Sheridan’s Blog

New York – arrival.

America Airlines has a lot to answer for. Yet there is but one question: Where is the food? I can’t vouch for the general population, but if I’m to be strapped into a tin vessel hurtling through space (and time, so it seems) then I’ll need substantially more amusement than a few crap games and tv shows. I eagerly awaited the first of what I hoped would be a good 3 or so meals. How bitterly disappointed I was to be. We had only just got seated (seats were nice enough) and then they claimed they were about to bring out something termed the ‘entree meal’. Cool. Where I come from, if there’s an entree, there’s normally a bigger helping of the next course coming right up. But no siree. Just the plasticy entree meal, and that’s it. Oh, free beverages, none of which were alcoholic. But whatever. The flight was fairly uneventful – no crazy people, everyone just sitting and behaving. Even getting on the plane at Heathrow (allegedly the world’s worst airport) was a breeze. Minimal queueing. But once we got to an hour or so after this entree saga, no more food came out. Now my body was set to London time, so it was kind of getting close to the time I would normally have been seeking dinner. I harassed Tim, but he had no food to give me. I tried to distract myself with some Tetris and by watching the first series of ‘Ugly Betty’. Then, ravenous with hunger, I began to gnaw at Tim’s shoulder. He’s having it reconstructed in Thailand (it’s mega expensive to get sick in America)…
So we come towards the end of the flight (the one time I don’t want to eat due the general feeling of being in a descending plane) and they bring around a snack pack. This thing was crazy – Oreo biscuits, Pringles, some yoghurt covered monstrosity (which Tim loved, but that was probably delusional behaviour brought on from his missing left shoulder), cream cheese and 2 crackers (oh come on!) and a tiny Toblerone bar. I wanted to eat the whole lot (indeed Tim did in about 23 seconds), but I couldn’t cram it in fast enough. It was time to land or some other nonesense. And I had to go to the toilet several times on the plane. There was ALWAYS a queue! What’s the story here? No food and lengthy toilet queues. American Airlines will be receiving an Old Man letter from me.
I’m happy to announce though, that I was thrilled with both the take off and landing and that I was alive at the conclusion.

On the final day, we did much the same as the other days, except more slowly and deliberately.  It’s kind of easier to be relaxed about things when you feel satisfied with what you’ve seen thus far.  So we wandered around.  There may have been a meal at the wok place.  There may have been popping into a coffeeshop here and there.  Sometime late in the afternoon, we again walked past the rides.  This time more committment was given to the actual act of going on a ride.  It also helped that we had some euros left to eradicate prior to leaving the country.  So we got on this tame-looking contraption.  Having seen all kinds of rides being set up when I worked for the RAS/Melbourne Show, I’ve never felt really confident about getting on one.  But something in the air made me do it.  I’m pretty sure Tim wanted to go on something a bit more manly, but there was no way in hell I was having a bar of that.  I beleive some kind of wager was agreed on in terms of future ride opportunities and selections, but unless we see Tim on stage singing to a live audience in the next year or so, I’m safe.  It’s hardly keeping me awake at night anyway.  I might take this chance to say that it looked tame from the ground, but in the air it was a completely different animal.  It’s kind of hard to explain – all it did was go up high and spin around in just the one direction (forwards).  Kind of like a swing that goes around in a circle rather than back and forth.  It was incredibly lame I have to admit.  But I have never been more petrified.  I believe death may have been welcome for me at one stage there.  But fear was within me that night, and I’ve done some pretty scary stuff before (like when you forget your lines on-stage and have to ad lib.  Aaaaauuuugggghhhh.)

So the ride happened, I survived, we went home for an early night, since we felt that sleep on the bus ride home was impractical and impossible.  We were right.  I’d timed my eating for the day to complement our stops along the way.  Unfortunately the bus decided to take a different route.  Instead of the ferry to Dover, it decided to go through the tunnel under the channel.  Now, I never really thought about how this works – but I always assumed that it was a big tunnel under a road and that you get into your vehicle and drive through it.  But no.  No, no, no, no, no.  A train goes through the tunnel, with cars and buses/trucks on it.  It really is quite a bizarre sensation, sitting on a bus on a moving train underground.  Thank goodness it didn’t go for too long, because I think I was beginning to get cabin fever or something. 

What struck me most about Amsterdam is that although it’s a Dutch nation (apparently), I can’t actually recall hearing anyone speaking it (well maybe not much).  This may be because the locals don’t usually entertain themselves by going out to the tourist hotspots.  It feels like kind of cheating, since you are not forced so much into some other culture.  Which is great if you didn’t want to have to deal with communication issues.  Maybe it’s like that for most of Europe.  

I get the feeling this is all about to change on my next adventure. 

After an early night the previous evening (possibly due to long bus trip syndrome), we got up in the morning. Not sure what time, but I’m pretty sure it was still morning. Breakfast at the hostel was included in the price, and consisted of bread (untoasted), jam and butter, boiled eggs, cereal, rolls, cheese, other unidentifiable things, cold meats (??!@*&^) as well as juice, water and coffee/tea. The cold meat that early in the morning was a bit hard to stomach. Being a sympathetic vegetarian, I didn’t have any. After filling up on the foods we were game to eat, we took off down the road. We walked to the other side of the city and had a look at Anne Frank museum/building. Lucky we didn’t plan on going in since the line was massive. But it was a nice walk along the canals, etc. Then we wandered back into the main town area to look at the rides and not go on any again. It wasn’t like there were queues or anything. In fact I’m not real sure what the problem was. But we did pass by this area several times during our stay, planning to go on the ride/s.

In the evening, we took in the wonder that is the red-light district. I expected it to be a bit (actually, a lot) tacky and full of perverts and single men. But it was only partially full of these people. The rest of the people were normal-appearing. And the whole procedure was more transactional than anything else. As far as I’m concerned, if people wish to make some cash by selling their bodies, good for them. And if people are willing to pay for this, then good for them as well. And the mood was quite light and friendly. I guess I expected to feel threatened and unsafe, but I felt none of this at all. Maybe a while ago people may have felt unsafe in this region, but not me. Or maybe it was just because it was Friday night and Autumn.

After wandering around there for a while, we headed home. We stopped again at the rides. You know, just because. For dinner we had pancakes, which apparently is some kind of Dutch thing. I wanted both savoury and sweet pancakes, but unfortunately could not fit both in.  The food was good, then it was time to check out the red light district again.  We made our way into one of the famed sex shows.  Not having any idea what to expect, I had no idea what to expect (!)  Tickets were expensive (putting it mildly) and then we were escorted by the bouncer/other guy to one of the many clubs this particular company owned along the strip.  The ticket choice was either with or without drinks.  There is no cash allowed in the venues.  I guess this is for many reasons and is possibly a really good idea, since you have naked people dancing around/etc, and the last thing you need is a pack of really drunk idiots causing problems.  We got one ticket with and one without – the one with included four drinks.  So no one (unless I guess they’re already drunk when they get there or somehow manage to buy multiple tickets) should ‘technically’ be blind drunk in the venue.  We were held at the door for a good 15-20 minutes as they were only letting one in per one out.  When we did get in, we went into this quite small theatre, and the pleace was in raucous laughter.  There was a dominatrix-type woman on the stage, along with some poor creature from the audience (who I’ll bet was wishing they had never decided to come along).  We grabbed some seats in the corner (away from the threat of audience participation) and took it all in.  You can order drinks from your chair, you can smoke in there, you can pretty much just sit there and watch people have sex and do other novelty-type things with their bodies.  There was a very strict no photos policy, and some guy in front of us had his phone taken away by security for trying to take a few snaps.  The strangest thing was that it was no more erotic and arousing than sewing curtains (unless you happen to have a curtain fetish or something).  It was quite amusing and at times very funny.  It’s really not just people having sex/stripping or whatever, because that’d be pretty boring after a while.  Every performer seemed to have some kind of trick or something unusual at the end of their act.  So it was bizarre and amusing, more so than anything else.  What surprised me the most is that it was not lewd in the least.  Half of the audience was probably women, and I was impressed that the place wasn’t full of old men on their own.  The acts go one all night, and there are several repeats, so we left after an hour of so as we’d probably seen all there was to see.  And we’d drunk all our drinks.
Then we headed home.  Via the rides of course.

After an impulse bus-booking moment a few weeks ago, we ended up on a coach at 10.30pm bound for Amsterdam.  You’d think the overnight bus journey (11 hours) would be a good idea: you could get comfortable, recline the seat and sleep for most of the journey.  I thought this too, but I couldn’t have been more wrong.  After only 2 hours, we had to disembark to go through customs.  The bus was going on the ferry from Dover to Calais, and a dog came out and sniffed us, etc.  I’m a big fan of ferries in general, and it was nice to be able to extend the legs fully.  There wasn’t a lot of food/entertainment available on the boat, given that it was around midnight.  But it’s only a 90 minute crossing, and then back on the bus.  Then I fell asleep.  When I woke up, around 4.30am, we were at a roadhouse somewhere.  I think this was a stop so the driver could have a break, and we could all go to the toilet, etc.  I tried to sleep between leaving there and arriving in Amsterdam, but it was quite sporadic.  Our arrival in Amsterdam coincided with peak hour.  Despite this we arrived on time, and then walked for about an hour to our hostel.  Then we tried to find a place for breakfast.  Breakfast in a foreign country is always an interesting time.  Your stomach is hungry for what you normally eat, and you have no idea whether anything remotely recognisable will be on the menu.  Or whether the menu will be readable, which is sometimes fun also.  We came across the Small Talk cafe (or something with that combination of words); a pokey little place over 3 floors, with winding, narrow staircases and little fireplaces here and there.  It was pretty cool, and I imagine it would be a nice place to have a romantic dinner.  Anyway, we sat and ate.  Omelette and fried eggs, if I remember rightly.  Then I can’t really remember what we did next, but possibly it was wander around town and have a look at things.  Then a nap.  The hostel was pretty basic, but there was a bed and a locking door, so I guess that’s all I required at that particular moment in time.  The shower also rocked.  It was one of those en-suite bathroom things with the toilet, shower, basin, etc.  There was no shower door – it was all very gym-like.  It’s so nice, when you have long and elegant limbs (as we do) to be able to have a shower without emerging a nice shade of purple.  I didn’t hit my arms on anything. 

That night we visited a few of the bars in the area, and I discovered Heineken chilled (or some other name that means the same thing).  We also stood and stared at the rides in the middle of town (the lights are pretty).  There was some talk of going on one of the said rides, but no action took place.

We went back to the hostel fairly early, mainly in an attempt to get rested in preparation for the next few days.  Apparently Tim had a senior moment in the night, but I was so asleep that I didn’t hear a thing.  Maybe he dreamt it.  At least he didn’t break his hip.  Tim also introduced me to a place called ‘Wok to Walk’ which is, unsurprisingly, a custom-stir-fry place.  We must have gone there 3 or 4 times during our stay.  I would have been up for going again too. 

This is a tough one.  Mainly because I had to first go into the dictionary to fully understand the meaning of the word ‘culture’.  The resulting explanations left me even more confused.  I have chosen then, to concentrate on the people here and the things they tend to do in their everyday lives, and how they entertain themselves, etc.  So I will plough on…

I must say I expected London to be some kind of cultural mecca, being one of the largest cities in the world (in many ways), with a load of history, especially when compared to the youngster that is Melbourne.  And in ways it is.  I don’t profess to have seen much whilst I’ve been here, but what I have seen and experienced deems documentation anyway. 

 What to do.

There are so many Arts-related events here, many of which are world-class and/or international: Opera, Ballet, Theatre, Comedy, Museums, Galleries, Restaurants (?) and so on.  Now I haven’t been to the ballet or the opera, but they both come with a London price tag, which is the main reason for not going.  But I did get to a West End show (Chicago, coincidentally starring Tina Arena – bonus), which was great.  And there’s so many shows here – many of them long-running.  I am ashamed to say that I have never really checked, but I always assumed that there would only be one show on at a time in Melbourne (we have less venues!), so I’ve only really been to one (Phantom).  And I don’t think the desire has been there at home – I just haven’t felt compelled to go.  But now I do, since I am realising that we have been fortunate enough to see a show here, as well as some excellent live bands.  All opportunities we probably would not have had back in Australia.  I will make it my goal to be more proactive in seeking out these opportunities at home.

So that’s an expensive thing which people seem to do quite a bit here.  They also do a fair bit of drinking.  I think it’s maybe because of the weather.  I can’t elaborate.  It’s pretty good – there’s a lot of merriment and not much evil behaviour.  Civility generally rules.  Strangely enough, the pubs seem to close around midnight (clubs stay open later of course).  But the pubs shut right on down, and they’re not shy about kicking you out.  Kind of helpful in a way, since the public transport generally shuts down not long after.  Maybe it’s their way of making sure you get home (without having to fork out for a cab).

When the weather is fine, people like to take their drinking to a park.  Again, it’s all very civilised.  And during Summer, the supermarkets and food stores all like to put together these amazing picnic-type things, and people will spend a fair proportion of their salary on one of these things.  And you can barely get a spot on the grass down at the Common on a nice day.  Perhaps this kind of thing is taken for granted in Australia, when on almost every Summer day you could go out and have a picnic.  And we have heaps of grassy spots to sit on.  They’re everywhere.  We’d never run out, even if everyone decided to have a picnic on exactly the same day.  And if we did, we could just use our generously proportioned back yards.  But it seems people here know how to take full advantage when the weather is friendly.  All credit to them.  Again, on realisation of this, I have made a pact with myself to have more picnics, and to go to the beach more, as I really miss it when it’s not close by.  I already take regular walks in parks at home, as well as sometimes meeting friends in parks and playing ball.  Maybe I will go to parks that are a bit further away.

The people

People are pretty much the same as I thought they would be.  The main difference (barely perceptible) is that some of them are polite to the level of artificiality.  Maybe it’s a defence mechanism – there’s been a bit of fear going around here (possibly justified by recent events), and people might feel the need to pre-empt any potential attack, whoever the intended victim or whatever the intended target.  Or it may just be a formality.  It could just be me, but I doubt it.  I just feel that the articulation of the words is more scripted than genuine.  But I’d rather this than nothing.  I don’t want to be misinterpreted here – nearly everyone I have met has been fantastic.  I guess it’s just really busy and there are so many more people to negotiate through in even the most basic of daily movements that it becomes rehearsed to say ‘Excuse me’ or ‘sorry’.  I must admit that I do the same thing.  There’s just not a particularly relaxed vibe here, but that’s to be expected with the number of people in a small space, all trying to get on with their day.  Of course, there’s a bit of friendly rivalry re the whole ‘organised sport’ thing, and if Australia loses to England at any sport (mainly the ones with kicking and throwing balls, I believe) you hear about it all night.  But you can get your own back the next day when they’re all mega hung-over and trying to avoid loud noises and bright lights.  It’s really an excellent time to capture the moment with some flash photography…

For my next topic on the UK and it’s quirks, I wish to focus on the Public Transport system in central London.  Since I am an infrequent user of the Melbourne Public Transport network, my comments on it are not based in a any kind of reality, nor do they hold more than a sliver of substance.  But I will combat this fact by inserting a fabricated story to fill out the places where I have no real knowledge or experience. 

Public Transport is more widely used in London than in Melbourne – A discussion, with use of verbs.

Maybe it’s the sheer number of people in town; maybe it’s the coolness of climate that makes everyone want to squash together closely, or maybe it’s the sexual excitement of being touched by 17-20 people simultaneously.  Who knows?  Perhaps it’s because driving anywhere here is frightfully expensive: you need to not only pay for parking, but you also get whacked with a ‘Congestion Charge’, the purpose of which (I think) is an attempt to regulate the traffic in town, keeping it less ‘congested’, and thereby providing more space for buses and pedestrians, and preventing absolute gridlock.  Or it could be to cultivate an illusion of protecting the environment or some such fantastic notion.  So the use of public transport may be due to costs, which are by no means miniscule in comparison.  But that’s another story altogether.

Public transport in London consists of a greater network and boasts a variety of modes of transport, including (but I’m sure not limited to): overland train, underground train (tube), tram, bus, riverboat, coach, and DLR (light railway).  In addition to this, travel plans concocted on the tfl website (transport for London) include cycling options.  Sometimes branches of the system are owned by different private operators.  But in general, it all seems to work in harmony (kind of). 

The approach of the train.

The wait for a train (during weekdays anyway) is usually no longer than a few minutes.  If that.  I hark back to the last time I caught a train at home. In those days, you considered yourself lucky if you rocked up to the platform and had less than half an hour’s wait for the train.  Here, each time the tail lights of a train disappear into the bowels of the tube lines, another train is right back up there behind it.  It’s not all fun and games though.  Especially in morning peak hour/s.  Sometimes 2 or 3 trains will go by before I can even get close to the weaker passengers to knock them over and get on it.  It really is something that could keep a person awake at night.  Other times, when I’m feeling a little lighter about humanity and the general state of the world, I might be inclined to walk to a further away tube station so I don’t have to wound anyone to board my service.  I usually see squirrels on the way there, so it’s a bit of a bonus. 

So the trains are frequent here (even well into the evening), and they’d wanna be – they’re tiny.  In comparison with the Melbourne trains, anyway.  The Spanish and Italian ones look similar to the tube trains here.  So maybe it’s just a southern hemisphere thing.  Buses are also very frequent, and they go nearly everywhere.  Some of them even go on all night.  Apparently these ones are only to be used in an emergency, the general rule being that it’s cheaper to get a cab (in terms of the value you might place on your life, or your vital organs). 

So – as a summary – public transport services are generally prompter here.  And they don’t mess around with their times:  if it’s due to depart at 13.01, it WILL depart at 13.01 (learnt that one the hard way). 

The scenic route. 

Buses are generally a cheaper way of getting around, although of course they take quite a while longer.  We have discovered that taking the bus leads to a more comprehensive understanding of the geography of central London (since all you see on a tube journey is a black wall).  It’s always an education taking the bus.  I didn’t get many buses in Melbourne.  The ones I do remember boarding were always only one storey high (how depressing and very un-cosmopolitan).  Although for a while there we did have a double-decker train.  It is with a great sense of nostalgia that I recall the joy of seeing one of these special trains on my line as I headed home from uni. 

As a general rule – it is illegal to look at or touch anyone else when on a train or bus or other such public transport device.  This seems to be universal.  But come Friday or Saturday night in London, a wholly different mood descends upon the tube.  I was mighty shocked when I got on my first Saturday night train, to discover that nearly everyone had a can of beer in their hand.  An open can.  And they were drinking from it, as if standing in a bar (a pretty crap bar, I’d say).  Now – I’m not sure if this is legal or not, but no one seems to care.  I’m not opposed to it, in fact I think it’s a marvellous time and money saver.  Many pubs here close around midnight (even on the weekend), so you really do need to start early (like at home).  For the rest of the week – it’s pretty much a case of sitting/standing (or in some cases, contorting) and hoping not to suffocate before your stop.  I recall plenty of space on the Melbourne trains – mainly because nearly everyone has a car and therefore no need to use the public transport.  In fact, I guess the public transport system in Melbourne is full of mainly drunks or the underage, since they’re really the only people who need transport.  Having said that, there is nothing more enjoyable than a nice tram ride on a sunny and non-crowded day in Melbourne.  Perhaps down to St Kilda for a latte or something.  It’s quite a depressing journey going to and from work on the tube.  Although it is possible to be intimate with a handful of complete strangers without even trying.  And there’s a certain organisation and ettiquete to how it all works here, which I think is lacking in Melbourne.  On the escalators (of which there are several millions) if you want to walk up or down, you must do so on the left.  If you wish to just stand there and take in the advertising on the walls, you stand on the right.  If you mess this up, it’s practically the worst thing that could ever happen.  There are even signs to direct you exactly which way to stand.  I imagine in a few years (maybe sooner if I have anything to do with it), there might be commands to assume an Egyptian pose when descending escalators on the south-bound leg of the Northern Line, or perhaps maybe an instruction to get the hell out of the way when the train stops at a station so the people on the train can actually get off.  This is my personal recommendation for all lines.  I’m tired of decking people with my handbag – it’s damaging the bag.

 

So these are the main differences as I see them.  Too late now. 

Tomorrow – culture.

On reflection of my brief time here (which clicked over to one year just the other day), I have been thinking about the differences between Australia (well, Melbourne) and London.  There’s some pretty obvious ones, like the population being larger here, hence the difference in many things.  But today I’d like to focus on shopping, the supermarket kind.  I remember vaguely from back home, we have the majors (Safeway, Coles) and the cut-price stores (Festival, Bi-Lo, Aldi), and the smaller ones (IGA, local supermarkets) and all of that is much the same here.  But that’s pretty much where the similarities end (except that they all stock foods).  We generally shop at either Sainsbury’s (ie – Safeway) here, or sometimes Asda (Bi-Lo).  There are several key differences in the whole shopping experience when compared to the previous methods employed for this activity back at home.  Firstly:

 *Choice of supermarket.

Back home, I was living alone so I just wandered 500 metres up the road to Safeway and put a few things in a basket and then walked back home.  It wasn’t much to carry, and it was relatively inexpensive.  (In hindsight – it was a downright steal compared to here…)  Should I have been feeling a little lazy, I could have jumped into my car (which handles corners nicely) and driven to the supermarket.  I could have got a park near the door (free, for as long as I cared to park there) and then driven back home.  In London, since I have no car, I tend to pick supermarkets located close to home.  It’s not much fun carrying a sack of shopping on a packed bus on a busy Saturday morning.  And while I’m at it, it’s definitely not the greatest having to pay for said bus trip.  So, although the choice of supermarkets here may be much wider, I tend to be influenced by the amount of physical labour I’ll have to put in to get the food to my house, and then my mouth.  Plus it takes a good deal of time to wait for the stupid bus from Asda.  It is, however, really cool that there are so many shops here and that they are generally huge.  You could park a jet in most Sainsbury’s stores.  There’s plenty of room.

*Customer service.

Many a compatriot agrees with me on this one - there seems to be no industry standard for customer service here.  The checkout cashiers sit down, and nine times out of ten they don’t pack your goods (I don’t think they are employed to do that here).  It’s a struggle to sometimes get even a hello out of them.  There are exceptions of course – some people are very helpful and friendly.  But they don’t exist in the majority.  It’s just a different mentality here – I get the feeling that perhaps being greeted at the checkout is not important to people here.  It’s not a bad thing.  Quite to the contrary – I’m the type that likes to use the self-checkout facility so I don’t have to talk to or even look at anyone (plus I doubt anyone can scan as fast as me anyway – it’s just much quicker and more pleasant to do it myself).  The only slightly annoying thing about the whole process is that when it’s really busy, the staff/management don’t seem inclined to do anything about it.  The message is clear – wait or die (of starvation from no food).  And wait is what we do.  They’re renown for it here.  Everyone is so ridiculously polite that no one would ever complain either – works out perfectly. 

 

*Items stocked.

There are WAY more lines on the shelves here than at home.  And variants of appetite and eating plans are all catered for.  You don’t want to eat gluten?  Not a problem – there’s a whole range of foods devoted to only you.  You have to search quite hard (or go to a specialist store) to get some of the things you can get at your average supermarket here.  You can get most things at the one supermarket here, with the exception of corn cakes.  Maybe they’re becoming a bit Americanised here – you can only get the rice cakes, the ones covered in honey and chocolate and cheese.  They don’t seem to stock the normal, healthy-ish ones anymore.  But apart from that – you can get all kinds of stuff.  It’s quite good. 

 The only other weird thing they do here is open at 10.30 on Sundays, and then proceed to have a half hour of ‘browsing time’ before they will begin actually serving customers at 11am.  In essence, you can walk around in there for 30 minutes stocking up on things you don’t need (since you’re ravenously hungry, which is why you’re at the supermarket on Sunday morning), and then you’ll buy all of this stuff and end up spending this and next month’s rent on food.  Ingenious.

So, in summary, I like food and I’ll go to great lengths to get it. 

 

So I went to Brighton on the weekend.  I’ve gotta say – it’s really just a town with a pier.  Albeit a nice, world-famous pier.  At least it didn’t rain.  And it was good to sea the ocean after not seeing it for so long. 

Photos of the beach/etc are now on.  If you think you could take your shoes off and walk down to the water, you’d be right.  But if you think you’d be able to make it back up to your shoes, you’d be wrong.  The pebbles actually don’t look all that menacing, and you get down to the water, and you’re thinking that the coolness may relieve some of the searing pain.  But it only serves to paralyse the parts of the feet that still retain any semblace of sensation.  Which makes walking back up to your shoes less fun than drowning.  And if you think a knight in shining armour might be agreeable to the idea of bringing your shoes to you, you’d also be wrong.  Seems they were all having the day off that day.

In the icy blast of a torrential downpour the other morning whilst walking to work, it came upon me that maybe the London summer may be over.  It was only spitting when I left home and I thought I could make it, but as I got past the last tube station I could viably take to work, it began to pour and my umbrella went inside out several times.  Under normal circumstances I would find this very funny.  But I can’t say I found anything amusing about it in the slightest that particular morning.  I managed to swim through the torrent and get on a bus.  That bus took me remotely close to work. 

Over the past weekend visited Cockfosters, since it has such a funny name.  There’s a huge park out there, which we walked around in and looked at ducks, old people, etc, etc. 

I’m off to Brighton on Saturday.  By bus.  I’m saddened by the fact that I only just discovered affordable bus travel around the UK (and Europe) very recently.  Had I known it was only 37 or so pounds return to Paris, I would have actually gone there.  And now I’m sad that I didn’t.  I want to make sure everyone else is aware of this bargain so they don’t miss out on the fun.  But I’m going off to Brighton.  Not sure what’s there, but I’m thinking the ocean is nearby, so there’ll be water and probably some shops.  Plus, it keeps me off the streets of London.  I guess that’s what I miss most about home – walking through all the parks, or just heading down to the beach to watch the waves come in.  I like the waves.  I often wonder what I might be doing if I had stayed home and not come to London – I’d probably still have the same job, which would have been fantastic, and I’d still live in the same place (which was also cool).  But then I never would have been overseas, and I would probably have a better body from not consuming the crappy food and beverages here.  But there’s always 2 sides to every coin – you don’t get to go to the Colusseum in Melbourne, do you?  I’m pretty sure once I get home I will be more appreciative of the things there are to see and do in & around Melbourne.  And Australia in general.  I can’t write about this anymore as I’m too excited about going to New York.  As far as I see it, I need to get a job when I get back home so I can start earning money to do a road trip of the USA and Canada (after I’ve finished appreciating the Australian countryside, of course…)

 

Next week I’m off to Amsterdam.  Again by bus.  Should be interesting.