Category Archives: Epic Postcard Moments
Hotel Pullman, Marseille Palm Beach
Marseille: an ancient city renowned for many things, among which number its huge commercial port, a small crime problem, the legendary Château d’If and fine bouillabaisse. The city lent its name to the French national anthem, la Marseillaise, pastis was born here and Marcel Pagnol took childhood walks in the lush Parc Borély. I suggest that we add to this hall of fame the Hotel Pullman Marseille Palm Beach, where Monsieur and I splurged for a night of luxury during our South of France ‘vacances’ last year.
Even for we two inveterate travellers, it had been a long day. We’d driven up from the Camargues, lunched at a sleepy Martigues and screeched into the last boat trip of the day around the calanques near the pretty port of Cassis. The driving in the vicinity of such a natural wonder is reputed to be fraught with tempers frayed by battles fought over parking spaces; sadly, we’d found it to be exactly so, yet somehow managed to escape without a single dent in our fender. Leaving the beauty behind as we entered the messy sprawl of the outskirts of Marseille, we were intent on a night of calm and relaxation. Fortunately, once we found the Pullman Hotel, calm and relaxation is exactly what we enjoyed.
I say ‘once we found’ because the Pullman is James Bond-esque in the way that it hides behind a curve in the Corniche, sinking its storeys below the coastal thoroughfare so that it’s barely visible from the road. We, as many others must have done before us, drove straight on past the entrance before recognising our mistake and navigating a U turn – no mean feat in the early evening rush of traffic – to return to our abode for the night.
A porter swiftly separated luggage from vehicle as a valet disappeared with the car down a ramp into what could have been Hades for all we knew – via the entrance to what we deduced must be the subterranean car park - very 007 once again. Inside, a vast lobby was populated by three or four staff and one of those life-size sculptures of a cow wearing far splashier colours than might be expected in your average milking shed. Elsewhere, the furniture was über chic in the fashion of a deconstructed Mondrian (read: hard-cornered squares and rectangles in primary colours) but quite uncomfortable looking – the subliminal message being that this was not a place to get cosy, although the view across the bay was spectacular and it would be quite possible to spend a couple of hours sitting here watching ships and yachts navigating the busy bay.
Fortunately, our room had its own, private view out to sea, and a balcony from which to enjoy it at our leisure. It was a hot evening, hazy and vaguely rose-tinted. We watched stand-up paddlers taking advantage of the calm waters.
Looking to our right the Corniche snaked against the coast, a gigantic propeller blade rising in dark silhouette against the sunset; this was the 1971 oeuvre of Marseille’s sculptor son, César, honouring the repatriation of people from North Africa to France.
To wash off the day’s accumulation of salt and sweat, we took a dip in the Pullman’s pool, which looked like this:
It was big enough to accommodate pre-dinner swimmers of all ages, from pre-schooler to retiree, and the water was just the right type of cool.
Later, as Monsieur and I basked in the last of the day’s sun, we flicked through guides in an attempt to decide how and where to dine. In the end, room service won. We would sup in our bathrobes, with the unsurpassable vista visible from our balcony, gathering strength for the serious task of exploring Marseille the next day.
The doorbell rang and our evening meal arrived. Seconds later, Monsieur settled down with comfort food: a burger and plump, golden fries with a verrine of coleslaw in a nod to the possibility of fresh produce, even if it hadn’t been ordered in quantity tonight.
I stuck to lighter fare. The smoked salmon was delicious, served with mini-blinis, a dollop of taramasalata and another of soft, herbed cheese. The salad leaves were unusually unblemished, natural, sans vinaigrette.
Then I allowed myself a small plate of cheese.
A glass of crisp, chilled white wine completed the experience.
And so, when last in Marseille, Monsieur and I unabashedly enjoyed our room service supper in our own time, watching all manner of seafaring vessel criss-crossing the bay as the sun sank in the west. It was the epitome of a holiday dining experience: good, simple food, great view, the privacy of our own room and no glad rags required. Not to mention the double bill of Engrenages (Spiral) on TV. A perfect evening, indeed.
Like this:
Porto Rotondo, Sardinia
In early May, the Sardinian summer season is slowly kicking off. The atmosphere’s halcyon, the sky cerulean, the waters clear and flowers exploding with colour everywhere you look, yet the tourist hordes have yet to land. It’s paradise.
One typically fine morning, Monsieur and I drove to Porto Rotondo, a village with impressive marina just south of the Emerald Coast in Sardinia’s north-west. It’s by no means ancient; farmers and fisherman inhabited the locale until prominent architect, Luigi Vietti arrived to design the village in the 1960s. He and his team of developers set to work, building hotels and apartments, boutiques and moorings and all the amenities a wealthy holidaymaker might demand. Love him or hate him, Silvio Berlusconi likes it here; he has a holiday home on the cliffs above the town. (If you’re into a bit of Silvio-spotting, I’ve heard it’s the one with several carabinieri cars permanently parked at the gate.)
Porto Rotondo is a curious place. It has a slick, artificial feel to it, with the tangible yet conflicting element of deep relaxation. The people don’t walk, they amble, whilst smiling in a slow, easy way. The streets are cobbled and inlaid with modern mosaic patterns, the church of San Lorenzo (patron saint of cooks) resembles an overturned hull and there’s a granite amphitheatre for the entertainment of culture vultures. The marina is a tribute to luxury pleasure boats, filled with every type of exclusive vessel imaginable, from fat, white gin palaces to wood-panelled speed boats and tall, classic schooners. Boat brokers are two-a-penny here and you can see why. There’s plenty of business to be had.
When I remember our visits to Porto Rotondo, it’s the perfect breakfasts that come to mind. Monsieur and I discovered a quiet, traditional eatery overlooking a quiet section of the marina, and there we’d sit of a morning, the tranquillity seeping into our souls.
The owners of the Bar-Gelateria del Molo have proudly hung the date of its establishment above the doorway: 1950. They’re evidently proud to have been here before Signor Vietti; quite possibly they fed and watered him as the village grew into a pleasure port. Our breakfasts there were simple – perfect shots of Italian espresso, hot and creamy with a proper Continental kick, tall, cool glasses of freshly-squeezed orange juice and soft, buttery croissants to start the day. At €10.00 a head for this simple breakfast, you might argue that it’s not great value, but Monsieur and I would disagree. The location is unbeatable, the staff welcoming, the views spectacular. The memory makes my heart slow in the most calming of ways.
Endearingly, outside the Bar-Gelateria del Molo is parked a tiny Italian delivery buggy of bright buffed red. In a wink to days of yore, there’s a wicker basket strapped to the back. I hope it’s tasked with carrying picnics to seaward-bound gin palaces, for it would be a complete waste to stay at home and order delivery food in Porto Rotondo, when you could so easily wander down to this refreshingly unpretentious bar with the perfect view. The del Molo certainly provides the quintessential Italian breakfast of quality, but I imagine it’s equally glorious for a cocktail at sunset, or a wicked lick of stracciatella on a hot afternoon.
Sitting here in the grey of January in London, the simple act of recalling breakfasts at the Bar-Gelateria del Molo warms me through. If that isn’t a glowing reference for an eatery, I don’t know what is. So, promise me, please, that if you find yourself in Sardinia one early May, you’ll make your way to Porto Rotondo and, even if it’s just the once, you owe it to yourself to breakfast by the marina. For the oft-harassed escapee from the hamster wheel of the Western World, this is a tonic not to be missed.
Like this:
Parlez-vous anglais?
Last summer, Monsieur took me to visit his family hometown in Brittany. We stayed with an aunt and uncle in a charming, old family home, with a view of the sea and the pink and blue hues of hydrangeas visible in all directions. The town was villagey, small, Breton in the truest of fashions, but not averse to the visits of outsiders, like myself. Spotted in one eatery window was the following sign, showing just how international even a small Breton township can be:
This made me smile. The French are famous for (quite rightly) expecting foreign folk to make at least some small attempt at speaking their language. Most of the time, if you at least TRY to say hello, goodbye or thank you, a French person will try to help you in your own language if they can. But march into any establishment and begin communication with “parlez-vous anglais” and the potential to commune in English may just fly out the window. You see, in the eyes of the proud French, you haven’t even tried to employ their romantic, beautiful tongue, and this may well induce sudden foreign-linguistic amnesia, hence my amusement when I saw this sign. Yes, they speak English here, and it looks like they might enjoy the practice. This is one, rare place in France where you won’t have to ask “parlez-vous anglais?”.
Like this:
Monet’s Giverny –
Think of some of the world’s record-breaking works of art at point of sale, and paintings from Claude Monet’s Water Lilies series will no doubt feature on the list. Ever since I first saw a Monet in the flesh in the eighties, during a touring exhibition that actually made it the extra xxxx miles to far-flung New Zealand (a rarity at the time), I have always dreamed of visiting Monet’s home at Giverny, to see the artist’s famed gardens for myself. In October just past, that dream came true. I had to pinch myself repeatedly, it was such a thrill to finally be in such an art-lover’s mecca.
Monsieur and I arrived in the small village of Giverny on a dull autumn day, amidst a steady Norman drizzle. I’d always thought that May would be the optimum time to see Monet’s gardens, as they’d be in the prime of spring blossom and bloom, but apparently the little village is overrun with international fans of Impressionism in springtime, so by coming later in the year, we’d wisely sidestepped the push and shove of tourist hordes. Would the effort be worth it? Would we see any flowers? Or would we curse our autumn plans and wish we’d come in spring or summer, with the world, his wife and their dog?
The weather was certainly disappointing on the morning of our visit but, ever the optimists, we still hoped there might be some sort of floral leftovers from the finer seasons just past.
Here’s a sample of what Monsieur and I found in Monet’s garden at Giverny. Our hopes were rewarded with late-bloomers in every direction.
I love pink flowers and these were among my favourites in Monet’s garden.
These fellows were drooping with the rainfall but still managed to remind me of a blazing sunset on a hot summer’s evening (even if I were wrapped up in coat and scarf at the time!)
The path from Monet’s house down to the end of the garden was wild with a carpet of nasturtiums – as a small girl, I used to pick nasturtiums from the school hedge suck ‘honey’ from the point beneath the bloom. Ever since, they’ve remained a favourite flower. At Giverny, their colours only seemed brightened by the grey day.
We wandered down aisles of flourishing flora and through an underground tunnel to reach Monet’s water lily ponds. So this was where the great painter created some of the greatest impressionist artworks known to man.
The artist said of his water lilies: “It took me time to understand my water lilies. I had planted them for the pleasure of it; I grew them without ever thinking of painting them”. Little did he know that through his paintings these would arguably become the most famous water lilies in the world.
It may have been gloomy when we saw them, but the ponds were still beautiful and, believe it or not, there was the occasional freshly-opened flower sitting on the lily pads.
The poor chap in red jacket waited patiently with his tripod as I photographed the ponds, but unfortunately for him, I wasn’t the only one annoying his view.
Imperceptible here are the water-lubbing insects who walk across the water on spindly wee legs. The pond life is happy and rampant.
As we left the ponds, returning to the main gardens, the sun decided to pop its head out from behind the clouds. This flower looked like a sunburst in its own right.
Sunshine on a rainy day…
The perfect lawn for picnicking.
This old wheel barrow must have worked hard in its past life, carrying plants and trees and soil and vegetables from the potager (vege garden). Now it sits in peaceful retirement.
There’s one word for flowers like this: happy. Monet said “I am following Nature without being able to grasp her… I perhaps owe having become a painter to flowers.” With floral optimism such as this in one’s garden, it’s little wonder, although the great man started his life as an artist drawing caricatures, not a petal in sight.
This is one of the prettiest exit signs I’ve ever seen.
We were lucky with our Giverny expedition; it may have been raining when we arrived, but the sun appeared for just long enough to give us a taste of what it must be like to visit on a Halcyon day. Claude Monet once said “I am only good at two things, and those are: gardening and painting”.
This is not entirely true. He was also very good at what we were about to do next: eating.
Like this:
Drive By ‘Shooting’ – MAUI
For my friend, Pat Coakley, of Singleforareason
For those of you who haven’t yet come across Pat or her photography and philosophy blog, Singleforareason, you should visit it right NOW. If I ever finish writing my foodie memoir, I’d love Pat to illustrate it – her photos of plants and fruit and vegetables and other fridge contents really get me going. She also takes the most eerie photos whilst driving, and this inspired me to attempt the same while Monsieur and I were in Maui earlier this year. The only difference was that Monsieur was driving whilst I was photographing. Pat manages to do both at the same time.
Some of my novice drive-by-shooting results are here:
Those clouds above the mountains stay above the mountains. Down on the West coast, where most of the main resorts are, it hardly ever rains.
All the palm trees in Maui are bent in the direction of the dominant wind. The first bent palms we saw were just outside the airport. This one was a bit lonely, stood by the side of the road in the middle of sugar cane country.
Sugar cane and ominous clouds that threaten but never quite reach us.
The Maui skies are huge and the landscape dramatically craggy from its volcanic heritage.
The sun sets early here. It’s already hiding behind the mountains but hasn’t quite gone.
Just south of Lahaina the hills are terracotta and ancient-looking. The sky begins to blush as the sun drops closer to the horizon.
Its glow bounces off our shiny red Mustang as we head back up to Ka’anapali Beach and our hotel. It will be another postcard perfect evening for us as we watch the colours change around the neighbouring islands.
Monsieur thinks I’m nuts to sit in the car taking photos as we whizz around the island – nothing new there. I think it’s fun and will definitely do this again. It gives a whole new perspective on our surroundings. Thank you, Pat, for the inspiration.
Aloha, It’s Friday!
The totally filthy Ka’anapali Beach in Maui. (That’s surfer speak, Brah.)
The most enjoyable part of planning a wedding has to be arranging the honeymoon, at least, that’s how it was for this particular bride. Approve invitations – check, order confetti – check, revise RSVPs – check, book hotel for San Francisco and luau tickets in Maui? Yippedeedoodah! Now you’re talking.
It’s no secret that Monsieur and I are far from the youngest of newlyweds on the block, so a traditional wedding list didn’t make much sense to us. We have plenty of crockery to throw at each other as the days of wedded bliss fade. We have all sorts of kitchenware, from steak knives to an arthritic’s jar opener (I have weak hands), a crock pot and le Creuset bits and pieces (you get the picture) and a rolling pin that has yet to see some action. We have plenty of towels and bedding and other household paraphernalia, from mops and irons (plural) to a nice, fat tool box and there’s little room for anything else, so Monsieur and I sought out an alternative type of wedding list that wouldn’t require furniture or storage space.
We found some great ideas out there in the ether. I particularly liked the idea of each wedding guest giving the bride and groom a hardback copy of their favourite book, thereby filling a bookcase, but Monsieur’s response to that was “No. We have enough books.” and he has a point. We could just about start a lending service.
Some couples ask their guests to donate to a charity but thinking of our wedding gifts being listed in a stack of tax returns didn’t exactly float our boat; we’re a bit more romantic than that. Others ask for help with home improvements, but we don’t need a new kitchen and we have no garden to landscape. (Yet. Sod’s law is now we’ll probably get one.) Then there was the concept of asking our guests to contribute to the cost of our wedding but that approach wasn’t really us either.
In the end we settled on suggesting that our friends and family contribute to our honeymoon via an online honeymoon list, which, if you (a) realise how much we love to travel, (b) realise how much the happy couple NEEDS a honeymoon after planning and executing a successful wedding and (c) would like to receive a thank you note that doesn’t mention a household appliance, then you must know that a honeymoon list was exactly what the doctor ordered in our particular case.
We used a site called Honeyfund, allowing us to create our own page for our guests to visit, giving them the freedom to offer us a romantic dinner or sunset cocktails or a surfing lesson or Aloha shirt or other such activity or honeymooners’ treat. Not only did we enjoy the process of arranging our honeymoon list, but from what we heard back, our friends and family had great fun choosing what they wanted us to experience in our first weeks of marriage. Thanks to them we did indeed have a wonderful time. You should have seen Monsieur on that surf board. What a du-u-u-u-ude! Totally tubular. This landlubber is stockabocka to be his babe.
As Nuptial Novices we little realised quite how grateful we would be for the relaxation of this particular break away because by the time we were pronounced man and wife Monsieur and I were just about on our knees with fatigue. Read: dead. Six feet under. Kaputt. A pair of carcasses with the vultures closing in. We were practically incoherent and when we finally got to the airport two days after the wedding, I thought I was going to fall over, that’s how tired I was. At one point I had to stop and hold onto the wall – no joke. My head felt like a laptop when it loses power with fading screen. My brain was that screen and it didn’t feel so good. Later, in a particularly low-brain-cell-moment I even bought a Candace Bushnell novel, so depleted was my concentration. What was I thinking? It’s only one step up from a Ladybird book, for Heaven’s sake.
Given said physical state of exhaustion it’s therefore understandable when I say that never in my life have I so looked forward to a long-haul flight. Ah, the thought of ten plus hours in an economy class seat? With NOTHING to select, plan, approve or update apart from which new-release films to watch? Those are some seriously fond memories. Yes, this was a serious case of Please Pass the Eye Mask and Watch Me Snore.
First we flew to San Francisco, where we spent a couple of days exploring the Bay Area. Then we travelled on to the Hawaiian island of Maui for eight precious days of sun, sea, swimming, SLEEP and that world-renowned Aloha spirit. On the way back we stopped off in San Fran for one last night before jetting back home to work and piles of wedding magazines that were now screaming “Burn me! Burn me!”
Climbing onto my soap box now, I do have a few words to say to our new government here in the UK. Messrs Cameron and Clegg, Family Guys, if you’re so keen to promote family values, you should seriously consider giving married couples a helping hand on their way to honeymoon because such trips are a mental health requirement after all the work and wonga that goes into a wedding. There’s something about a daiquiri in hand and sand between the toes that goes far further in the soothing of frazzled newlyweds’ nerves than jaunt down to Brighton. Tripping through the tropics has probably saved Monsieur from committing Bride-acide and has definitely saved the NHS a fortune in beta blocker prescriptions, which I was perilously close to needing in recent months. In summary: we taxpayers don’t want to bail out any more banks. We want a holiday kickback from paying for all the banks you hold in our names. End of pseudo-political comment and back to Hawaii.
Indeed, the promise of the honeymoon and total rest in a place with decent weather was a massive carrot in front of our wedding donkey. It certainly helped to get us through those sticky moments when you wonder why you’re bothering with such an archaic ritual. Will all the effort be recognised? Is it worth it? Well, in our case we’d have to say yes, it was. And even though there is not yet a honeymoon benefit for hardworking taxpayers like ourselves, once the celebrations were over Monsieur and I were lucky enough to have our Honeyfund to help us reach those swaying palm trees. Our honeymoon was medicine in more ways than one and for that reason, we will be forever grateful to all our friends and family who helped to get us there. Hawaii’s still in my head even a fortnight after leaving. Now THAT’S what I call a holiday. Mahalo to you all! MAHALO and ALOHA, IT’S FRIDAY!
Tinnura, Sardinia – Where the walls don’t only have ears…
Sardinia is an island of secrets and quiet beauty, the most precious delights of which are likely to be tucked away from tour bus routes. Driving into the island’s hinterland on a warm May day, Monsieur and I rounded a bend on a country highway to discover one such unexpected treasure: the painted village of Tinnura.
Tinnura’s church lies behind these painted walls,
the priest and members of his congregation immortalised for all to see.
I wondered who this chap with traditional flat cap was:
What tales would he tell us in his mountain dialect?
Are these flowers of gratitude for an answered prayer? Or perhaps this member of Tinnura’s faithful has volunteered her flower arranging skills to the parish.
Even the pedestrian crossing adds colour to this quiet little town, made all the more quiet by the heat of mid-afternoon. Apart from the rare few souls we spotted venturing beyond the shade of their shuttered interiors into the cauldron-like streets, the only population we saw in Tinnura were painted into its walls.
The painter’s brush does not limit its work to celebrating the townsfolk of Tinnura alone; their animals also feature. Here a pair of horses ready themselves for a trot out of their frame and onto the street.
On the side of a house a short walk from the main street, we see the ominous masked faces of players in an ancient Sardinian rite that some say dates back to prehistory. The matador-like man or isohadore looks all set to lasso a friend or woman in the invisible carnival crowd, taking his chosen one prisoner with a rope of plaited reeds. Meanwhile, the mamuthones in hook-nosed masks and shaggy sheepskin cloaks, are the fruit of a union between fire and moon, bearing the weight of cumbersome cow bells on their backs.
No masked beings from the underworld here, though. Life goes on in these walls, simple, daily life. These women are practising the art of basket weaving.
And this trio kneads, shapes and bakes loaves of bread to feed the Tinnurese – an apt scene for Tinnura’s Bread Street or Via del Pane.
But in Tinnura it’s not a case of all work and no play makes Giovanni a dull boy. Oh, no, the Tinnurese tap their feet to the songs of their friend, the accordion player, as one wicked reveller stumbles off with the wine.
This man plays the pipe, not just one but three at at a time.
Here we see that even the painted ladies of Tinnura have shadows.
Behind these folk busying themselves with the day’s chores, an ancient nuraghe sits on a hillside.
If you’re peckish, why not visit Tinnura’s baker? Rest assured, his loaves are never stale.
From this angle, the Wine Thief looks set to trip over the curb, spilling his liquid loot all over unlucky passers by..
This pair of monochrome images look like photos from an agricultural history book. See how they tilled the land?
With a living population of 268, Tinnura’s numbers are swelled by its painted people. Monsieur and I were only there for a fraction of an hour, yet this Sardinian surprise will stay in my visual archive for ever.
An igloo in my back yard
On Sunday night London experienced its biggest snowfall in eighteen years. It was something else. I knew that snow was on its way but never expected anything this dramatic. I’d spent the weekend in Paris with Monsieur’s parents. Then Monsieur stayed in Paris for an extra day and I returned home like a good girl so I could skip merrily along to work on Monday morning. On Eurostar, I had a total plonker sat next to me with his Very Large Laptop. Having had to disrupt his e-mail filing on two occasions to (a) go to the loo and (b) go to the bar I finally had this exchange with him:
“Please excuse me,”
(Harrumphing sounds. I notice he has a nasty pimple festering in the undergrowth of his fledgling beard)
“Perhaps if you’re going to be getting up all the time you should have booked an aisle seat.”
“Right. Perhaps you could take my window seat then and I’ll have YOUR aisle seat.”
“If you insist.” (More harrumphing sounds as he moves. It would seem there’s just no pleasing some Festering Pimpleheads)
After that, and having spent most of my day seated, I returned to the bar and wrote up my journal on one of the tiny standy uppy table things. Then I got sick of writing my journal but was still not keen to resume sitting next to Festering Pimple Man so I called Epic Mama. She told me it had been snowing in England, and sure enough, once we were through the Chunnel, there was a dusting of snow on all the platforms we passed through.
At St Pancras station my cab was waiting (I always order one to avoid the crowds and save my back from lugging suitcases up and down tube stairs) and huge snowflakes danced around us. By the time I got home, the snow had started to lay and a couple of hours later we’d had about three inches. The snow was blowing about like that of a snow globe collector on a shaking frenzy and parked cars were disappearing beneath the thick, white blanket. Those who braved the weather outside made fantastic crunching sounds as they trudged through the powder. Meanwhile, I watched from the window, absolutely mesmerised. Then, as the snowfall ceased for a while I pulled on my snow boots and grabbed my camcorder. This was historic. It had to be filmed.
I headed along our street, pointing the camera at bicycles covered in snow, (giggling about someone literally running the risk of freezing their backside off), recycling bins covered in snow, cars covered in snow, you name it covered in snow. Then I pushed open the gate to the communal garden and entered a veritable wonderland. Everything was a strange silvery colour and being alone in the garden so late at night, with pristine snow all around me and the mature trees looking like something from a Narnia film, made me want to laugh out loud. It was a feeling of complete exhilaration. Chatting away to the camera about what I was seeing, I filmed it all before realising that I was no longer alone; a couple of neighbours had joined me. We chatted briefly and one suggested I put my film onto the garden website but I don’t think I will because in one part I break into song. (That’s the sort of thing I do. At least I can say that this time it was from the Sound of Music, but I’ve been known to sing Wizard of Oz songs and worse whilst shopping. Ding dong the witch is dead…)
By the time I got home it was obvious that getting to work was going to be a nightmare. If a leaf deigns to flutter onto the tracks here, there are delays. What on earth would happen with several inches of snow? I called my trusty cab company but they wouldn’t take a booking, telling me to call again early the following morning, which I did. It was no help, though. They said the roads were bad and they weren’t taking bookings at all, so I left for work following my usual route and giving myself an extra half an hour to get there. That ought to do it! Or so I thought.
Outside, it was immediately obvious that more snow had fallen in the night and judging by the depth of roof frosting of some cars, we must have had about 7 inches in my neighbourhood. The streets were white with snow and it was deathly quiet. Only fools (or Festering Pimpleheads) would attempt to drive in this.
It took longer than usual to reach the tube and once there, it seemed that everything was okay but I knew it was too good to be true. Further along on the commute, at the station where I have to change, I walked all the way from one end to the other in order to pick up my link, only to find that the line had been suspended. I called work. No one answered so I left a voicemail. Plan B was to take the Circle and District lines and change onto the Piccadilly line somewhere but the C and D lines had also been suspended. Then DING! The big lightbulb in my brain went on. I could take a bus to work, but after standing at a strangely empty bus stop for a good ten minutes, a Royal Mail worker informed me that all buses had been cancelled in London due to the snow. This was turning into one of those films like 28 Days Later.
So, I couldn’t get a cab, my tube links were all down, there were no buses in London… I guess I could walk? But after a few minutes it became apparent that this was not an option. It takes me an hour and ten to walk to work on a fine day; in snow it would take forever.
Back at the station I went to its only operational tube line to try to get somewhere, anywhere that I could pick up a line towards work. To do this meant heading further away from my destination in order to hopefully move forwards. This, too, backfired. First, three trains went through before one arrived that we could fit onto. In the interim, a pushy wench with a suitably ski-jump-ish nose backed into me. Hard. Apparently my huff of discontent was audible to her. She flicked her head round faster than the Exorcist kid and stuck the ski jump in my face.
“What’s your issue, *****?” (Asterisk translation clue – she called me a female dog)
I stood my ground. “My issue is getting a body-blow from your back. Twice.”
But my adversary was having none of it.
“There’s no room here, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
All I noticed was a lack of apology. I reddened with unusual anger.
“How could I have noticed with your huge back in my face?”
The people around us were enjoying the display of tube rage, but just at that point, a train came that we were able to board, so the show ended just before we were tempted to pull clumps of hair out of each other’s heads.
The next part of the adventure was about to begin. I’ve been sardine on public transport before, but this was a whole different can of fish. When I finally extracted myself from said can to make a connection, I was greeted by a sign saying that that line, too, was down. Completely down. It was definitely time for some air so I surfaced and called my boss. He laughed at my predicament from the office, which happens to be a mere stone’s throw from his home. .
“Take the Jubilee Line to Green Park and change,” he suggested
“The Jubilee Line’s down.”
“Oh. Well, go shopping then!” He chortled, quite uncharacteristically. Perhaps the snow was affecting his thought processes? I couldn’t remember him ever telling me to ‘go shopping’ before.
“I’m nowhere near any decent shops and it’s too dangerous to walk.” I argued.
“Oh, well. Just go home then.” He offered.
I didn’t go immediately, thinking (mistakenly) that if I sat with a coffee for half an hour, then some of the tube issues might clear. Half an hour later, they were worse. I tried to get back on the line that had brought me here, to head home. It was now down. In spite of my best efforts to avoid walking, the only remaining transport option was my feet.
On my long, slow, trek back, I realised that most of the schools must have closed because there were kids everywhere, one little darling pelting his front door with snowballs, now smattered all over the finish. From the warmth of the flat I watched as the garden filled with families building snowmen and an igloo. The igloo took all day to make but was quite a success. Meanwhile, I’d been talking with a number of colleagues who’d also been struggling to get to work and then home. It would seem I wasn’t alone. In fact, only a quarter of our workforce had made it in. Our fine mayor, Boris Johnson, criticised people for not making it into work, calling it a ‘skive’. I say, if you want your city to operate in adverse weather conditions, Boris, how about using some of our taxes towards better equipping road and footpath-clearing equipment? The roads in my area of London haven’t been salted at all and the footpaths are treacherous. Now we hear that the country’s salt supplies are running out, so why not simply have a chat with our salt-harvesting friends across the Channel to see if they’d be interested in some extra business?
So what did Epic get up to on her unexpected ‘snow day’? Not much. Couldn’t work because at work the remote connection was down. Couldn’t veg with True Movies because our aerial is down.. Didn’t want to make snowmen because I’d experienced enough cold for one day, so I turned on the gas fire, swaddled myself in a rug and enjoyed a couple of DVDs set on tropical islands – the perfect antidote to such a chilly day. Oh, and if that sounds a bit TOO slothful, I also managed quite a bit of housework and some internet research for a pending HR situation at work.
Determined to return to the Land of the Living on Tuesday, I booked a cab, only to receive a last-minute phone call to say that a bus had slid into it just 200 metres down the road from our flat. To that, Monsieur asked me “Don’t they have snow ploughs in London?”
I later found out that no, London does not possess a single snow plough because it hasn’t needed one for some years, but if the current weather conditions indicate a looming ice age, I think it might be time to invest in one, at the very least. Either that, or take a leaf out of one Londoner’s book and cross country ski to work.
** P.S. If I can work out how to edit and upload my little film, you’ll see it here someday. I’m definitely still in the learner stage of my budding geek-dom!
Living in the Casa della Signora – Venice revisited
Reluctantly leaving the toasty interior of Taverna San Trovaso behind, Monsieur and I headed for the Collezione Guggenheim, or Guggenheim Collection. This is where I had served as a museum intern, many a moon ago, in the days before every kid had a mobile phone and when we all wrote snail mail, not e-mail, to our friends and family. Instead of a blog I had notebooks filled with scribbled observations, cameras still used film and notes for the evening lecture series were copied using carbon paper. As I explained all this to Monsieur we realised that we were about to take a trip down Epic’s Venetian Memory Lane.
First we walked up to the gate of the palazzo where I’d once lived. The home belonged to the family of the green grocer who sold his fruit and veg from a barge a bit further north, making an absolute fortune from his humble trade. I’d shared the apartment at the top of the building with two other girls and the rules were strict: no boys allowed, not even brothers. The landlady or ‘Signora’ wore house dresses in busy floral prints, always cut a little too low in the chest region, allowing us to be distracted by her breathless and ample bosom. She did our washing on Tuesdays (this was included in the rent), our telephone calls were measured on a counter and paid for per click, itemising each call in a battered notebook, and the Signora’s husband would always pop some free extras into our bags when we shopped with him, frowning at us as if we were underfed and always encouraging us to eat more. Strangely enough, eating more was never the issue as we were walking all over Venice each day, meaning we could eat what we wanted, including an almost daily gelato, and never gain weight.
Standing outside the palazzo, I remembered the ground floor vestibule, filled with a mess of wet weather gear and footwear in all styles and sizes, from baby shoes to gigantic black wellies. Then there was the climb, past the floors inhabited by the family, the kitchen from where the Signora ruled the roost, with the stairs becoming narrower the higher we rose. By the time we reached our apartment, my fellow tenants and I would be breathless and beyond speech for a good few minutes. No matter how fit we were, those stairs were a killer. We lived at the top of Everest, it seemed.
The bathroom was tiled in sickly olive green and the shower was not partitioned from the rest of the room so when we used it, water went absolutely everywhere. The kitchen was a sink and tiny bench with a skirt around the base, behind which we could store kitchen things, and the gas stove was so fierce that I gave up using it after a while, simply because I valued my eyebrows.
In that apartment, we didn’t need alarm clocks. The church bells woke us early each day, continuing to ring at snooze-type intervals until we were all safely out of bed, and the water buses coming and going from the nearest stop on the Grand Canal made whooshing noises that form part of this musical memory. Whilst remembering the sounds of Venice, I couldn’t possibly leave out the mosquitoes, which buzzed mercilessly around my head each night until I was too tired to fight them, only to wake with a new welt or two the following day. In any case, those Venetian bloodsuckers were always invisible if I turned on the light, and with or without insect repellent they ate at me until my blood’s taste was ruined for them by their own poison.
At the back of the palazzo was a small, walled garden, underused and overgrown with straggles of thriving foliage. We palazzo-dwellers could come and go through a gate in the garden, especially if it was late at night and we needed a quieter way to enter the house (the weighty front door always closed with a bang and a small quake, potentially waking anyone sleeping within). One such evening, I walked back from a gathering in the lively square of Campo di Santa Margarita, where we interns would congregate for birthday drinks and other celebratory occasions. I carefully opened the garden gate and closed it again as quietly as I could. As my eyes adjusted to the dark, I heard a rustling from one of the bushes. I froze. Still not quite able to see what or who was making the rustling, my heart pounded as the bush started to shake. After a few seconds, the shaking stopped and something plopped onto the path in front of me. Off it ambled across the paving stones towards another patch of greenery and as I finally managed to focus on the stalker in the bushes, my breathing returned to normal. I’d just been welcomed home by the family tortoise.
Epic postcard moments 4
Some of you have been asking me where this photo was taken. (In case it looks familiar, it’s the one at the top of my blog page). It was taken from a rest-stop between Nice and Monaco on New Year’s Eve last year. We’d been hugging the coast so we could gawp at the views like this and what finer day could we have wished for to bid farewell to 2007? The sea sparkled, the sky was cloudless blue and the earthy tones of the Mediterranean houses warmed the scene. All the colours seemed so intense that day.
The village in the picture is Villefranche-sur-Mer, which, at different times, has been home to various famed figures, such as Jean Cocteau, Isadora Duncan and The Rolling Stones. Monsieur and I gazed down from the top of the cliff, wondering how impossible the roads would be if we returned one summer with more time to mosey. Whenever I look at this picture, it makes me smile and remember the warmth of the sun – something not to be sniffed at in a Northern Hemisphere December. It really was quite the perfect day.
