London Calling

Quote: Ex-English cricketer in a spot interview, on being asked for his views on assisted suicide: “I think people should do their own thing.”

So I’ve been living it up the English way for a month and a half or so, but have lots of traveling in the pipeline, so I thought it might be a nice time to jot down a story and a few thoughts on London.

View from my balcony as Winter steals in

 First of all, I’ve finished up my brief spell of working, which has been quite nice. I had to finish due to all this travel I have planned. (I’m off to Paris for a week on the 16th and then I’m spending some time on the ski slopes with Gab, Nic and co. in the French Alps for Christmas.) Also, I’d earned about as much as I wanted to (enough to make the trip possible) and I was damned if I was going to let my travel job get in the way of my traveling. (Most significantly, the Ashes began, with play starting daily at midnight.)

In addition to all this, I didn’t like the blokes running the shop. I got on very well with everyone I was actually working with in a day to day sense, as well as the actual customers (“Really? Well, you speak excellent English for an Australian”), but with the upper management, so to speak, there were some issues. First of all, I didn’t like them paying next to nothing and then treating their workers as if it was a privilege to be working there. I was told when I arrived that I’d be paid six pounds an hour initially, which would go up if I made it past a ‘trial period’ (of indeterminate length). However, on my first day, it became apparent that this was not the case. The three guys that had been working the longest - at least two years apiece - were all earning the same minimum wage, despite two of them now playing managerial roles. Not a good start.

Secondly, there was a petty, passive aggressive stance taken by these upper managers. Criticisms would not come directly from them, unless they were the sort of wishy-washy things that there is no reasonable response to. I remember one occasion when I had asked the owner, who had just entered the shop, if there was anything in the van to be brought in. He responded that I should show some initiative. Not being sure whether that answer was in the positive or not, I asked again, “so, does that mean there is something in the van?”

A message was passed on (via several links) to me the next day that I should show more respect.

Fundamentally, there was a clash of philosophies (and egos). The workplaces where I’ve done best in are the ones that take as starting points that everyone is equal, albeit within a hierarchy, and that the guiding principle is that there is a job of work to be done and everyone will get in and do it (together). I am unaccustomed to (and apparently unwilling to acclimatise to) workplaces where there is a class system and one player can criticise without being criticised.

I could go on, but you get the point. I made a series of arrogant gaffes, some intentional and some simply stupid (said unthinkingly to the manager upon a sudden, humorous realisation, “you know, on hour, I’m earning less than a quarter of what I was in my last job?”) all of which resulted in my services no longer being required.

Not that I intended to be still working by now, but it’s like the break-up game; I would have preferred to have got in first and done it on my terms.

Oh well. I regret nothing. And the beef bourgignon, followed by pears poached in red-wine, that Mark and I had for dinner tonight was delicious.

London: watchful

More importantly, London: I love it and I intend to live and work here properly (as a professional) at some point. There’s a great energy here that’s complex and understated. I said a few months ago that Berlin promotes itself. Well London doesn’t and it never has. No-one says how great London is the way they do Paris, Barcelona, New York, etc. They say the weather’s rubbish and people hate each other (which is true).

The reason for this is that London has never had to. For a huge period of time, London was the centre of world power. It was both unassailable as an Empire and isolated geographically. A famous English headline once read ‘FOG IN CHANNEL  - CONTINENT CUT OFF’, which says a lot. It also speaks a lot about the English Dream - to be resplendently aloof (read isolated and unassailable) as a person, which is a dream I’m pretty taken in by, even if I see the pitfalls.

My teeth were always sensitive to the cold

The second wonderful thing about being here, which I don’t think you can quite get anywhere but London, is connecting to the language. It’s one of the things I like most about my heritage and, in my opinion (and also, I’ll admit, Jeremy Paxman’s), the great gift of England to the world. This country, historically at least, doesn’t boast many visual artists or great composers, but from Shakespeare to Gervais, it does boast wordsmiths. Language is so crucial. It’s how we define ourselves and explain, like, instantly which community we belong to and where we fit in that community. That's true everywhere, of course, but in London, this tapestry of accents, intonations and syntactical showmanship is alive and wriggling.

Oh, and I have a football team. Turns out I support Tottenham.

I think I’ll come back after the wedding in India, and I might even come back after the wedding in April. When it will be warmer.

Best to all,

Michael

Bum Trip II (Guest Post)

(Or 'The Revenge of the Short, Fat, Balding Ticket Inspector')

Ah Paris. Beautiful Paris. Nothing wrong with Paris. Not at all. Except the metro. It's a bit seedy and untimely. And maybe the catacombs. They're a bit unusual. But oh, what a beautiful place. History and sandstone mixed inspiringly into one. Not an eyesore in sight.

Wake up on time - bags packed. What better way to spend one's last day in Paris than by exploiting one's EU passport - allowing us to see the Rodin Museum (and therefore the auspicious Thinker statue) for free? We get bowls for breakfast, rather than needing to use glass cups.  We're even out by 10 - the earliest this week!

It is generally known that clouds with a puffy, white and relatively horizontal in its disposition are normal clouds. It is also generally know that clouds with a darker base are pre-empting a storm. The taller and darker the clouds - the worse the storm will be. The first sight of the dark clouds on any trip are normally ignored with a wave of the hand - "They'll pass over."

The metro required 3 changes with a heavy backpack and requiring an hour in duration. Half of our last morning in Paris - gone! And to what? Seedy individuals, metro stop signs and Assassins Creed
3 adverts. But hey, at least the city is beautiful, right?

The winds pick up - all of a sudden things seem a little on edge. The champagne and cheese slinks away into the basket.

"The Rodin museum is closed!?!?"

Correspondents in the field

The museums of Paris (except the Louvre) close on Mondays - rendering my passport useless. A man drops a box of wine - smashing it onto the floor, wine gushing into the gutter like water during a downpour. It’s the single moment that one realises the storm will probably not pass over - the awkward realisation that the wind has changed direction, and the clouds have somewhat materialised to pin you in the middle. But you think its still recoverable - the day's still young. But you still start packing away most of the things in preparation for a quick dash to the car.

It's okay - we still have some post to do. There's even a post office down the road. We write down what is needed - 'Can I please send this package- normal post - to England?. Thankyou very much! :)' I mean it has worked previously - days before at the train ticket office, the TGV train ticket for today - the 15th - is reserved with relative ease. The woman smiled at the smiley face and asked for the unusually high 25 euro reservation fee.

'No,' she says, 'it's an international ticket you see.'  Fair enough, that makes sense I suppose.

'It must go regular post - just put it on the weigher over here.... That will be 10 euros," the man from the post office says.

The money jingles as the other ten euros are given as loose change. A pain - but no matter, it can go in the coin purse. 'Now just go to a newsagents, and you will get an envelope...then it will send'. That's another thing that is wrong with Paris. They don't have envelopes in post offices. Paradoxical and absurdist one must admit - but nonetheless, we still have time.

We head over to Champs-Elysees. The Arc de Triomphe, the centre of the cityscape beats like a heart - enthusiastic tourists spread around the city to lose their audacity at the Louvre and return days later to repeat the process. We decide -being THE major street- that the Lapost will surely have envelopes.

"No," the man with the awkward green shoes says, "go to Monoprix - down there."

He points directly downwards, to his feet

"No. Get a box." 

Another problem with Paris - the people seemingly don't understand the concept of pointing to indicate direction - pointing merely gives cryptic messages left for the tourist to decipher. But hey, at least the city is beautiful, right?

We decide to split - I'll walk up, Gab'll walk down. Endless walking. No dice. Walk back.

"Oh, it's just across the road," she says.

We walk in - we search for what seems like hours. I approach the counter - the manager, in cheap suit and tie is there. He must know - right?

"No... Not here. Go to the post office."

"They just  sent me here"

"No."

We continue our search - at last, success! Well sized, brown envelopes. We walk back to the post-office. Well, its taken nearly an hour all up, but it will be done. Packaged, addressed, stamped. I re-approach the man with the awkward green shoes.

"No."

"Why not?!?"

"It's too thin... I can't send it"

"I have a whole packet - I'll put it into 5 envelopes"

"No. There's another post office just left of monoprix. Go there".

That's another problem with Paris. The people in public positions are very unhelpful.  But hey, at least he didn't point this time. We walk speedily there - our train is for the 15th at 3:25. We walk in - "Its fine. Just put this onto it." She takes the sticker from my hand and puts it onto the parcel and off it goes.  So the package is off to the UK. We've wasted our last morning, but hey, nothing's perfect, right?

We get back to the hostel and head to the train station. A beggar, who's knees are facing the wrong direction, 'stands' like a dog, knees protruding behind him, palms on the floor,  barking for spare change. We've made the train in good time - even managing to get rid of some of the ridiculous amount of change to get a coffee. That's another problem with Paris - having coffee is like doing a shot of vodka. It's all in espressos. But hey - at least you’re doing coffee shots in a ridiculously beautiful building, right?

Storm. n. A disturbance of the normal condition of the atmosphere, manifesting itself by winds of unusual force or direction, often accompanied by rain, snow, hail, thunder, and lightning, or flying sand or dust.

Nic considers the arse-end of travel

The sun cannot find its way through the clouds. It’s dark, extremely windy. The rain lashes through your jacket, soaking you. You left your escape too late. The car was twice the guessed distance, and it now looks like someone's thrown you into a pool fully clothed.

Train to Brussels Midi. Number 4664. Platform 8 - making it with 20 minutes to spare. The man directs us to our seats - carriage six. They are extremely comfortable. Its almost unfortunate that it's only an hour trip.

"Tickets please".

The ticket collector is fat and balding. But hey, no one's perfect right? In any case, nothing could possibly go wrong. We've just written the 15th into the pass - having learnt a wise lesson from Bum Trip Part I.

"Its the wrong date. It says the 12th"

The collector grabs the passes, placing them into his briefcase. Bile rises. Anger hits its peak. Naturally, one begins to argue. He's unwilling to listen. Every last detail on the ticket is identical - the time, the train number, destination. All except the date - the 12th. We show him the message, protesting how we wrote the 15th - it couldn't possibly be our fault.

"No."

That's another problem with the french. They all speak the same. "No" ..."No" ..."No" ...There's no extension to the 'o' sound. It’s cut short. Uncaring. Lifeless.

" How much?"

" 98 euros. Each."

"We don’t have that money"

"Pay by credit card."

"We've paid 25 euros to book the ticket. This is ridiculous."

"No." 

We have but no other option. We pay the 100 euros each - virtually all the money that we've accumulated by staying under budget throughout Paris. Gone. Instantaneously. Apparently we're accountable for checking the tickets - even though it says in clear writing '15th' on the paper we wrote the booking for. Suddenly the smiley face with 'Merci beaucoup!' is a lot less joyful.

There's an old saying. "When it rains, it pours."

And don't you forget it.


Nic Cholerton
Paris, France
November 15, 2010

Letter from America (Guest Post)

Well, friends and family, the world may not be the oyster it once was, but I can still taste the tabasco …..and where better to do so than the US of A.

It was a two week stint OS, the prospects of which had been looming over the preceding months. I was concerned about my ability to not only get through the performance physically, but to switch from stay-at-home mum to the impassioned performer, battling with the stage's bastardised reckoning of man and God. No measly topic.

Adding to the mayhem, the weekend before we left, Ben and I suddenly decided to move house, so, amidst a sprall of boxes and without the familiar reference of home, Monty had his first week away from his Mum. He and his Nana permitted each other's company for the week, but he wouldn't accept expressed milk. However, he quite happily starved until I returned home in the evening.

I, on the other hand, felt free as a bird walking into that dance studio. I'd had a year off, and was ceremonially greeted with a cheer by my fellow dancers. Embarrassed, my breasts immediately started leaking everywhere. The homo-sexual men (who made up all but two of us) were horrified.

So, on the Monday we headed off. The flight ahead was 27 hours: Melbourne to Sydney, Sydney to LA, (get through customs), LA to Chicago, Chicago to Albany. I couldn’t believe I was going to attempt this with a five-month old. We worked pretty solidly at keeping him happy and, thankfully, Monty made it without trauma. Co-passengers congratulated us as they streamed past.

Troy, where we were performing, is straight out of a Martin Scorsese film. Quite literally. Though so well preserved from the 1950s, it’s now pretty much only a relic of a town. All except for its Rensselear University where they have the most wiz bang theatre in all of America (currently), where we were to perform.


After a day’s rest, my first call was a rehearsal/group swim in the university pool, after which we snuck into the gymnasium (classic, with running track) and while students shot hoops as our back drop, we danced the luscious ballet of the greek gods. Monty watched on.

Day 2 Ben had the stage looking special, and we were ready to start getting the show together.

Monty spent the theatre remount backstage with his babysitter, Rosabell. So in love they were, we had to pay her to give him back. Then still, she gave him a few of her own children’s toys. They squark in Spanish. I'd peep my head in to see him on the way past, wearing my various costumes. Then for the performances he and Ben watched from a special quiet box. 




It's an interesting experience performing this particular show in America. A great portion of the work is an ode to the Jones Town Massacre, but its aspect on cult in general has for me an American twang. As I perform it I feel a sadness, or rather a mellow unity with the spirituality of these people. I must say, Americans do tend to 'get' the work. At any rate, it's funny performing in our put-on American accents, to Americans.

I think we did well. It had been hard for us to re-find the work, but I think we were in charge of it, rather than it running ahead out of our reach as it had felt during rehearsals. The choreographer was gushing about my performances, so I felt my job done. The morning after closing night, I slept a good long way on the train down the Hudson River to New York City, knowing the task no longer loomed ahead – and confident that I hadn't lost it after all.

We spent five nights in NYC, in a privately rented apartment in the East Villiage, Manhattan. Ben's brother, Adam, flew up from South America to spend the holiday with us. He met Monty for the first time and they found themselves instantly compatible. 

Ben hadn't been to New York City before, so we spent the days ticking off the lists of must-sees. I'd say the highlights were the Gugenheim, the matzo ball soup from Katz Deli, a walk through the real Brooklyn (not white-artsy Brooklyn), watching a class of Jewish Orthodox kindergarteners (be-decked with budding side curls and all) with their Rabbi on their excursion to the Statue of Liberty, and, well, just that completely characterised enthusiastic and impatient, ever churning energy that is New York City.

It was definitely time to come home when it was, though, and the return flight extravaganza was the last test before life resumed its at-home normalcy. I held Monty at my breast for the whole 30-odd hours and my arms got really sore - but it was worth it. I'm sure Monty thought so too.

I hope you've enjoyed my rendition! It's been hard to catch seconds alone to write, but nice to pretend I'm still on the road with you bloggers.

Great travels to all, and don't go having babies!!!!!!

 

Clair Cisterne
12 October, 2010

Frankfurt

Went to Frankfurt today. (Just normal, but I thought I’d mention it.) I had to pick up a bassoon from Mr Puchner for Francesca.

I woke up at quarter past five to catch my ten past eight flight, which you might think is overdoing it a little, but it wasn’t til I found some free internet on the express train from Paddington to Heathrow that I realised that my plane wasn’t leaving Heathrow, but rather London City Airport on the other side of town. I arrived at Heathrow terminal one, insulted its mother casually, crossed the platform and got on a train back to Paddington. There I took a forty pound taxi ride over to the correct airport, bought a coffee, threw it away, and boarded my flight.

The countryside around Frankfurt is charming at the moment. All the leaves are changing colour and embarking and it’s all very peaceful.

Strangely for such an affluent part of Germany, no-one seemed to speak much English, so I had to get by in patchy phrases, like “ein fur Russelsheim Hauptbahnhof, please,” und “Wo ist der shit-hause?” But I managed ok.

Beethovenstrasse, where the Puchners have been producing fine instruments for 113 years

In other news, I now have a British mobile and the number is 07 856 280 711. I’m carrying three phones now and am starting to feel a bit like a drug dealer.

Best,

Michael