DID SO GO

Two weeks brief holiday. Ah Europe, I hardly knew ye. Still, it was fun. Read all about it in the fourteen posts below (in your leisure hours over the holidays, perhaps, or simply any time when the tedium of life gets to you, and you need to escape): Thrill to my joy in eating, my madcap inability to find places, my continual missing of trains, my arcing lethargy. Complete with pictures and the the occasional movie.

Toronto airport, waiting for the 10pm flight; I want my bed.

Venetian angel in my bedroom, silently awaiting my return

DON'T FORGET TO CHECK MY REGULAR BLOG: zchilco.blogspot.com  for all the daily stuff of my musical career.

DAY ONE

Arrived the first morning at 10am their time; (5am with no sleep on the plane).  Kathryn picked me up and drove me to their house: cup of tea, then slept for two hours.  By the time we left, walked to the train station through the English countryside (I kept thinking: “It's just like on TV – that Midsummer murder show – and in fact they film some episodes there) – it was getting on in the day, and we still had the ride into London. I got to my first sightseeing spot – Big Ben and Westminster Abbey, but it was dark by then, and after seeing the abbey marvels, I had to eat. First things first.

Eleven pounds for fish and chips!!! And no cole slaw! - that's $20 bloody dollars!  But I'm on holiday...., so I pay and attack the tour again:

“Frith Street? Yah, turn left at the corner” “Right”, I answer. (No, left, ha ha). But the joke really is that at the end of the street, there exists not a corner at all, but a seething circle of vehicles and people, and off the circle are tentacles going in every direction possible.   'Left' could be a choice of four or five avenues.  Must be the Roman model. So, I am left to my 'roamin', never finding what I seek, but discovering lots on the way (Hey, is this symbolic? Am I deep? Or simply lost, as usual?) In any case, for a first visit ever to this city, and in the dark, I'm doing alright. Wandering on the convoluted streets, I finally found Ronnie Scott's famous jazz club.  Unfortunately, a musician I didn't really want to see playing both nights I was there.  The upstairs jam started too late for me, especially when I only wanted to sing, so I just took a few pictures, and went home.

walking to the train station in Denham

The Abbey lying down

the famous jazz club

would have like to see the 'commitments' stage show...

DAY TWO

Ron wanted to show me the countryside a bit; saw a lovely, carved house; went to a farm where they get eggs and such; got accused of bringing the cold weather to England; had soup and a biscuit at a lovely cafe in Beaconsfield.  Then the train into London again (20 minutes), where I fell to writing:

It was my Italian grandfather, who didn't speak much English, even after many years in Toronto, who said to my cousin Donna and myself, on my one and only sleepover on Grenadier Avenue - “lotsa fun, eh?” - this after a huge twenty-minute scream-fest with my grandmother, in Italian, of course. I only caught the occasional “stupido”, but at 12 years old, I took this phrase and philosophy, and maintain it to the present. I apply it often.

So I'm on the train from Beaconsfield (very posh area west of London), on my way through the surprisingly sunny autumn landscape. Looks like I might not get too many daylight hours in the big city again, but hey, I can't do everything. I'll see a few landmarks, maybe go to the theatre, and of course eat at outrageous prices. My friends Kathryn and Ron have been great, putting me up in their lovely home. I love the buildings and history and houses here.

In London, I wander again, never being able to return to the same place I was just two minutes before – I can't believe how complicated the street system is.  I mostly miss things – the start of a trend on this trip.  I get everywhere too late. Today, it's the Tower of London.  Why the hell would they close at 4pm? Oh well. “lotsa fun, eh?” More pics, and whatever is still open, and just the crowds and street sights, which are great. But before the day is out, I will meet my Waterloo, as it were.

I mean, I had to eat, didn't I? so got to Waterloo station after the theatre show had already begun, but still, I pressed on with purpose.  Trouble was, no one at the Waterloo station, which is enormous and tremendously confusing, could tell me where Waterloo Road was.  Really.  About five Londoners said “er, I really don't know”. When I finally found it  and made the long walk to the Old Vic, the front desk had closed.  Sorry, madam. If I hadn't by the smallest (Zoe) chance seen the manager, and if he hadn't been such a sympathetic and lovely person (after I'd told him – whined, really – that I'd come all the way from Toronto and was leaving the next day) – why, I mightn't have got one of his free tickets. Unfortunately, Vanessa Redgrave was sick that night, but James Earle Jones and the rest of the cast were great. So my Waterloo experience ended happily, unlike Napoleon's.

the carved house in the countryside of England

the big tall fake guy in Picadilly Circus (i think)

me sideways in the circus

Trafalgar Square

outside the Tower of London

inside the Old Vic

with me added

DAY THREE

the 50^th anniversary of JFK's murder; but no one in the gigantic and glittering city of Heathrow airport thinks of that. I'm off to Barcelona, and hopefully, a little warmth. When I get there and off the airport bus, it's getting dark again, and I'm in the middle of Place Espana.  Very exciting. 

I ride the metro to the hostel stop; ask a passing woman where I might find the Apollo Theatre, because the hostel is supposedly right behind it.  She looks at me strangely, and indicates the huge sign across the street.  Oh. Gracias, Senora.  Check in, unload, and I feel extremely tired, but decide I must walk a bit and see something that day before bed. There's a jazz fest in a club right across the street, but it's sold out, so I wander and take pictures.

off the airport bus; place Espana

i'm sooooo excited

lights on Las Ramblas

sculture detail on a Gaudi building (didn't know it was his, but liked it)

DAY FOUR

Sunshine; I take the metro to a big square, eat, and walk, then get a local bus to get to the famous Gaudi church Sagrada Familia.  I applaud myself for getting directions from the lady sitting next to me who speaks rapid-fire Spanish. When I alight, I think 'What the wha?', when I see the scaffolding at the top of the church spires. I learn later that construction is an on-going process – this amazing work begun in the early 1900's.  I wait in line 40 minutes, not bad considering the dire predictions, and it's sunny; I have time to study the map and plot my next site. When I get inside, I am speechless; it is astoundingly beautiful and transports me. I can't believe that anyone can even conceive this architecture, let alone build it.  The sun comes through the stained glass, a gift of timing, and it alters my brain – this also part of Gaudi's vision.  Beauty, serenity, and most of all, intelligence. I want to live there. Life everywhere else only makes me sad. My camera battery ran out just before I entered (continuing my tradition of 'whoops, missed that'), so it's all in my personal memory banks, but I've copied some shots from the brochures...

I leave, and cross the park to the Irish Bar that I saw on the map while in line.  I'm in Barcelona, but I walk in and say 'Dia dhuit' to the bartender (Gaelic). He looks at me blankly because he's from Belfast where they don't learn their own language – English rule and all. The menu in the Michael Collins pub doesn't appeal too much except for the “hot large baked potato”. I order it and eat the largest potato I have ever seen,-  took up the whole plate,- and topped with cheese, and corn, -side salad too - was quite delicious. I ate while listening to Viva Las Vegas by Elvis simultaneously with the Liverpool/Everton soccer game televised in the backroom, cheers punctuating every few minutes. “lotsa fun, eh?”  Back on earth for sure.

I go on to the second Gaudi building, 'La Pedrera', an apartment building of joyous, crazy proportions. Lots of photo ops; no camera, and without that aid, better focus.  That's my story.

It's dark, all lit up, and crowded with people when I exit, so I wander a bit before going back to the hostel, after which I try to locate a jazz jam advertised in the London Bar the night before.  Nobody knows the street, not even when I travel to the area, but finally one person suggests a route.  I find the club and enter in time for the last tune of the night. Oh dear, too late again. Missed my chance to sing. But there's a blues jam the next night...

on the way to Sagrada Familia

a small part of it

interior pillars, but you have to see the whole thing

same thing applies to the windows;; the whole is magnificent

painted garage door near the elusive club