaining, they turn to fat. Deep, fried fat on top of buttery caramel and molten chocolate.
That'll fix anything.
ADDED LATER: Charles tells me that there is a BritRail pass, for the same money, that would get us to Scotland. Whatever. Or, as they say here, Wha-evah. The point is: it was hard! And confusing! Wah!!!
First, Charles sought train tickets for the four of us (the Hallorans plus the Frumins) to Edinburgh. After two phone calls, 45 minutes on the website and a moment of panic when it emerged that we cannot pick up the tickets here in Oxford or at either Victoria or Waterloo stations (picking up the tickets began to feel something like finding Platform 9 and 3/4. And if you don't know what that means, shame on you), and about $1000, Charles had four tickets to Edinburgh from Oxford and back to London. Whew!
Then, one intrepid member of our little band mentioned the BritRail pass. Why didn't we get one, since it's a bit less for a 4-day pass than we'd just paid? Well, the answer is: the pass only gets you to the border of England. Not into Scotland or Wales.
Are you getting this? We'd like to travel up England and into a country that's part of the UK. A reluctant and rather grumpy part, but part nonetheless. But no. BritRail says that their pass covers only travel within England, and if you want to go up to Scotland (and God only knows why you would), then that's up to you.
On to the hotel. After 30 minutes online and a variety of sighs, Charles finally said, "I can't figure out how to get to this place!" Turns out that we have reservations in a building of small apartments. The building and the check-in are not in the same place. You can make a reservation, but the confirmation doesn't tell you where the check-in is. What about the website? It shows you where the apartment is, but not the check-in. No use having an apartment without keys, dude. And the directions say "keep going on Queen street. Proceed to central office." Ok, how? Where? No idea.
Google to the rescue. The address is 6 Queen Street, which allowed us to Mapquest it. But honestly, how absurd is it to take a reservation and then provide no phone number, no address, and no directions!!?!
I begin to understand why Scotland is the nation that gave us the deep-fried Snickers bar. More than even the British (who, as you will recall, consider a cup of tea a delightful luxury because the weather is so dreary), the Scots need a little something to get them through the day.
So when they get tired of BritRail dropping tourists at the border, and when they run out of hapless Americans with reservations but no keys to their room, stalking the streets of Edinburgh complaining, they turn to fat. Deep, fried fat on top of buttery caramel and molten chocolate.
That'll fix anything.
ADDED LATER: Charles tells me that there is a BritRail pass, for the same money, that would get us to Scotland. Whatever. Or, as they say here, Wha-evah. The point is: it was hard! And confusing! Wah!!!
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