Monday, November 23, 2009
From LAX to Heathrow
October 7th 2009
Air New Zealand to Heathrow is a throwback to how flying used to be. Oh – not in its heyday. I don’t mean to evoke images of coiffed stewardesses, and passengers dressed for a party. I’m talking about how flying was 5-10 years ago, when you had leg room and an empty seat next to you in coach class.
It’s great. Except that I can’t use my cell phone during the flight. It’s not just during takeoffs and landings anymore. Apparently my little cell could interrupt the navigation at any time and cause us all to come crashing down. The British man sitting in the window seat of my row (I have the isle) says that’s “a load of rubbish” and that the airlines have a deal with the phone companies to not let passengers use the phones…something about roaming charges. I don’t understand the reasoning, but I’m always up for a conspiracy theory when there are idiotic rules around.
The British man is in his 40’s has curly blonde hair and a classically ruddy complexion, like he just came off the rugby field for a pint. What I like about him – and this is a very English characteristic – is that we can pop into and out of conversation with no pressure or expectation to continue it. I can respond briefly and directly, end the chat there, and there’s no harm or cultural foul.
If you’ve ever sat on a bus or train in the U.S. and gotten into a conversation, you might have noticed that the conversation doesn’t end until one person gets off at his or her stop. It’s awkward. There is a pressure to be friendly once a conversation or any verbal acknowledgement has begun. Not so for the British, God bless’m.
I can’t take the credit for this observation. I’ve been reading “Watching the English” by Kate Fox, a cultural anthropologist. I’m going to try to be very observant while I’m in Oxford to see if I can spot the British behaviors she discusses in the book. Maybe I can keep a few of her rules of conduct in mind so I can more easily fit in.
But, no. I have already failed. The plane hasn’t even landed and I’ve made an inappropriate response to a remark about the weather.
The British man, sure enough, brings up the weather. Specifically, how miserably cold England is and how his wife, who lives in LA, can’t stand it. I, not recognizing the weather conversation pattern immediately, botch it by replying that I really like England even though it’s cold. My first mistake is in not agreeing with him that the weather is miserably cold – the codified response. My second mistake is stating that I like England. The man replies with a completely shocked “Oh? Why?!” Like, how could anyone actually like England?
According to Watching the English, the English habitually complain about England. You’ll never get an Englishman to say something positive about his homeland; it just isn’t done. And then there’s me staring wistfully at the airline stewardesses with their beautiful soft English accents, wondering if they have any idea how lucky they are to be English.
And that, right there, is proof that I am not English. I claim to be. I have the raw genetic material for it. But fundamentally I am not. I love England too openly and enthusiastically to be anything but American. I could never bring myself to complain about it.
-- 8 hours later - -
Pancakes at Midnight
Forget what I said about not complaining. Just as I am trying to get to sleep, take my contacts out, get comfortable and put on my little eye mask, the lights come on and they announce breakfast. Apple pancakes with apple crème fraiche. At bloody midnight. But, it’s 8am in England. Bloody England.
Air New Zealand to Heathrow is a throwback to how flying used to be. Oh – not in its heyday. I don’t mean to evoke images of coiffed stewardesses, and passengers dressed for a party. I’m talking about how flying was 5-10 years ago, when you had leg room and an empty seat next to you in coach class.
It’s great. Except that I can’t use my cell phone during the flight. It’s not just during takeoffs and landings anymore. Apparently my little cell could interrupt the navigation at any time and cause us all to come crashing down. The British man sitting in the window seat of my row (I have the isle) says that’s “a load of rubbish” and that the airlines have a deal with the phone companies to not let passengers use the phones…something about roaming charges. I don’t understand the reasoning, but I’m always up for a conspiracy theory when there are idiotic rules around.
The British man is in his 40’s has curly blonde hair and a classically ruddy complexion, like he just came off the rugby field for a pint. What I like about him – and this is a very English characteristic – is that we can pop into and out of conversation with no pressure or expectation to continue it. I can respond briefly and directly, end the chat there, and there’s no harm or cultural foul.
If you’ve ever sat on a bus or train in the U.S. and gotten into a conversation, you might have noticed that the conversation doesn’t end until one person gets off at his or her stop. It’s awkward. There is a pressure to be friendly once a conversation or any verbal acknowledgement has begun. Not so for the British, God bless’m.
I can’t take the credit for this observation. I’ve been reading “Watching the English” by Kate Fox, a cultural anthropologist. I’m going to try to be very observant while I’m in Oxford to see if I can spot the British behaviors she discusses in the book. Maybe I can keep a few of her rules of conduct in mind so I can more easily fit in.
But, no. I have already failed. The plane hasn’t even landed and I’ve made an inappropriate response to a remark about the weather.
The British man, sure enough, brings up the weather. Specifically, how miserably cold England is and how his wife, who lives in LA, can’t stand it. I, not recognizing the weather conversation pattern immediately, botch it by replying that I really like England even though it’s cold. My first mistake is in not agreeing with him that the weather is miserably cold – the codified response. My second mistake is stating that I like England. The man replies with a completely shocked “Oh? Why?!” Like, how could anyone actually like England?
According to Watching the English, the English habitually complain about England. You’ll never get an Englishman to say something positive about his homeland; it just isn’t done. And then there’s me staring wistfully at the airline stewardesses with their beautiful soft English accents, wondering if they have any idea how lucky they are to be English.
And that, right there, is proof that I am not English. I claim to be. I have the raw genetic material for it. But fundamentally I am not. I love England too openly and enthusiastically to be anything but American. I could never bring myself to complain about it.
-- 8 hours later - -
Pancakes at Midnight
Forget what I said about not complaining. Just as I am trying to get to sleep, take my contacts out, get comfortable and put on my little eye mask, the lights come on and they announce breakfast. Apple pancakes with apple crème fraiche. At bloody midnight. But, it’s 8am in England. Bloody England.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Coming Home
It's November 6th, which means tomorrow I will be on a plane back to California. And I can't wait. It is very rare for me to want to stop traveling - once I get going I don't want to stop. But this time, I am very much looking forward to water that won't give me parasites or gastrointestinal problems, bland food (oatmeal is the stuff of my daydreams), and a comfy wonderful bed that is not on the floor (Tokyo - futons - 'nuff said).
This month has been amazing, shocking, surprising and sublime. And I've written it all down in my travel journal - this cool Italian leather, hand bound book I bought in Oxford (way better than Borders!). I've used up 4 pens and almost all the pages of this book, so there is a lot to tell. I will spend the next couple weeks transcribing what is in there to this blog, so we will be traveling back in time and go through my trip chronologically: From Oxford, to India, to Tokyo.
And maybe a few postcards from my Tummy, who has had a lot to say on this trip and needs a forum of its own to voice its opinions.
Edit: I know my blog says it's November 5th, but Japan lives in the future (true on so many levels, but also literally). So for me, right now, it's the 6th.
This month has been amazing, shocking, surprising and sublime. And I've written it all down in my travel journal - this cool Italian leather, hand bound book I bought in Oxford (way better than Borders!). I've used up 4 pens and almost all the pages of this book, so there is a lot to tell. I will spend the next couple weeks transcribing what is in there to this blog, so we will be traveling back in time and go through my trip chronologically: From Oxford, to India, to Tokyo.
And maybe a few postcards from my Tummy, who has had a lot to say on this trip and needs a forum of its own to voice its opinions.
Edit: I know my blog says it's November 5th, but Japan lives in the future (true on so many levels, but also literally). So for me, right now, it's the 6th.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Travel Prep
Behold the rejected travel journals:
I went to Borders the other day to try to find a travel journal. But they were all wrong. The covers were pretty, but too flimsy and bendable. They'd never survive in my bag. Others were too small, some were too big. None were just right. So all I got from Borders was an inflatable travel pillow (which is terrible - hard to blow-up, uncomfortable when blown) and a pack of empty travel sized liquid bottles that are impossible to fill with liquid. Seriously, they each have a tiny pin-prick of a hole and nothing to unscrew to pour liquid in. I chucked those, but kept the cute plastic travel bag and used the empty bottles from last year's trip to England. Borders is totally on my Sh*tList.
I went to Borders the other day to try to find a travel journal. But they were all wrong. The covers were pretty, but too flimsy and bendable. They'd never survive in my bag. Others were too small, some were too big. None were just right. So all I got from Borders was an inflatable travel pillow (which is terrible - hard to blow-up, uncomfortable when blown) and a pack of empty travel sized liquid bottles that are impossible to fill with liquid. Seriously, they each have a tiny pin-prick of a hole and nothing to unscrew to pour liquid in. I chucked those, but kept the cute plastic travel bag and used the empty bottles from last year's trip to England. Borders is totally on my Sh*tList.Behold my month's worth of clothes. 10 pairs of underwear, 3 sweaters, five light shirts, 1 pair of long underwear, 2 pairs of capri pants, 1 pair of wool pants, 1 scarf, 1 bra, 1 pair of walking sandals, a lot of socks, and 1 pair of tights. Then there are bags of deet wipes, wet wipes, toilet wipes, toilet paper (travel size!), iodine tablets, medications of various kinds, my hairbrush and my passport. That's not including what I'll be wearing on the plane: 1 big blue coat, 1 scarf, 1 tank top, 1 sweater, 1 pair of blue jeans, 1 pair of socks and my Naot walking shoes (amazing, google them, they are so cool). See, Oxford's wettest month is October. It's around 50-60 degrees and raining all day. India is 80-90 degrees and sunny. Tokyo is 50-60 degrees.
And yes, it all fits. And YES, I will be washing these things during my trip. I'm not that gross!
And yes, it all fits. And YES, I will be washing these things during my trip. I'm not that gross!My plane takes off at 4:30pm today, and I have to get ready to go. Next post will be from Oxford. First thing on my list is to get a pair of Wellies and a proper travel journal.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Instant Messages from the East: Advice for traveling Goris
You know what girls do when they get together – they talk about boys and clothes. Instant Message conversations with my Indian friend are no different… well, maybe a little different. She has been giving me a lot of good advice for my trip to India, that is now only a week away. And here is her advice on Men:
Never go out alone with any male person.
I was telling my friend you were visiting, asking her if we knew ANYONE in Delhi, and we don’t. She was like “is she white?”, and I said Yep. She says “She should watch out. Men think white women are game for anything.”
My friend says, I’m glad you’ll have a brigade of women with you.
I’m glad too, and they’re mostly 50 and 60 year old women, so I should be well guarded. Even so, a 5’9” blonde is going to get attention. To this, my friend replies:
Well, it won’t be too bad because plenty of you [white chicks] have been there before....AND
Julia Roberts is filming Eat, Pray, Love there now in Delhi, I think.
I’ll spare you the amount of IM laughing I typed at this, since I am reading Eat,Pray,Love right now and have not been un-critical of it.
My friend continues: and to get back. Indian men are...different.
Some are very very well, respectful and nice. Overall they all are very shy and wont do anything.
But somehow they lose control when they see white people.
me: srsly?
My friend: It’s because of what I call the Baywatch syndrome. That show reached every village.
My cousins can’t talk English...but they all gathered around the tv to watch Baywatch.
My bro and I were young and got a kick out of that fact.
Things have changed now with the younger generation because a lot come to the U.S. to study and stuff.
And Delhi is a metro city so you have nothing to worry about. BUT you have a spectrum of people so, it’s always good to be alert and careful.
In talking about clothes, I learned a few good words to know:
LOTS of goris wear Indian clothes in India.. they have tailors too..who can stitch in hours.. but you can def purchase readymade.
GORIS = white women
GORAS= white men
PHIRANGI = foreigners
Never go out alone with any male person.
I was telling my friend you were visiting, asking her if we knew ANYONE in Delhi, and we don’t. She was like “is she white?”, and I said Yep. She says “She should watch out. Men think white women are game for anything.”
My friend says, I’m glad you’ll have a brigade of women with you.
I’m glad too, and they’re mostly 50 and 60 year old women, so I should be well guarded. Even so, a 5’9” blonde is going to get attention. To this, my friend replies:
Well, it won’t be too bad because plenty of you [white chicks] have been there before....AND
Julia Roberts is filming Eat, Pray, Love there now in Delhi, I think.
I’ll spare you the amount of IM laughing I typed at this, since I am reading Eat,Pray,Love right now and have not been un-critical of it.
My friend continues: and to get back. Indian men are...different.
Some are very very well, respectful and nice. Overall they all are very shy and wont do anything.
But somehow they lose control when they see white people.
me: srsly?
My friend: It’s because of what I call the Baywatch syndrome. That show reached every village.
My cousins can’t talk English...but they all gathered around the tv to watch Baywatch.
My bro and I were young and got a kick out of that fact.
Things have changed now with the younger generation because a lot come to the U.S. to study and stuff.
And Delhi is a metro city so you have nothing to worry about. BUT you have a spectrum of people so, it’s always good to be alert and careful.
In talking about clothes, I learned a few good words to know:
LOTS of goris wear Indian clothes in India.. they have tailors too..who can stitch in hours.. but you can def purchase readymade.
GORIS = white women
GORAS= white men
PHIRANGI = foreigners
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