wendy house

I’ll be 50 in November

I’m celebrating by doing something that would have inspired me as a teenager:  Driving the original Route 66 in a convertible. Flights and car booked today. Before the internet existed, I purchased paper versions of original maps. Finally, I’ll get to use them!

Friends will be meeting me before the journey, travelling part of the journey with me, and afterwards celebrating in my old home town of Seattle.  Finding a convertible to rent in Chicago, in late October, is not an easy task. So there’s already been some hard work and I’ve compromised. No Mustang…..

EXCITED levels are vibrating towards amber

Between now and October I’m collecting potential sights and stops on a Pinterest board: http://pinterest.com/thewendyhouse/route-66/

Being wendy, I’ll be visiting train stations, Bus stations, Cemeteries and Court houses along the way.  Please suggest unusual places to visit en-route.

Recently I spent a long weekend on holiday with a friend – seeing the local sights pottering around in Thomas and on foot, eating local delicacies, and sharing a room in a thatched cottage.

I learned that I am more comfortable with silence than my friend. It felt like my friend talked almost non-stop. They didn’t, but it felt like it. As if they needed to fill every silence with words.

At first, I listened to all the words, then gradually my mind wandered away. Their words like a radio programme chattering in the background as my thoughts wandered around the fabulous autumn Devon views. My friend didn’t appear to need my listening, no input from me needed.

Normally living alone, with much silence, I found this stream of talking most strange. On the occasions when my friend was silent they were tapping away into their phone, or computer, presumably social networking. They would read, with verbal annotation and explanation, the text’s they’d received.  This total sharing is not something I’m used to. Unsolicited, it felt somehow inappropriate. I suspect it was actually some kind of generous gift of openness, non-exclusion. A sweet generous friend.

If I said something, made a statement, it would be followed by my friend’s analysis of the topic of my statement. I learned a lot about my friend. They learned about my silences and way of being,  little more.  They didn’t ask. I wonder if they felt short-changed.

This could be many places in the world. It reminds me of the pacific north west USA coastline, La Conner.

On a cold November afternoon Bideford, Devon, is beautifully calm with a sky full of colour. When I took this photograph I was in exactly the right place, nowhere else I’d rather be.

There are days when the wendy house wants to be a beach hut.

Technically speaking, as a play house, the wendy house can be any type of house.

Given this wonderful phenomena, for today, the wendy house IS a beach hut.

Pass the towel.

The Dartmoor ‘blob’ is akin to the Bermuda triangle with extra dollops of fuzzy boundaries.

In the photograph on the right we see how Florence, the SatNav, has decided that Thomas, the car, in not actually on a road and has to turn left, not on a road, in 0.4 miles. Such are the ways of the Dartmoor.

Florence is often suprised that we manage to stay on the Road when we’re out in Devon.

In  the photograph on the left we see how Florence proudly announces that Thomas is actually ‘Driving on Road’.

Excellent!

I was 19 the first time that I noticed graffiti as street art. It was a stylysed picture of a person body-pop dancing on a wall in Clifton, Bristol. Over the years graffiti as an art from has become much more prevalent and is often one of the joys of wandering round cities. Barcelona was full of it. Here are some examples from Barcelona

Many of the protective shop-fronts are bespoke painted. This makes them look attractive and prevented less creative graffiti

The little old gentleman in the appartment opposite shuffles out each morning and early evening, He smiles and waves at us, watches the bubbles we are blowing into the gap between our building. The bubbles fall towards the pedestrians below. People see them falling, spin around and laugh contagiously

In the evenings the lady in the apartment next to the old gentleman leans out, looks upward and calls to her friend 2 floors above. We see the lights in the apartment above go out then see the friends together in the apartment opposite

Another young man sits most days in a room full of books with his windows and shutters thrown wide open. Lightly dressed, often barefoot. He rarely looks away from his books. A plump, elderly lady in overalls wipes his windowsills and brushes his floors while he reads and writes. They work alone in the same apartment

We never saw the person who owned the parrot or the person who stored their bike – hanging off the balcony

At night my imagination built stories in dreams about the unseen occupants

Virgin me!

Never been on the roof of a Catholic Cathedral…until….NOW!

 Watching the mason’s cut stone, in-situ, to fit windows. Clouds of stone-dust swirling into the air. Orange roofs, the mediterranean, in the distance. Being on top of a Cathedral gives you all sorts of new perspectives and an appetite for Paella…

A little second floor apartment off la Rambla in downtown Barcelona, Carrer Unio, is full of life at all times of the day:

• deliveries to the many small shops and bars
• trucks collecting rubbish from the communal bins
• tourists renting bicycles and mopeds
• a parrot living on the balcony opposite narrating the events
• Revellers walking out or home

and,  one of the best sounds as we ate breakfast on our balcony. The chattering of schoolchildren:

wendy: Can I take this on as hand luggage, it feels a bit heavy?
airport check-in specialist (ACS): Can you lift it?

I demonstrate that I can lift it

ACS: Yep, there’s no weight restriction on  hand luggage, just size and I can see that’s the right size

Result! A 7 day vacation and all I’m carrying is hand-luggage!

Later I checked the information provided by the airline, there is a weight restriction. I preferred this ACS’s flexible, cheerful attitude towards his role.

wendy: I’d like a return rail-airbus ticket to Heathrow Terminal 3
Rail ticketing agent (RTA): Returning today?

Maybe he hasn’t noticed the suitcase I wheeled to the desk!

Wendy: No….
RTA: Tomorrow?

Does he think this case and shoulder bag add up to an overnight bag? If so, I have achieved my goal of travelling light!

Wendy: Returning 7 days from now. Can I use my network rail card for discount on that?
RTA: No, we don’t accept Network Rail cards….

I’m sold an off-peak ticket that looks exactly like a train ticket and wonder why the service provider who supplies the network rail card doesn’t allow it’s use on a Network rail service….

Another quirky Barcelonain passtime is burying cartoon characters in the Beach. Here we see a (cartoon) government official, who has been buried in the beech, still managing to let everyone know where the bins are placed:
Don’t you just admire this government official’s dedication to duty?

The Catalonians of Barcelona keep their jungle’s hidden, cunningly, across many small apartments above small winding streets. Some Catalonians are more adept at restraining their jungles. Here we see one attempting a breakout

The sound of the phone ringing gradually woke me.   Nearly 6am (Pacific coast time), only UK friends would call me at this unearthly  time in the morning.   Sleepily I reached for the phone and pulled it to my ear only to hear the dial-tone.   Who-ever called had hung-up.   I never found out who called.   Awake I decided to get up and make myself a cup of tea,   to enjoy the sunny morning before setting out for work.

In my doziness I stubbed my toe on the half-packed suitcase,  preparing for my planned sailing holiday in Greece.   Scheduled to fly out on September 16th I was looking forward to a club holiday with English friends I hadn’t seen for a long time, a reunion vacation.

I put the kettle and  TV on.   The sound of emergency services,  the stressful pitch of the voices, the urgency and drama was clear before I’d even realised what I was seeing.   I watched as flight 175 hit the South Tower.   I cried.

Nearly 3  hours later at work, not much work being done, by anyone.   Many people just didn’t turn up,   those who did were phoning relatives and friends,  trying to reassure themselves that the people they knew who worked in the World Trade centre were ok. Everyone seemed to know someone who worked in the towers or lived nearby. The general sense of anxiety mixed with silence lasted all day and soaked into the future.

All flights in the US airspace were grounded. I never joined my friends in Greece, a small loss in the whole scheme of things. My parents, in Italy, had nowhere to stay because American tourists, unable to get home, were staying in the hotel rooms  my parents had  booked

That day changed my world

Getting ready for Barcelona in October. How? Buying a light-weight rain jacket and some comfy sandals! This year I’ve been lucky enough to get an annual bonus so I’ve indulged myself with:

1. Expensive “Ladies” Linen Barbour Jacket coated with a rough finish polyurethane. Essentailly a jacket that looks wet and has an over-priced classic British brand name. Almost Burberry. Does this make me a chav?
2. Cheap black leather Sketchers‘ “tone-up” sandals. The advertising bumf supplied by the manufacturer says that a clinical study (of 8 people) showed that there is significantly more muscle activity when walking in these compared to normal sandals. That activity will make my bum firmer. Well, there’s fancy foot-technology for you! If the previous purchase hasn’t qualified me as a chav, surely this one will?

These summer purchases will compliment my Ray Bans which are itching to be put in my Tumi Barcelona carry-on bag beside my elderly Animal washkit

If I haven’t already, I’m about to crash through the cusp of chavy. That’s the equivalent of Concorde breaking the sound barrier, only for Brand purchasing

Yeah Baby!

Riding the London commuter train back to Reading I realised I’d left my house keys in the office, luckily my neighbour was home, able to let me in with her spare key. It’s been a week for scattiness. I spent about 3 hours looking for my E11, EHIC, ready for my summer vacation.

Searching was a serious process that involved:

• looking in all the pockets of 5 handbags (USA purses)
• The contents of 4 old purses (USA Wallets)
• 16 drawers, some containing drawers – I might have hidden the card in my underwear. It’s possible.
• 4 trays of important ‘stuff’ , once recent letters that have faded to the bottom of unotuched piles
• lesser-used jacket pockets

My chest of drawers is more organised now that I’ve carefully inspected, sorted, folded and replaced each item. The search threw up some surprises, the condoms with a 2008 use-by date. Thrown away. Pre-Euro continental coinage from the 1990s, re-packed for posterity. No E11 card

Once I’d run out of obvious places, I gave up. A solemn swathe of paranoia about my ability to file and find key documents, a history of losing my passport, drove me to check that the passport was where I thought it should be. It was.

Tucked inside my passport was my E11 card.

A sensible place.

Unexpected!

Bounce…

This summer, October (I have a flexible definition of summer)

I’m off to Barcelona with a blogging friend, LaCroix, from Seattle

As the excitement ramps up to amber risk level I’ve been gathering advice from people who know Barcelona. Here’s some awesome suggestions from a London friend who’s in love with a person that lives in Barcelona:

1. Day trip - Montserrat: Things to do: wander around and admire the shapes that inspired Gaudi, listen to boys’ choir, see the Saint, take the funicular to the top and check out some of the walks once at the top
2. Day trip if you’re renting a car – Cadaques and Port Lligat, book well in advance to visit Salvador Dali’s house. Drive all the way up to the most Eastern point of the Iberian peninsula (Cap de Creus) and have a coffee/beer/snack at the top enjoying the amazing views.
3. Montjuic – check out the Olympic Village during the day, pop in to Poble Espanyol, an open air museum and enjoy the distinct style of the Spanish regions. An absolute must are the ‘magic’ fountains (Thurs-Sun 2100-2330, buy some beers or cava beforehand to enjoy the show!) between the National Palace and Placa Espanya.
4. Eating at the market. Les Cuines de Santa Caterina – this is a general google search. Looks like your Lonely Planet guide should have the details. I’ve only ever eaten at the ‘bar’, not the restaurant part. Quite a trendy place, definitely a step up from the traditional tapas bars, yet located under the market roof. If you want to experience the basic market eating check and love fresh seafood out La Paradeta located in Born. Check out opening hours if you decide to go.
5. Things you should eat/drink: I am not talking your usual tortilla/paella stuff (btw sangria is widely regarded a tourist drink, try it if you wish but don’t be deceived – in my 4 years or so I maybe drank it….1 time with the locals).
   1. Cruasanes de crema (mini croissants with custard filling), at one of the bakeries around town. I get mine from Moli Vell, perfect with your afternoon ‘cortado’ – a popular afternoon coffee (cortado means coffee cut with milk).
   2. Another thing to try at the bakery is Ensaimadas. It’s a Mallorcan thing, when I first tried it I thought nothing special, but if you find good quality ones they’re divine
   3. Pintxos – Basque thing. Get a few on your plate and then pay by the number of ‘toothpicks’ left from the pintxos (also known as montaditos). The fun is in hiding a few toothpicks and paying less
   4. Pulpo a la gallega – from what I’ve seen the locals eat pulpo as if it was chicken in the UK
   5. Pebrots de padron – one of the tapas – tiny green peppers. The fun starts when you get a spicy one!!!
   6. Ensalada rusa – this is a mediterranean version of the typical Russian dish (Russians have it for every big occasion, so I was surprised to find it made its way into Spanish cuising), one of the tapas
   7. Cava
   8. Jamon – ranging from industrially fed to acorn fed pigs, make sure you’re ready to appreciate the highest jamon category
   9. Pa amb tomaquet (bread with tomato) – typical fresh Catalan bread ‘rubbed’ with tomato (sometimes garlic) and olive oil, probably the most Catalan thing you can find, they use tomato and olive oil like non-Catalans would use mayo or butter
6. Paella – OK so you should of course try paella, but make sure it’s good. Don’t go for the €10 per person type restaurants. We investigated over the weekend and for quite a central location Kaiku seemed good. Silvia’s relatives have been coming here for years (when Barceloneta was still a fishing village) and it’s got sea views and it’s close to the beach and everywhere else. There’s another restaurant close to Barceloneta bearch – Can Costa but the reviews are not as good. Apparently quality paella is freshly made, on charcoal or wood, uses fresh ingredients and good stock, for that be prepared to pay €25 and up. The cheaper ones are often re-heated from frozen. If you’re sharing a paella between two you probably won’t need starters (unless very hungry)
7. Go up Las Arenas a bull ring refurbished into a shopping mall (lots of Catalans are against bull fighting, as a. they see it as cruelty b. bulls are a symbol of Spanishness). The facade was lifted up several meters (quite incredible) and you’ll get great views of Barcelona (L’Eixample and Montjuic)
8. Spice up your Gaudi day by popping into Vincon a designy shop two steps from La Pedrera – great for window shopping experience or buying stuff for Wendy House
9. Read The Shadow of the Wind and visit some of the landmarks mentioned in the book. They even do the shadow of the wind tours. You’ll find lots of historic drinking/eating places mentioned in the book like Els Cuatre Gats (the four cats).
10. Have a drink in hotel Barcelo Raval to chilled jazz music and then go up to the roof terrace to enjoy the night views

Interestingly, barrios (neighbourhoods) like Raval and Barceloneta close to the sea tend to be the poorer ones, as they used to be fishing villages, old buildings with no lifts. The further up ‘the mountain’ you go in Barcelona, the posher. Watch your bags at all times when on the beach and in crowds of people. On the Barceloneta beach literally attach your bag to yourself as thieves can grab it and run. Take minimum cash and documents when you’re out. If you’re vigilant chances are nothing will happen, but I’ve had all my documents, cards, mobile and money stolen once

How fabulous to be given such thorough and thoughtful advice from a friend. Excitement levels have definitely reached amber!

David captures a fictionalisation of the moment when the French Emperor Napolean crowns Josephine Empress of France. It’s a BIG picture. This version hangs in a room at the end of the Versailles Hall of Mirrors.

I rather liked that a tourist in the foreground is wearing a triangular crown made from newspaper. Very versataille: read or wear as oppose to ready to wear..

The homeless slept on the streets by the monuments. Belongings stocked in supermarket trolleys. The open-top sightseeing tourist bus roll by as the rain clouds gather and the homeless sleep in the warmth of the daylight.

I saw several cardboard cities around the inner Paris suburbs, groups of homeless helping each other. Hiding from the weather, not from the public.

At pedestrian crossings the homeless sat silently on the floor holding out used paper cups containing a few coins.

Early evening In Paris, in the company of a recently married couple, leaving our hotel in search of the Tour Eiffel. Will we walk? Will we ride bus 63 then 24? Will we take the metro? Do we want to get there quickly or have a beer first?

The map with the metro and bus routes rustles she checks routes and numbers. The map never leaves her hands yet the decision making is clearly mutual. I chip in ‘Hoorah’ when having a beer is thrown into the mix then comment that I don’t mind how or when we get there.

The discussion takes minutes, it’s like an elegant dance. If alone I would already be sat in that bar drinking a beer, watching the world go by, listening to people and relaxing. In their company I am happiest to be stood on the street corner listening to the uncovering of each others values, finding out what works best for both of them,  together.  It’s sensible, practical, sometimes funny, time consuming. It’s love. I am watching love happen and glad to be temporarily touched by it’s closeness.

My understanding of a couples’ love has been changed by not having lived in it for over a decade.  I’m not speaking of the love of family, friends, my recently departed Matrix or her remaining companion. I’m speaking of the sharing and merging of selves. In my last decade there was the too-sluggish death of a rejected love, skirmishes into sexual relationships, the love of close friends and cats.  My view on the love between a couple is now mainly drawn from strong memories of my 4 very different loves from the last century, watching and listening to others, and the stories told in books, films, blogs and newspapers.

The loves that I see shining brightest is in sharing the detail of living. Things like shopping for food, preparing a meal, deciding how to spend the evening. All show love. Maybe those of you who are living in love find this odd when the passion and joy in the laughter, warmth, smiles, praise, sex, and scents can be so wonderfully intense and engulfing.  I can find laughter, warmth, smiles, praise, sex and scents in my life. When I’m with friends and family there is also the mutual knowledge of sharing the detail of life with someone who has gradually built an understanding of what works.  When the passion and the detail meet with another single person, this is the couples love. Not part of my life.

We stopped for some golden beers before taking the Metro to the Tour Eiffel. We danced through the park basking in the glory of the tower’s golden night-time plumage.

This post is dedicated to Paris, the traveler, her first love, her husband, and the memory of Matrix.

New year really started in the bathroom of a 3 star hotel 45 minutes walk from Notre Dame. Not midnight amongst the Europeans singing, hugging, kissing and drinking. A houseparty of strangers. A strange flavour of tonic water.

It wasn’t raining, but the clouds seemed to crowd right into the bathroom mixing with the steam where the taps ran water into the bath as quickly as it ran out the plug hole.  I’d tired of scrubbing. Red and wrinkled skin from hours of soaking, foaming.  Sometimes if was difficult to tell if this was real or a dream.

The effects of the spiked gin and salty tears were gradually wearing off, being replaced by a profound silence and a kind of numbness I’d never known before or since. I drank more water. Sometime I would have to leave this room, through the one door back to the bedroom. Have to look into his eyes and see all that had happened the night before reflected there. All his questions and apologies, all his needs and regrets had to be faced.  There wasn’t enough room for me to run with the water down the plug hole.  Watching the water spiral down I wished as hard as I could to either wake from this dream or slide out with the water.

Slowly, precisely and with the conviction normally reserved for reprimanding criminals I turned the taps off, rose, dried and dressed myself. Blew my nose. Drank more water.  Closed the window. Composed, upright, dry faced.  In the privacy of my mind I could hear the applause and cheering for a well excecuted restoration job.

 I walked out of the bathroom

The first time I thought about replacing the EX s770 was a couple of years ago when I noticed a lense defact placing a smudge on all of my photographs.  Since my photographs are more about the gist of the story than the perfrection of the detail, I tolerated the slight blur. 

The next blow was not so easy to absorb.

While on holiday in Turin the camera decided it would only take effective pictures if I used the zoom – a little bit – not a lot.  A sadly high proportion of my Italian holiday was spent zooming the camera then walking further away from things to get a better picture frame.  The camera joined me in July 2006. Four years of taking daily photographs, jiggling round in pockets and bags, is darn good performance. But. Aaaaarggghhhh, this could not go on.

This is a picture taken with no zoom:

This is the same scene after I’ve stepped back, zoomed the camera, and a lady has stepped into the gap between to leave a prayer:

The new camera, casio EX fs10, will not improve my photgraphic skills, it will help tell stories more effectively than the now defunked EX s770.  It also has some slow motion panning functionality that I accidentally used and is frightening geek-lovingly-cool but irrelevant to life as I know it. Sigh. 

Hoorah!

spotty dog: Nice jacket, Jack Wills?
wendy: yes, when I got back from the US I felt an overwhelming need to wear something fabulously british, this looked like a boating jacket
spotty dog: but you haven’t worn it since we arrived
wendy: its too hot in Italy, I’ll be fabulously British when we get back home

One August we stopped in the small town of Chesaw that had a Rodeo ground,  a bar, and half a dozen teenage smokers hanging around. A small town in Okanogan highlands (Okanonogan pronounced like tobogan). 

We went into the bar an ordered the only thing on the menu – a burger.  The 5 other people in the bar sat on high stools with their gaze glued to the TV screen showing a live Mariners game playing 3 hours south in Seattle.  While waiting for our burgers a small dark object like an oversized fly repeatedly bashed itself against the window pain.  I pointed this out to the barman and asked if I could open the window to let it out.  The barman took a pint glass,  placed it over the hummingbird,  slid a beer-matt underneath then took it to the open door and shook it out,  just as I have done many a time with a wasp, or spider. 

Excellent burger

I’ll always remember my first hummingbird

  A slightly dodgy habit that I picked up during my miss-spent youth mingling with ‘Transport studies’ students is a tendancy to kiss beautiful vehicles.  In the UK I once had the misfortune to freeze my lips to a Ferrari.  In Turin I burnt them on an Alfa Romeo.  Can you see the lip marks on these beauties?

The via Roma runs from the Porto Nuova train station (1861) through three gorgous city piazza’s (Castello, San Carlo, Carlo Felice) to the Palazzo Reale.  The roads facade is a classic Italian art Deco (1933) style that houses designer, expensive stores (and footlocker).  We noticed some ‘city angels’ wandering along the street.  Commmunity policing?  Free accociating with art deco, with 1933, brings thoughts of Hitlers rise to power, the German ‘brownshirts‘.  Though technically speaking the city angels are wearing red shirts. 

Suprised that my mind so easily sees echo’s of fascisim in places it has been…

Someone told the Torino police that Spottydog and I were visiting for the weekend.  The welcoming committee waited for us and followed us on the local protest against education cuts.  Excellent hospitality.

I was impressed that so few police were supplied for so many protestors. I suspect the Italians are more vocal yet less disruptive than British protestors. 

My first experience of a budget airline was very good. £57 for a return flight between Stanstead and Turin limited to 10kg of carry-on luggage, nothing in the hold.

Ian arranged for a Taxi to take me to the airport at 5.15am.  The taxi driver was a retired policeman who explained that Dunmow had the lowest rate of drinking-related disorders, it’s a quiet and orderly village, that’s why he retired there. 

Getting onto the Ryan air flight was not a bunfight, everyone lined up and found a seat in a very organised and civilised fashion.  We bought our own food, water and entertainment and the time flew by.  A good start. Finding our hotel was a little more complicated…

tonight I’m hanging out in Great Dunmow.

I’ve not seen much of it, I rolled in after 3 hours driving through places like Maidenhead, Slough, Ruislip and some cuter bits nearer Cambridgeshire.  The sun set, the roads wound.

I pulled into the Harwood Guest house Bed and Breakfast, 15mins from Stanstead airport and not on the flight path at 10.15pm  An hour and 15 minutes later than planned. Doh!  Driving the cute route was longer than the SatNav predicted.

wendy: is there a pub near here that I can get to before last orders?

Ian: where are you from gel? you’ve got loads of time

wendy: South of here, don’t they stop serving at 10.30?

Ian: there’s a pub across the road they’ll serve you till 11pm no worries.

Ian is a gem.  I’ve only talked to him for 10 minutes,  but it was enough for him to work a few embedded knots out of my shoulder muscles.  That’s a high quality Bed and Breakfast.

Across the road they serve me a pint of Doombar for £2. 

A bargain.

I fire-up my laptop to tell you guys about it.  I’m on holiday. 

How lucky is that?  Matrix is alive, how lucky is that?  The ash cloud isnt going to prevent my flight tomorrow. how lucky is that?  I’ve got a job, an income, how lucky is that?  It’s after last orders, after closing time and I’m still being served, how lucky is that?

Things may go quiet while I’m on Holiday, but they may not, Darling is travelling with me….

I still get over-excited when booking holiday flights,   all bouncy,   liable to get a bit too click-happy.   Even the airline realised this and instructed me not to go clicking around when I can’t see anything happening.  

Please be patient

a message just for me,   personal service