So time changed without my knowing it (all of the announcements were in Romania, I'd bet). This made for me being an hour later to everything all day than I thought I'd be. I left the hotel at 11ish, ate a long, leisurely lunch, went carefully down the many, many cobblestone steps from the citadel to the rest of Sighisoara spread out below, walked around down there, lumbered my way back up the steps, and arrived at the museum of medieval torture right as it was closing! I thought I'd have another hour to see it! D'oh! Maybe tomorrow...
Not seeing that museum bummed me out, but I did find out from a guy I was talking to in the town square here that the citadel overlooking Sighisoara used to be the sight of public tortures, executions, and Europe's last witch burning! So they've got that going for them! As I look down on the cobblestone street from my third-story hotel window, it is quite easy to imagine angry peasants storming by, pitchforks and torches in hand, on their way to somewhere or other to dispense some old-timey mob justice.
I'm headed out of town at 11:30 tomorrow, bound for Deva. From there, it's a short taxi ride to Huneadaora (sp.), site of a particularly well-preserved castle that is reputed to be one of Europe's most hauntd spots! Sweet! Then I'll sleep in Deva Tuesday night and head back to Bucharest on Wednesday for my flight home early Thursday morning.
So Romania has old European charm with new European prices, I've discovered. My nine nights here are going to total something like $700 or so. True, I could have cut down on this by staying in hostels more, but I like sleeping alone (I have already been fearing that the snoring sounds eminating from my chamber might alarm the peasants). So, I had to pay for both parts of a private room three nights in Brasov, and here in Sighisoara there aren't really any budget options.
The killer, though, is Bucahrest: everything was double what was listed in the Lonely Planet Romania (copyright 2006) and I'm shelling out $118 for my Wednesday night hotel room, which needs to be near the airport, since my flight out leaves at 8 a.m. Henry Coanti Internatioal Airport is 16 miles from central Bucharest, and I don't want to take any chances with the city's horrible traffic, so...that's life!
Ah, but its all fun and I wouldn't trade these opportunities for the world. Overpaying for hotels while in Romania on Spring Break is why I work hard at the school and do all those newspaper stories: prices don't really matter in the end, compared to the thrill of being somewhere.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Sunday, March 30, 2008
Sighisoara
Saturday morning I caught a train from Brasov to Sighisoara, from where I am now writing you. This, as I think I mentioned yesterday, is the first internet place I've seen in days, hence my catching up on the writing...the train ride was slow and it actually got kind of warm on the train underneath the afternoon sun. I had what would be like a general admission ticket, so I was in a double-decker train car with a bunch of people who were singing loudly, talking in an animated manner, and who, in general, smelt of beer. Were these gypsies? I think so, but I'm not sure. Perhaps the kindly Romanian person who has commented on previous posts here can help me out...
Sighisoara is another ancient town, and used to be the center of Transylvania. I'm staying in the citadel, which is an old area atop a hill in the middle of what is otherwise a big, flat valley. We're way above the surrounding town, in a walled-off mini-city, with more cobblestone streets and 15th-century buildings, and more spooky old churches.
This morning I was really feelin' it in the old knees from doing a lot of walking around the past week. What is "a lot of walking around" for me may not be "a lot of walking around" for you, but I'm carrying a lot more weight, so the prospect of climbing any stairs here (and there are lots of them) didn't seem too enticing to me when I woke up this morning.
That's one of the great parts of traveling alone, however: I felt like staying in bed until like 2 p.m., so I did. I read. I watched TV. I looked out my hotel window at the city below me. I'm on the third floor of the Hotel Sighisoara - no elevator, natch - so the view is kind of nice. A few hours of relaxing did me well, so I went out around three and started to explore. Unfortunately, most everything closes at 3:30 or 4 p.m. on Sundays, so I opted to stay another night here and will go out and attack the town (just as so many invading armies have done over the centuries) tomorrow.
Stay tuned for my next update after I get back from the Vlad the Impaler Museum (he lived here for awhile) and the Museum of Medieval Torture!
--30--
Sighisoara is another ancient town, and used to be the center of Transylvania. I'm staying in the citadel, which is an old area atop a hill in the middle of what is otherwise a big, flat valley. We're way above the surrounding town, in a walled-off mini-city, with more cobblestone streets and 15th-century buildings, and more spooky old churches. This morning I was really feelin' it in the old knees from doing a lot of walking around the past week. What is "a lot of walking around" for me may not be "a lot of walking around" for you, but I'm carrying a lot more weight, so the prospect of climbing any stairs here (and there are lots of them) didn't seem too enticing to me when I woke up this morning.
That's one of the great parts of traveling alone, however: I felt like staying in bed until like 2 p.m., so I did. I read. I watched TV. I looked out my hotel window at the city below me. I'm on the third floor of the Hotel Sighisoara - no elevator, natch - so the view is kind of nice. A few hours of relaxing did me well, so I went out around three and started to explore. Unfortunately, most everything closes at 3:30 or 4 p.m. on Sundays, so I opted to stay another night here and will go out and attack the town (just as so many invading armies have done over the centuries) tomorrow.
Stay tuned for my next update after I get back from the Vlad the Impaler Museum (he lived here for awhile) and the Museum of Medieval Torture!
--30--
Brasov
I spent a few days in Brasov and found it to be a charming little midevil (darn! I can never spell that word) town. It didn't take much of a stretch of the imagination to imagine dragons attacking peasants or vampires harassing the populace on the town square.
Speaking of town squares, the central plaza of the historic old city (Piata Sfatului) had a level of coolness I have felt in very few other places. I could have sat there and watched the people and the fluffy clouds and the colorful old-school buildings all day. Actually, I did spend most of one day doing that. I ended up staying the better part of three days in Brasov, and one of those days it was actualy warm enough to stay outside! Maybe its just the Californian in me, but I found those wind chills to be bone-chilling, even wrapped up, as I was, in my fleece sweatshirt and "Compton" beanie.
Oh, by the way, my luggage was lighter than I'd intended on this trip because (as I discovered upon leaving the airport in Bucharest) I managed to not bring a few of the sweaters I'd meant to pack. So you'll see me in most every picture from this trip (supposing I ever post any) in the same black hooded sweatshirt. It's served me well, although a scarf and gloves would have done me well...oh well...I'll do better next time.
Anyways, the Piata Sfatului was a large cobblestone area with fountains in the center, buildings surrounded it with placards on them saying that they'd surived the great fire of 1689, and a church called "Biserica Neagra," or "The Black Church" in English, which was built by the Germans between 1383 and 1385. The previously-alluded-to-fire darkened the structure to a degree that it has been known as The Black Church ever since. You want gothic? Well, this church has it: spires, concrete figures on the outside beams that seem to follow you as you walk past, cloaked Lutherans walking about, heavy wooden doors, and a spiky gate surrounding the whole thing. It was rather grand, and the wind did chill me to the bone as I stood in the shadow of the mighty structure.
On another day, I took a bus out to Bran, a city about an hour or so away, past bucolic fields rife with farmers toiling, townspeople milling about, and everything looking genrally like a commerical for some sort of healthy, wheat-intensive cereal. Or possibly a beer commercial. They have lots of beer here.
Let's take a minute to make a few more comparisons between Romania and Russia, based on my extreme level of expertise based on less than a week here. They seem similar, but not tooooooo similar. Observe:
.........................................ROMANIA......RUSSIA
beer sold everywhere in big bottles.......yes.........heck yes
lots of pastoral, rural scenery...........yes...........yes
gypsies...................................yes...........yes
gaudy showcasing of newfound wealth........no...........yes
scandalously dressed women (even moms).....no...........yes
people know how to stand in lines.........yes............no
train tickets = bureaucratic nightmare.....no.....mommy make it stop
hotels = long drawn out hassle.............no...........yes
cheap taxis...............................yes...........yes
pretty girls..............................yes.........sho 'nuff
everything in stores locked up.............no...........yes
feeling that dangers lurks everywhere.....yes...........yes
Okay, with that out of the way, let's get back to the story. I took the bus out to Bran, where it was like negative fifty degrees but sunny, and saw Castle Dracula from where the bus dropped me off. It was on a hill overlooking an area of quaint little houses, with mountains in the background and the afternoon sun casting strange shadows down from its grandeur. Inside, it wasn't nearly as groovy as I'd hoped, as there was nobody impaled on anything, nor were there any goblets of blood, or half-opened coffins. It appeared that the garlic dressing I'd ordered on my salad at lunch before leaving Brasov had been eaten in vain.
The castle was decorated in a manner befitting a queen, only appropriate as it was the offical residence of Romania's Queen Marie from 1920 until those darn Communists grabbed it in 1948. It was decorated with period furniture from the last century, not the bloody, spooky stuff I'd been hoping for.
Bussed it back to Brasov, walked around the old town after dark, which was a little spooky and a lot cold. Fortunately, the Spooky Factor is decreased by the Hollywood-style "BRASOV" sign up on the hill behind the town. It's next to a wire-lift tramway that takes visitors to the top for panoramic views and cafeteria food (per "Lonely Planet"), but which didn't seem to be operating any of the days I was in Brasov, as I never saw anything going up or down the mountain.
Speaking of town squares, the central plaza of the historic old city (Piata Sfatului) had a level of coolness I have felt in very few other places. I could have sat there and watched the people and the fluffy clouds and the colorful old-school buildings all day. Actually, I did spend most of one day doing that. I ended up staying the better part of three days in Brasov, and one of those days it was actualy warm enough to stay outside! Maybe its just the Californian in me, but I found those wind chills to be bone-chilling, even wrapped up, as I was, in my fleece sweatshirt and "Compton" beanie.
Oh, by the way, my luggage was lighter than I'd intended on this trip because (as I discovered upon leaving the airport in Bucharest) I managed to not bring a few of the sweaters I'd meant to pack. So you'll see me in most every picture from this trip (supposing I ever post any) in the same black hooded sweatshirt. It's served me well, although a scarf and gloves would have done me well...oh well...I'll do better next time.
Anyways, the Piata Sfatului was a large cobblestone area with fountains in the center, buildings surrounded it with placards on them saying that they'd surived the great fire of 1689, and a church called "Biserica Neagra," or "The Black Church" in English, which was built by the Germans between 1383 and 1385. The previously-alluded-to-fire darkened the structure to a degree that it has been known as The Black Church ever since. You want gothic? Well, this church has it: spires, concrete figures on the outside beams that seem to follow you as you walk past, cloaked Lutherans walking about, heavy wooden doors, and a spiky gate surrounding the whole thing. It was rather grand, and the wind did chill me to the bone as I stood in the shadow of the mighty structure.
On another day, I took a bus out to Bran, a city about an hour or so away, past bucolic fields rife with farmers toiling, townspeople milling about, and everything looking genrally like a commerical for some sort of healthy, wheat-intensive cereal. Or possibly a beer commercial. They have lots of beer here.
Let's take a minute to make a few more comparisons between Romania and Russia, based on my extreme level of expertise based on less than a week here. They seem similar, but not tooooooo similar. Observe:
.........................................ROMANIA......RUSSIA
beer sold everywhere in big bottles.......yes.........heck yes
lots of pastoral, rural scenery...........yes...........yes
gypsies...................................yes...........yes
gaudy showcasing of newfound wealth........no...........yes
scandalously dressed women (even moms).....no...........yes
people know how to stand in lines.........yes............no
train tickets = bureaucratic nightmare.....no.....mommy make it stop
hotels = long drawn out hassle.............no...........yes
cheap taxis...............................yes...........yes
pretty girls..............................yes.........sho 'nuff
everything in stores locked up.............no...........yes
feeling that dangers lurks everywhere.....yes...........yes
Okay, with that out of the way, let's get back to the story. I took the bus out to Bran, where it was like negative fifty degrees but sunny, and saw Castle Dracula from where the bus dropped me off. It was on a hill overlooking an area of quaint little houses, with mountains in the background and the afternoon sun casting strange shadows down from its grandeur. Inside, it wasn't nearly as groovy as I'd hoped, as there was nobody impaled on anything, nor were there any goblets of blood, or half-opened coffins. It appeared that the garlic dressing I'd ordered on my salad at lunch before leaving Brasov had been eaten in vain.
The castle was decorated in a manner befitting a queen, only appropriate as it was the offical residence of Romania's Queen Marie from 1920 until those darn Communists grabbed it in 1948. It was decorated with period furniture from the last century, not the bloody, spooky stuff I'd been hoping for.
Bussed it back to Brasov, walked around the old town after dark, which was a little spooky and a lot cold. Fortunately, the Spooky Factor is decreased by the Hollywood-style "BRASOV" sign up on the hill behind the town. It's next to a wire-lift tramway that takes visitors to the top for panoramic views and cafeteria food (per "Lonely Planet"), but which didn't seem to be operating any of the days I was in Brasov, as I never saw anything going up or down the mountain.
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Brasov Bound
Rolled out of Bucharest mid-morning Tuesday for the trip to Brasov, in the heart of Transylvania. It was a long train trip, and while we're going, I'll tell you a few things I've picked up about Romanaia in the (now) four days I've been here:
*It seems, in some ways, more communist than Russia. I think it's because in Russia last year, particularly in St. Petersburg and Moscow, there were lots of signs of opulence, like people driving BMWs, wearing Gucci, and generally living it up two decades after the end of communism. Romania doesn't seem to have the money to do that, however, so it's been two decades since Ceauscescau was driven from power (and killed! Right in Bucharest!), but the buildings in Bucharest are still drab, gray, and cube-shaped.
*The old people here look rather communist for the most part. Old men wear dress shirts with ratty old v-neck sweaters and no ties, topped off by blazers that have seen better days and tweed hats. Women wrap their heads in monochromatic kerchiefs to ward off the fierce wind and hobble down the street, boots trudging along slowly, legs wrapped in purple or brown leggings under shapeless dresses.
*The middle-aged men look like Russian mafia; the middle-aged women look like Raisa Gorbachev mixed with Cruella de Ville...many of them dressed in furs.
*There aren't many young people. This country has severe Brain Drain, meaning all of the young people who could got the hell out as soon as possible. They are still around, the gen-xers, but not too many of them...
We got out of the ugliness of Bucuresti, as it is called here (there is a strong Latin/Romance flavor to the language: I can almost understand a good deal of it since words share roots with Spanish, which surprised me). In the countryside began the "real" Romania, according to what I'd read. And the real Romania is, in a word, RURAL. More horses-and-carts on the roads than cars...small villages that look like the opening to "Borat"...farmers in the fields spreading grain by hand or tilling the rich, brown earth with oxen...very cool.
Across the plains for a bit, with the Carpathian Mountains, snow-capped, looming in the distance, growing ever closer, and then we were winding our way through passes and ever upwards. The small villages began looking more...Transylvanian...as we left the Wallachia region and entered Transylvania proper. The houses had pointed roofs with crosses at the apex on each end. Each village had a large, gargoyled church. I would have liked to have stopped and dug it all, but I knew that there wouldn't be any restaurants or toilets that would agree with me, so I stayed on the train.
The snow grew thicker. It was piled on the sides of the roads, balanced on the outstreched branches of every tree, and half a foot thick between the rails of the train track next to the one on which we were steadily making our way. It was a bright and sunny day, but there was still something awfully spooky as I peered into the Transylvanian forest. I saw many deer but nothing more sinister as we crested the summit and headed down into the Brasov valley.
I grabbed a cab outside of the station. It was late afternoon by now. The driver took me to the guesthouse I'd lined up the night before. The new part of Brasov was ugly and not very exciting, but I was staying in the old-school part, where all the cool stuff was. The rows of buildings lining the streets were all five centuries old, two or three stories, with businesses on the ground floor and residences up above. My guesthouse, up at the top of a winding street, ended up being thirty yards into a construction zone. On Wedneday afternoon when I arrived, I had to lug my baggage down six feet below street level as they were doing major repair work and had torn out all of the road and foundations on that block. I made it through the mud and puddles and knocked on the round double-door at 16 Strada Postavarului. Nobody came. No noise, nothing. I pondered what to do, then, out of the blue, the door creaked open as if by its own power. I heard footsteps approaching and braced myself. Then came out the proprietor of the guesthouse and she was: a Singaporean lady holding an infant. She greeted me in perfect English, showed me to my room, and gave me an outline of what to see in the town. I rested for a while, went out for dinner at a restaurant around the corner, and went to bed fairly early.
*It seems, in some ways, more communist than Russia. I think it's because in Russia last year, particularly in St. Petersburg and Moscow, there were lots of signs of opulence, like people driving BMWs, wearing Gucci, and generally living it up two decades after the end of communism. Romania doesn't seem to have the money to do that, however, so it's been two decades since Ceauscescau was driven from power (and killed! Right in Bucharest!), but the buildings in Bucharest are still drab, gray, and cube-shaped.
*The old people here look rather communist for the most part. Old men wear dress shirts with ratty old v-neck sweaters and no ties, topped off by blazers that have seen better days and tweed hats. Women wrap their heads in monochromatic kerchiefs to ward off the fierce wind and hobble down the street, boots trudging along slowly, legs wrapped in purple or brown leggings under shapeless dresses.
*The middle-aged men look like Russian mafia; the middle-aged women look like Raisa Gorbachev mixed with Cruella de Ville...many of them dressed in furs.
*There aren't many young people. This country has severe Brain Drain, meaning all of the young people who could got the hell out as soon as possible. They are still around, the gen-xers, but not too many of them...
We got out of the ugliness of Bucuresti, as it is called here (there is a strong Latin/Romance flavor to the language: I can almost understand a good deal of it since words share roots with Spanish, which surprised me). In the countryside began the "real" Romania, according to what I'd read. And the real Romania is, in a word, RURAL. More horses-and-carts on the roads than cars...small villages that look like the opening to "Borat"...farmers in the fields spreading grain by hand or tilling the rich, brown earth with oxen...very cool.
Across the plains for a bit, with the Carpathian Mountains, snow-capped, looming in the distance, growing ever closer, and then we were winding our way through passes and ever upwards. The small villages began looking more...Transylvanian...as we left the Wallachia region and entered Transylvania proper. The houses had pointed roofs with crosses at the apex on each end. Each village had a large, gargoyled church. I would have liked to have stopped and dug it all, but I knew that there wouldn't be any restaurants or toilets that would agree with me, so I stayed on the train.
The snow grew thicker. It was piled on the sides of the roads, balanced on the outstreched branches of every tree, and half a foot thick between the rails of the train track next to the one on which we were steadily making our way. It was a bright and sunny day, but there was still something awfully spooky as I peered into the Transylvanian forest. I saw many deer but nothing more sinister as we crested the summit and headed down into the Brasov valley.
I grabbed a cab outside of the station. It was late afternoon by now. The driver took me to the guesthouse I'd lined up the night before. The new part of Brasov was ugly and not very exciting, but I was staying in the old-school part, where all the cool stuff was. The rows of buildings lining the streets were all five centuries old, two or three stories, with businesses on the ground floor and residences up above. My guesthouse, up at the top of a winding street, ended up being thirty yards into a construction zone. On Wedneday afternoon when I arrived, I had to lug my baggage down six feet below street level as they were doing major repair work and had torn out all of the road and foundations on that block. I made it through the mud and puddles and knocked on the round double-door at 16 Strada Postavarului. Nobody came. No noise, nothing. I pondered what to do, then, out of the blue, the door creaked open as if by its own power. I heard footsteps approaching and braced myself. Then came out the proprietor of the guesthouse and she was: a Singaporean lady holding an infant. She greeted me in perfect English, showed me to my room, and gave me an outline of what to see in the town. I rested for a while, went out for dinner at a restaurant around the corner, and went to bed fairly early.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Bucharest Bound
Waking up at five a.m. is not a hobby of mine, but I was still mildly jetlagged when my alarm clock and the phone call from the front desk shattered my sleep (simultaneously) at that early hour this morning, so it wasn't that big of a deal. I had been having a dream about my grandma's house in Escondido, California, a place I hadn't thought of in years, but which had entered my mind the night before as I lay asleep because the sheets and comforter had the great, fresh linen smell of her old house.
Ten minutes passed before I was forced to jump into the cold shower. I had waited and waited, hoping the water would get hot, or even lukewarm, but it was not to be. I even turned the knob to facing the other direction, a trick I picked up last year in Moscow, but it was to no avail. So a cold shower it was, then stumbling sleepy-eyed down to the lobby to wait for the van to pick me up for Heathrow at 5:30. My flight was at 9:30 and I wanted to make sure to be there three hours early.
That all worked out well, but it was all for naught, as we were delayed on the tarmac for like two hours for some reason. This was after I'd had to run my arse off to get to the plane. For a reason that I believe might be terrorist-related, UK airports don't announce gate assignments until 20 to 30 minutes before boarding. As my far-flung gate was a brisk 20 minute walk from the departures area (where I spent $11 on two bottles of water, a banana, and a pack of gum), I was at my sweaty best by the time I lumbered to the gate.
Flight uneventful. Bummer in Bucharest airport, though: no hotel people in the arrivals lobby. Most every other airport I've been to has had rows of people in the lobby trying to get you to come to their hotel as you head out towards the parking lot. All OTP had was annoying taxi drivers.
One of those annoying taxi drivers drove me the 16 kilometers to central Bucharest and called a couple of places for me from out of my Lonely Planet Romania book. So I'm holed up at the Hotel Something Or Other a few blocks away from Gara Nord train station, from where I shall depart tomorrow for Brasov and Transylvania.
I'd planned on getting out and seeing some Bucharest tonight, maybe a nice dinner and Dracula show, but instead I fell asleep after finally getting to my hotel room. So I just wandered around the area for a bit, nothing too exciting, before settling on a coffee shop for some victuals. They had three different dishes featuring pig brains (breaded, broiled, or deep fried) and a large selection of organ-based delicacies, which I passed on in favor of chicken kiev (since Ukraine is the next country over from here). It's 11 p.m. now, and I'm tired out, so I shall end this journal hereabouts and continue next time with whatever I see in Romania on tomorrow's train ride to Transylvania...
whoo haa haa haa haa haaaaaaa.
Ten minutes passed before I was forced to jump into the cold shower. I had waited and waited, hoping the water would get hot, or even lukewarm, but it was not to be. I even turned the knob to facing the other direction, a trick I picked up last year in Moscow, but it was to no avail. So a cold shower it was, then stumbling sleepy-eyed down to the lobby to wait for the van to pick me up for Heathrow at 5:30. My flight was at 9:30 and I wanted to make sure to be there three hours early.
That all worked out well, but it was all for naught, as we were delayed on the tarmac for like two hours for some reason. This was after I'd had to run my arse off to get to the plane. For a reason that I believe might be terrorist-related, UK airports don't announce gate assignments until 20 to 30 minutes before boarding. As my far-flung gate was a brisk 20 minute walk from the departures area (where I spent $11 on two bottles of water, a banana, and a pack of gum), I was at my sweaty best by the time I lumbered to the gate.
Flight uneventful. Bummer in Bucharest airport, though: no hotel people in the arrivals lobby. Most every other airport I've been to has had rows of people in the lobby trying to get you to come to their hotel as you head out towards the parking lot. All OTP had was annoying taxi drivers.
One of those annoying taxi drivers drove me the 16 kilometers to central Bucharest and called a couple of places for me from out of my Lonely Planet Romania book. So I'm holed up at the Hotel Something Or Other a few blocks away from Gara Nord train station, from where I shall depart tomorrow for Brasov and Transylvania.
I'd planned on getting out and seeing some Bucharest tonight, maybe a nice dinner and Dracula show, but instead I fell asleep after finally getting to my hotel room. So I just wandered around the area for a bit, nothing too exciting, before settling on a coffee shop for some victuals. They had three different dishes featuring pig brains (breaded, broiled, or deep fried) and a large selection of organ-based delicacies, which I passed on in favor of chicken kiev (since Ukraine is the next country over from here). It's 11 p.m. now, and I'm tired out, so I shall end this journal hereabouts and continue next time with whatever I see in Romania on tomorrow's train ride to Transylvania...
whoo haa haa haa haa haaaaaaa.
Monday, March 24, 2008
London Calling
I stifled the urge to yell "You're going the wrong way!" as the British Airways 747 took off from LAX -- over the Pacific Ocean. We quickly corrected course, however, swooping up and to the left, rejoining the continental US somewhere north of Malibu, angling up towards Fresno, and then across Nevada, Idaho, Canada, Greenland, and Iceland before landing at London Heathrow ten hours later.
I slept a good chunk of the way, so I've actually been bright-eyed and bushy-tailed here in London today - we landed at 10 a.m. and I had taken the Heathrow Express to Paddington Station and found my previously-booked hotel by noon. After stretching out on the bed for just a few minutes, I was back up and on my way.
The plan had been to go to Abbey Road to see (the outside of) where the Beatles recorded all their albums and then to Saville Row to see where they gave their impromptu final "concert" nearly 40 years ago, then on to the British Museum to see the treasures that have been plundered from throughout the world, but I did none of these things.
It was cold - with flurries of snow biting down on my cheeks as I walked around the Paddington area of London. I decided to take refuge in a tour bus and spent the afternoon touring the town from the top deck of a double-decker bus that runs a continuous circuit past all of redbrick London's greatest hits: Big Ben, Westminster Abbey, the London Eye, Kensington Gardens, Scotland Yard, London Bridge, and so on and so forth. From my frosty perch atop the bus (it was open-air, which would have been nice had it been more than 35 degrees outside), I enjoyed the sights - and took lots of pictures and video. I think I was most impressed, even though I am not really a theater buff at all, in the West End, because all of the playhouses and theaters looked like cool little models as we drove through the area's streets.
The only place I got off (you could get on and off the busses, which ran every few minutes, as often as you want, at any of 70 stops) was at Picadally Square, London's central shopping area. It's where Trafalgar Square and the Burberry store are. The
rooftop from where the Beatles gave their last concert was there, too...I don't know if it was the right one or not, but I took pictures of a rooftop that *looked* like the right one, a rooftop that was being photographed by plenty of other people. It could have been it, or they could have all just been architecture buffs. Who knows?
It's nearly dark now, and I just got done eating dinner. I was going to take a taxi over to Abbey Road to grab a picture on the famous crosswalk, but I actually opted not to because of a) the encroaching darkness, and b) the Hoth-like cold, which became noticeably more intense after the sun went down. Oh, there's a part C, too: the money factor. I could have taken a subway to near Abbey Road Studios, but it still would have been a trudge through the cold, so I was going to take a taxi, but the waitress at the coffee shop where I ate bangers and mash for dinner guessed it would be at least ten pounds each way, and I've already been hemmorhaging money all day, so I decided not to go after all.
That'll give me something to see next time I come to London, and I will, because there are a million cool things to see here. This city seems to me to be second only to NYC in terms of attractions and whatnot. Provided that I save up some major bucks, I'd love to spend three or four days here one of these years. Considering the prices, I'll need to start saving now...
Heathrow Connect Ticket.............7 pounds (15 dollars)
very small hotel room..............65 pounds (140 dollars)
very cold bus tour.................22 pounds (45 dollars)
dinner at coffee shop-type place...17 pounds (35 dollars)
Up at 5 a.m. tomorrow in order to get out to Heathrow nice and early for my 9:30 a.m. flight to Bucharest, Romania, from whereabouts this journal shall continue at some point...
Ben
I slept a good chunk of the way, so I've actually been bright-eyed and bushy-tailed here in London today - we landed at 10 a.m. and I had taken the Heathrow Express to Paddington Station and found my previously-booked hotel by noon. After stretching out on the bed for just a few minutes, I was back up and on my way.
The plan had been to go to Abbey Road to see (the outside of) where the Beatles recorded all their albums and then to Saville Row to see where they gave their impromptu final "concert" nearly 40 years ago, then on to the British Museum to see the treasures that have been plundered from throughout the world, but I did none of these things.
It was cold - with flurries of snow biting down on my cheeks as I walked around the Paddington area of London. I decided to take refuge in a tour bus and spent the afternoon touring the town from the top deck of a double-decker bus that runs a continuous circuit past all of redbrick London's greatest hits: Big Ben, Westminster Abbey, the London Eye, Kensington Gardens, Scotland Yard, London Bridge, and so on and so forth. From my frosty perch atop the bus (it was open-air, which would have been nice had it been more than 35 degrees outside), I enjoyed the sights - and took lots of pictures and video. I think I was most impressed, even though I am not really a theater buff at all, in the West End, because all of the playhouses and theaters looked like cool little models as we drove through the area's streets.
The only place I got off (you could get on and off the busses, which ran every few minutes, as often as you want, at any of 70 stops) was at Picadally Square, London's central shopping area. It's where Trafalgar Square and the Burberry store are. The
rooftop from where the Beatles gave their last concert was there, too...I don't know if it was the right one or not, but I took pictures of a rooftop that *looked* like the right one, a rooftop that was being photographed by plenty of other people. It could have been it, or they could have all just been architecture buffs. Who knows? It's nearly dark now, and I just got done eating dinner. I was going to take a taxi over to Abbey Road to grab a picture on the famous crosswalk, but I actually opted not to because of a) the encroaching darkness, and b) the Hoth-like cold, which became noticeably more intense after the sun went down. Oh, there's a part C, too: the money factor. I could have taken a subway to near Abbey Road Studios, but it still would have been a trudge through the cold, so I was going to take a taxi, but the waitress at the coffee shop where I ate bangers and mash for dinner guessed it would be at least ten pounds each way, and I've already been hemmorhaging money all day, so I decided not to go after all.
That'll give me something to see next time I come to London, and I will, because there are a million cool things to see here. This city seems to me to be second only to NYC in terms of attractions and whatnot. Provided that I save up some major bucks, I'd love to spend three or four days here one of these years. Considering the prices, I'll need to start saving now...
Heathrow Connect Ticket.............7 pounds (15 dollars)
very small hotel room..............65 pounds (140 dollars)
very cold bus tour.................22 pounds (45 dollars)
dinner at coffee shop-type place...17 pounds (35 dollars)
Up at 5 a.m. tomorrow in order to get out to Heathrow nice and early for my 9:30 a.m. flight to Bucharest, Romania, from whereabouts this journal shall continue at some point...
Ben
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Romania! Romania? Yes, Romania!
Transylvania. March 23rd-April 3rd. A few days in London at the start. More to come later.
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