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My name is Alison, and I am an addict.

12 May

I’m addicted to walking tours. Simply cannot get enough of them. That either means I’m a nerd or a retiree. You do the math.

In any case, there’s a great walking tour company here in London (London Walks) willing to indulge me. Since I’ve been to London before and checked off most of the typical touristy spots in other visits, I’m using these walks to familiarize myself with some of the lesser-explored bits of the city.

King Kong, Elvis and Henry VIII - I like the way they think!

Monday I did the “London’s Secret Village” tour, which had us tromping around in Clerkenwell – in London’s central borough of Islington. Among the highlights:

  • Seeing where William Wallace (you know, the dude from Braveheart?) was beheaded.
  • Visiting a Plague Pit, knowing the soil below me was the resting place for hundreds of bodies from the 1665 plague.
  • Crossing the square where Dickens’ Oliver Twist got nabbed for picking the wrong pocket.
  • Learning that the subterranean River Fleet had so much sewer gas build up that it once exploded.
  • Spotting one of London’s most filmed churches – St. Bartholomew’s Church – known from The Other Boleyn Girl, Sherlock Holmes, Four Weddings & a Funeral, etc. – and learning that Henry VIII is considered the church’s second founder simply for not having it torn down when he was demolishing all things Catholic.

Jesus Hot Tub Time Machine.

Tuesday, Alan joined me for the “Inside the Ancient City” tour, where we weaved around back alleys north of the Tower and St. Paul’s. Among its highlights:

  • Pepys (pronounced “Peeps” like the Easter treat, not some version of Pepsi, which is what I was trying to do) – who wrote an amazing diary during the plague/fire of the 1600s but kept it in code because he was cheating on his wife.
    • Another Pepys reference that made me feel like I knew him: when his place was on the edge of the fire line, he figured he had half a day to save his prized possessions before the place burned. What did he do? Buried cases wine and a wheel of parmesan cheese. (I totally appreciate his priorities.)
  • Leadenhall Market: a cute functioning arcade that served as Diagon Alley in the Harry Potter movies.
  • The most perfect church in London: the church of St. Stephen Walbrook, which looks like nothing on the outside, but is a breath-taking church on the inside. Courtesy of Sir Christopher Wren (as is almost every other church in this city).
    • Odd note: the interior may be gorgeous, but the priest there in the 1970s decided to have a new, central altar commissioned by Henry Moore. I’m sure in an art museum it would look amazing, but in the midst of a 17th century church, it looks a bit odd. Like a Flintstone hot tub.
  • George & Vulture Pub: where Dickens’ family still meets every Christmas Eve to have dinner and raise a toast in his honor.

The thing that made the joint tour with Alan particularly fun was that we had a guy in the tour group who was VOCALLY EXCITED. By which I mean that he would burst out in a loud affirmation occasionally. I nicknamed him “Blurt Reynolds,” but Alan, being a bit more kind, referred to him as, “Joie de Vivre.”

I think London is having a mellowing effect on Alan.

(I’ve also done the Hampstead and Kensington walks, and will summarize them later for my friends who are armchair travelers.)

The moral(s) of this story: walking tours rock, I’m a nerd, and you might actually learn a bit of British trivia from reading this blog. Please humor me.

I’ll take function over beauty any day. In a bathroom.

10 May

Since I’ve done a crap job explaining why my posts are coming to you live from England this week, let me back up: Alan is working on a case in the UK for at least a month, so I (being ever so spontaneous) decided to hop a flight and join him for a week.

He’s staying in a corporate apartment near Kings Cross, which is handy because it has daily housekeeping and laundry service. Sounds like a great perk, but we’re both kind of weird about housekeeping — we usually only remove the DND sign from the door if we need new towels, preferring privacy to having a stranger make the bed. But this trip, I keep lobbying to let them in because they stock the fridge with fresh milk for our tea.

The apartment itself is quite nice — it was remodeled in the last few months, so it has nice modern finishes and a gorgeous bathroom. BUT (and this is a pretty big but, which is why I capitalized it): a pretty bathroom is not necessarily a practical bathroom. Especially if more than one person is sharing the space.

Exhibit A: The Toilet

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The people around these parts sure are friendly…

9 May

Alan and I found the UK’s version of Atlantic City yesterday: Brighton.

Well, that’s not an entirely fair comparison. The carnival-like atmosphere surrounding Brighton Pier isn’t indicative of the entire town’s vibe. But when you’re down by the beach, let’s just say: you will not be lacking for opportunities to a) win a stuffed animal, b) have your weight guessed, or c) tour a haunted house.

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OK, OK. So that is largely limited to the shenanigans you find on Brighton Pier and the surrounding boardwalk area. Elsewhere, Brighton has a lot to offer to people who AREN’T interested in having their weight guessed by a man with a moustache: there is the North Laine (the old part of town bursting with twisting alleys of restaurants and shops), the Royal Pavilion (a vacation home built for the king in a style of architecture uniquely middle eastern) and the Victorian Gardens (self explanatory).

So all of that explains why Alan and I ventured to Brighton yesterday for a little “beach” exploration while we’re on vacation. What that *doesn’t* explain is our first interaction in the town of Brighton, which took place at a pub called the Camelford Arms.

It was a sweet pub with a friendly bartender, but it wasn’t terribly busy when we arrived. In fact, other than one gentleman who say reading a paper by the fireplace, we had it to ourselves. Braced with a couple pints, we sat at a table off to the side to create a loose plan for the day.

One of our objectives was to find the Brighton Festival, an arts festival running the entire month of May, but we couldn’t find it on our map. “Maybe I should just ask the bartender,” Alan suggested.

As he said that, I glanced up at the bartender. And realized that the place had gotten somewhat busier while we were downing our pints. “I mean, he was exceptionally friendly,” Alan continued.

A lightbulb went off in my mind. “Alan,” I interrupted. “I think this place is Brighton’s equivalent of Stetsons.” I looked at him meaningfully, hoping he would connect the dots leading back to the gay bar on my block back in DC.

“Stetsons?” he asked, clearly NOT getting my subtle reference.

“Stetsons,” I reiterated. Then, becoming a bit impatient, said, “Have you noticed that I am the only woman in here?”

Ahhhh. I could see him processing what I had said, then the dawning realization as all the signs started to blink at him… the uber-friendly bartender, the all-male clientele, the prevalence of man purses, the first semblance of decent fashion we had seen in Brighton.

After we left, he asked what had tipped me off. “Probably the guy whose entire crotch was ripped out of his jeans. I just couldn’t see a straight man getting away with that look.”

Leave it to me… I travel 3,700 miles and manage to land in a neighborhood just like home.

A little taste of Spain in the District.

24 Apr

Image Credit: ©2010 Estadio - http://estadio-dc.com/gallery/

To thank us for dog-sitting Shadow in March, my friends Mike and Betsy treated Alan and me to dinner last night at Estadio, a tapas restaurant in Logan Circle. I’ve often walked past and drooled at the offerings through the window, but I’ve been slow to pull the trigger on a meal there because I’m a) frugal and b) a bottomless pit, which makes tapas a doubly-expensive proposition.

But I’m so glad to have generous friends with good taste, because we were treated to an exceptional evening. I’ll do my best to recreate the meal, just to make my foodie friends hungry…

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Don’t tug too hard or you’ll destroy it.

18 Apr

Who wants a phallus for Christmas?

At pottery this weekend I asked Jill to demonstrate how she pulls and attaches a handle to a mug.

I’ve been trying to do it during open studio without guidance, and as a result, my handles have come out looking bent, uneven and generally like they won’t stay on for a single dishwasher cycle.

As always, Jill made it look easy. But even in the hands of a lesbian, the process of pulling a handle also looked – well – dirty. You basically have to keep pulling on a piece of clay until it gets long and smooth, shaped much like a… nevermind.

As Jill was demonstrating this technique, she said, “Now be careful when you go to attach it. You want to keep pulling on it to work the clay, but you don’t want to jerk it off.”

Then, because she’s awesome, she caught herself and – as if she were Beavis’s seventy-year old grandmother, said, “Heh-heh. Don’t jerk it off!”

And that’s why I like pottery.