My first family - and the one to which I was initially designated - did not open the door. Despite muchos muchos knocking, Casa de Consuelo was well and truly closed to any business of the Wallace Bowman variety. After a twenty odd hour journey and suffering the after-effects of having consumed a rather large quanity of tranquiliser, this turn of events failed to amuse me quite as much as it perhaps should of done. It is also at this point that I was rapidly, and not a little concernedly, arriving at the conclusion that I could not/cannot speak or understand ANY Spanish at all. Hmm....
Following a few hastily made phonecalls in Espanol - not by me, obviously but my trusty driver Byron (?) - an alternative arrangement was reached and off we set to the second option, the house of Senor Elder and his family.
Senor is a LEGEND. Plainly and simply. There will be more about him later I'm sure but, in a nutshell, he is patient with my blank stares and requests for new ligth bulbs, and he doesn't laugh when I say penis instead of chicken (which, by the way, is easily done).
So, I'm here, in Antigua, Guatemala. Surrounded by volcanoes and comprising a criss cross of cobbled streets, brightly coloured colonial style houses and an unfeasible number of cafes, it truly is a beautiful town.
This week is Holy Week or Semana Santa, something I found out after getting trapped between an 10ft Jesus, a BBQ and many many many people wearing purple outside one the main churches. I took approximately 40.5 billion photos of the fiesta, which included the streets embroided with flowers and mosaics of dyed sawdust which were incredible, trust me, and I'll upload them as it was a spectacle which will surely pale in the telling. Please note, this picture uploading business may take some time, however, as my camera charger is currently on a little journey of it's own, all the way from West End Lane to Avenida Sur, coz I forgot it.
Although I am fairly sure my Spanish teacher 'Gladis', to whom I was introduced this morning, thinks i'm a bit of a tit - a suspicion which was rapidly consolidated by the fact that she spent most of our lesson texting - I definitely feel I am going to really like it here...
Tuesday 30 March 2010
God, I love flying
Taking my seat aboard flight CO5 to Houston, following the ingestion of 7 mgs (and rising) of Diazapam, and a ruckus with a repulsive little man regarding my lack of an ESTA - something which is, apparently, compulsory for anyone entering the US but knowledge of which has completely bypassed my awareness and, I am fairly sure, was not mentioned at any point during the process of my booking this trip - I am uplifted, albeit momentarily, by the caption on the front of the in-flight magazine which tells me the exciting news that 'Robert Pattinson refused to wax his eyebrows for New Moon'. This could only mean one thing... I would be able to follow the romantic escapades of Bella, Edward and Jacob as I soared above the Atlantic, making the whole experience far more bearable. I could even watch it more than once.
But, would you believe it, the one channel that isn't working on the sodding entertainment system is the one designated to show Twilight? The ONE channel.
Are you frikkin joking me.
Instead, alas, I am forced to alternate between watching re-runs of House and peering intently at the route tracking system, monitoring the ground speed, altitude, outside air temperature and estimated arrival time for any anomolies to which I must immediately alert the crew*.
Goodbyes are never fun and, I am not ashamed to say, they are something I fail to pull off with any level of finesse. Snot ridden and with enough make-up smeared across my face to make even the most weathered of Avon ladies blush, rivulets of congealing mascara quietly dripping onto the sleeve of the ill-fated Mexcan gentlemen sitting next to me, I am a sorry state. Indeed, this combined with an unerring need to urinate at frequent intervals as soon as I go anywhere near an aeroplane, along with my insistance that the window blind be up at all times - despite the fact that this means nobody can see anything at all, let alone a poxy tv screen - and a profuse sweating, wailing and knashing of teeth whenever the fasten seat-belt sign is illumnated to signal turbulent conditions, one can only sympathise for my fellow passenger/s.
As we cross over Goose Bay in Quebec (a very roundabout way of getting to Texas if you ask me, although funnily enough no one did), snow and ice become indistingishible from a freezing sea. It would be well bad to crash now I reckon, we'd probably have to eat each other. Oh god, I hope I don't get Deep Vein Thrombosis, I didn't buy the special socks...i'll do some excercises instead. That's bound to endear me further to the fellow next door. Lucky bugger.
PS: I'm fairly sure the head hostess woman is Sue Sylvester from Glee.
*Question: why is the plane on said route traking system scaled so be so bloody big? According to this map's depiction, all one has to do is get on at the tail of the aircraft at Heathrow, walk down the aisle and disembark casually in America.
But, would you believe it, the one channel that isn't working on the sodding entertainment system is the one designated to show Twilight? The ONE channel.
Are you frikkin joking me.
Instead, alas, I am forced to alternate between watching re-runs of House and peering intently at the route tracking system, monitoring the ground speed, altitude, outside air temperature and estimated arrival time for any anomolies to which I must immediately alert the crew*.
Goodbyes are never fun and, I am not ashamed to say, they are something I fail to pull off with any level of finesse. Snot ridden and with enough make-up smeared across my face to make even the most weathered of Avon ladies blush, rivulets of congealing mascara quietly dripping onto the sleeve of the ill-fated Mexcan gentlemen sitting next to me, I am a sorry state. Indeed, this combined with an unerring need to urinate at frequent intervals as soon as I go anywhere near an aeroplane, along with my insistance that the window blind be up at all times - despite the fact that this means nobody can see anything at all, let alone a poxy tv screen - and a profuse sweating, wailing and knashing of teeth whenever the fasten seat-belt sign is illumnated to signal turbulent conditions, one can only sympathise for my fellow passenger/s.
As we cross over Goose Bay in Quebec (a very roundabout way of getting to Texas if you ask me, although funnily enough no one did), snow and ice become indistingishible from a freezing sea. It would be well bad to crash now I reckon, we'd probably have to eat each other. Oh god, I hope I don't get Deep Vein Thrombosis, I didn't buy the special socks...i'll do some excercises instead. That's bound to endear me further to the fellow next door. Lucky bugger.
PS: I'm fairly sure the head hostess woman is Sue Sylvester from Glee.
*Question: why is the plane on said route traking system scaled so be so bloody big? According to this map's depiction, all one has to do is get on at the tail of the aircraft at Heathrow, walk down the aisle and disembark casually in America.
Friday 19 March 2010
According to my sister
This blog makes me sound like a 'nob'.
Inspirational Ruth, many thanks.
Even in the face of damning criticism, however, the show must and will go on.
Inspirational Ruth, many thanks.
Even in the face of damning criticism, however, the show must and will go on.
Tuesday 16 March 2010
This green and pleasant land
And so I sit and ponder, as the evening sky darkens from brilliant orange to purple over the great city-scape that is London town, why oh why would I leave this glorious land? This land of manners and croquet, of chimney sweeps and William Shakespeare, of ale and winter in the Cotswolds and Judi Dench and lambs and spring flowers...
For the past few days, I have become much more aware of my surroundings. Suddenly, everything seems brighter, more beautiful, desirable. I find myself asking what has driven my desire for elsewhere, already nostalgic for country walks and evenings in the pub. Suddenly, the jostling of my fellow commuters becomes playful, endearing almost, whislt the snapping of the bus driver is quaint and somewhat charming in it’s Englishness. I am surrounded by the most interesting and lovable people, rose-tinted and romanticised by the prospect of my imminent departure.
Get a grip woman. It’s not for long.
For the past few days, I have become much more aware of my surroundings. Suddenly, everything seems brighter, more beautiful, desirable. I find myself asking what has driven my desire for elsewhere, already nostalgic for country walks and evenings in the pub. Suddenly, the jostling of my fellow commuters becomes playful, endearing almost, whislt the snapping of the bus driver is quaint and somewhat charming in it’s Englishness. I am surrounded by the most interesting and lovable people, rose-tinted and romanticised by the prospect of my imminent departure.
Get a grip woman. It’s not for long.
Thursday 11 March 2010
Um, so this is a blog?
Whatever exactly defines the quarter-life crisis, I’m having one. Or at least, this is what I decided a couple of months ago, shortly before booking my ticket to Guatemala.
The bags are now (almost) packed and I’m bracing myself for rites of passage all over the shop. Yup, after much deliberation and procrastination, I’ve decided it’s time to break free of the murky world of media and Public Relations, and breathe in the heady and reviving air of change/ self-righteousness. I believe the correct term is, ‘going to find oneself’?
Quite exactly what this trip will entail, I’m yet to find out. All I know it has to be more fun that Clapham Common tube station on a Tuesday morning, a bit more pleasant being sneered at by those faces behind the like, well safe innit, handle-bar moustaches* which currently make up almost the entirety of the Tower Hamlets borough, and marginally more life-affirming than eating a Tesco sandwich at my keyboard, flicking through a tea stained (urine stained?) copy of Metro. Mind you, the plane might crash on the way, so...
I mean, don’t get me wrong, I bloody love this city, and my friends and family here are ace, and I’m going to miss people A LOT....But, now I’ve resigned and told everyone that i’m going, it would be, um, pretty hard to change my mind. Changing my mind at this stage would, I imagine, be something akin to having a heady row with someone, slamming the door, only to reappear moments later in order to collect your bag. Not that smooth apparently.
Anyway, so I’ve set up this blog. I’m not 100 percent sure why, or even what exactly it’s for...or really what I’m supposed to write...but we’ll see how it goes, eh? I like the idea of a bit of self indulgent rambling.
K, well that’s all for now.
x
*For a particularly impressive demonstration of everything facial hair can be, however, check out the character working the till of American Apparel on Great Eastern Street, E2. In terms of engineering feats, this bloke sports an impressive example of advanced follicular design. i.e. If the Golden Gate Bridge was a moustache, this would be it.
The bags are now (almost) packed and I’m bracing myself for rites of passage all over the shop. Yup, after much deliberation and procrastination, I’ve decided it’s time to break free of the murky world of media and Public Relations, and breathe in the heady and reviving air of change/ self-righteousness. I believe the correct term is, ‘going to find oneself’?
Quite exactly what this trip will entail, I’m yet to find out. All I know it has to be more fun that Clapham Common tube station on a Tuesday morning, a bit more pleasant being sneered at by those faces behind the like, well safe innit, handle-bar moustaches* which currently make up almost the entirety of the Tower Hamlets borough, and marginally more life-affirming than eating a Tesco sandwich at my keyboard, flicking through a tea stained (urine stained?) copy of Metro. Mind you, the plane might crash on the way, so...
I mean, don’t get me wrong, I bloody love this city, and my friends and family here are ace, and I’m going to miss people A LOT....But, now I’ve resigned and told everyone that i’m going, it would be, um, pretty hard to change my mind. Changing my mind at this stage would, I imagine, be something akin to having a heady row with someone, slamming the door, only to reappear moments later in order to collect your bag. Not that smooth apparently.
Anyway, so I’ve set up this blog. I’m not 100 percent sure why, or even what exactly it’s for...or really what I’m supposed to write...but we’ll see how it goes, eh? I like the idea of a bit of self indulgent rambling.
K, well that’s all for now.
x
*For a particularly impressive demonstration of everything facial hair can be, however, check out the character working the till of American Apparel on Great Eastern Street, E2. In terms of engineering feats, this bloke sports an impressive example of advanced follicular design. i.e. If the Golden Gate Bridge was a moustache, this would be it.
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