Judging by my bike ride home today, Paris is full of two-wheeled idiots. This is not only their fault...I do partly blame the Mayor who introduced the concept of almost-free bike provision ever 300 metres (you insert you card, take a bike, bike it for up to half an hour for ' free' - there's an annual fee of 30 euros - then drop it off at the appropriate velib stand...and to be fair, it's a good idea and environmentally laudable), and I partly blame the 18 Kg, 3 non-breakable-gear, no-removable-parts, earth coloured bikes themselves for being far too heavy to bike at any speed, but mostly I blame the so-called cyclists who CANNOT RIDE A BIKE.
The other day, I had to negotiate a 30-strong group of tourists who had chosen to view Paris by velib. The problem is that bike lanes are only a few feet wide and overtaking slow moving tourist-monument-focused velibbers is not always a simple feat. Add to this the fact that are not, in fact, bike lanes everywhere and overtaking slow moving tourist-monument-focused velibbers can become a slightly more dangerous matter. Even when they are non tourist-monument-focused (but they are always slow moving), overtaking can be a lethal, well, undertaking. An essential component of completing your journey successfully (ie alive and relatively undamaged) is a matter of 1. being fast (biking at the speed of traffic greatly enhances your survivability factor) 2. being aggressive (confidence is not enough: you often have to fight for your space on the road) 3. experience: of traffic-light-changing cycles, the standard response of motorists (so that a loud horn blare in your ear doesn't scare the living daylights out of you and thereby knock you off your bike), how to prevent yourself being carved in two by a scooter, and what roads require extra vigilence (all if they are within the 75 Paris city limit but particularly those with openable car doors alongside them).
As the weather has been better, it came as no surprise to me today that the percentage of bikes on the road has increased around - by my estimate - 300 percent. It's now possible to distinguish cyclists according to one feature alone: those with their own bike, thereby by default non-velibbers, and the foolhardy velibbers. Velibbers don't have helmets. Proper cyclists do. Velibbers can't ride bikes. Proper cyclists can.
Today I was biking up one of the major routes home when I encountered a steady stream of crawling velibbers in front of me, requiring me to join the fast taxi-traffic (the worst kind) in the bus lane, only to round the next corner, find a comfortable distance between a car on my left and the parked door-openable cars on my right, when this time a SMART CAR (ha ha) forced itself between the two of us. There was no space for any kind of car, even if it was allegedly smart, and the shock of a wing mirror so close to my hip gave me a bit of a shock, and that was the closest I've come to eating pavement.
Sometimes, the fault is mine. There's a notorious spot where it is necessary to cross from the bus lane (where bikes can be happy) on the right hand side, across 4 lanes of traffic desperate to get home, to make a left turn but to end up on the right hand side of that road, where the bus lane is. A bus was passing very close so the non-velib cyclist in front of me stopped (sensibly). The bus passed, I pulled out, but misjudged it and received a long honk from the taxi behind me.
Two advantages of the velibbing I suppose is that cars are more aware of cyclists who can't bike and are therefore (hopefully) more vigilant, improving everyone's lives. And secondly, all those velibbers must have come from somewhere, which might give me a quieter scooter run in the mornings.
The other road users, I discovered yesterday, are the French national cycling team...with full on leg-wax, lycra all-in-ones, fancy bikes, helmets and cleats. I only saw the back of them as they thrashed me home, even on the scooter.
Rome
Rome was good, but for some reason....
1. I don’t check the exact departure time of my bus, so hurry about of work, put pressure on the ticket man in the kiosk where I buy my ticket, dash on the bus and then have to sit for 20 minutes while it fills up.
2. I check-in, only to be told that I had booked for handluggage only and now need to pay €12 to check-in luggage. This annoys me as I specifically tried to find on the Ryanair website on Thursday whether I had hand luggage only or not. I go off to pay my €12 and am fuming at stupid Ryanair. I have bottles over 100ml so have no choice. Am also very annoyed at the terrorists who have so inconvenienced me.
3. a 2 hour delay is announced. TWO HOURS! We are now pushing the latest departure time from Beauvais as flights are not allowed to take off after midnight. If we miss the slot, we get driven to Lille and have to fly from there.
4. we are called forward for boarding and walk to the plane and queue. Someone realizes the back door is also open. 100 Italians suddenly race for the back door, pushing and shoving. One gentleman tries to cut the racing hoards by crossing the ropes in place to keep passengers away from the engines. This is met with whistles, yells and incredulous gesticulating by French ground crew before he finally crosses back over the ropes.
5. we board at 11pm. The plane is full of Italians. Boarding takes a long time. Captain announces that if we load quickly, we may be able to take-off and make-up time. This is followed a few minutes later by an announcement saying we can’t find 9 passengers and if they don’t show and we have to unload their luggage we will miss the midnight deadline.
6. the 9 passengers arrive but we miss our take-off slot. Take-off is now delayed by 20 minutes until we can get our next take-off slot.
7. we arrive in Rome. The Italians clap. This amazes me as we had a pretty harsh landing: we seemed to float out the sky and then hover above the runway for quite some distance when the captain obviously got bored and stuck the brakes on so we dropped out the sky.
8. the Ryanair bus is still there, so I make a run for it. Driver tells me you buy tickets inside. I go back inside. By the time I come out, the bus has left. I have to wait for the next one.
9. I get the next one with the last 2 remaining passengers. We travel the 40 minute journey into Rome in 20 minutes thanks to our teenage Italian driver and his amazing one-handed abilities while using a mobile phone and changing radio stations to find the most offensive techno music he can.
10. we split all bills, despite the fact I eat and drink substantially less than the two big English blokes who are part of our group. I protest at one meal only to be given the change I would have been given if the bill had been equally split, so I decide not to argue the point.
11. the queue for the Dome of St Peter’s is offensively long. I stand in it anyway. It is still offensively long 45 minutes later. I finally see the Dome and Rome from the Dome.
12. the toilet queue is huge. It’s not cool of me, but I am so annoyed at all the Italians pushing and shoving and blocking the door to get out and not moving aside even when I stand there for 2 minutes to show them that I can’t get out unless they move, which they don’t, that I push past anyway and step on a little girl. Not nice of me.
13. I get blisters on both feet.
14. everyone else gets sunburn. I am the only one who has brought suncream and doesn’t burn. Everyone askas to borrow it. This is no problem except that a) it is Vichy and I love it b) it’s the gel version so it’s extra posh c) I had tried to find some more last week but could only find it in factor 20, not 30. I share it round 7 other people. Everybody stops burning.
15. on Sunday, we take our bags to the station and leave them in left luggage because some people find that safer than in the hotel. The queue takes 35 minutes.
16. back at the airport, I have to pay another €12 to check-in my bag again.
17. I go through security. They notice 2 bottles. One is my water bottle: no problem. The other is my Vichy. It’s 150 ml. They take it.
18. it’s at this point that I crack. I have had enough. I go to the toilets to at least sniffle in peace. First toilet door lock is broken. Have to go to another one.
19. the flight is awful. Over the Alps we experience extremely bad turbulence and shocking noises coming from the engine and we descend quickly....but then level out, thankfully.
20. I hope that the flash I saw when driving home was a tourist camera flash and not a speed camera flash.
1. I don’t check the exact departure time of my bus, so hurry about of work, put pressure on the ticket man in the kiosk where I buy my ticket, dash on the bus and then have to sit for 20 minutes while it fills up.
2. I check-in, only to be told that I had booked for handluggage only and now need to pay €12 to check-in luggage. This annoys me as I specifically tried to find on the Ryanair website on Thursday whether I had hand luggage only or not. I go off to pay my €12 and am fuming at stupid Ryanair. I have bottles over 100ml so have no choice. Am also very annoyed at the terrorists who have so inconvenienced me.
3. a 2 hour delay is announced. TWO HOURS! We are now pushing the latest departure time from Beauvais as flights are not allowed to take off after midnight. If we miss the slot, we get driven to Lille and have to fly from there.
4. we are called forward for boarding and walk to the plane and queue. Someone realizes the back door is also open. 100 Italians suddenly race for the back door, pushing and shoving. One gentleman tries to cut the racing hoards by crossing the ropes in place to keep passengers away from the engines. This is met with whistles, yells and incredulous gesticulating by French ground crew before he finally crosses back over the ropes.
5. we board at 11pm. The plane is full of Italians. Boarding takes a long time. Captain announces that if we load quickly, we may be able to take-off and make-up time. This is followed a few minutes later by an announcement saying we can’t find 9 passengers and if they don’t show and we have to unload their luggage we will miss the midnight deadline.
6. the 9 passengers arrive but we miss our take-off slot. Take-off is now delayed by 20 minutes until we can get our next take-off slot.
7. we arrive in Rome. The Italians clap. This amazes me as we had a pretty harsh landing: we seemed to float out the sky and then hover above the runway for quite some distance when the captain obviously got bored and stuck the brakes on so we dropped out the sky.
8. the Ryanair bus is still there, so I make a run for it. Driver tells me you buy tickets inside. I go back inside. By the time I come out, the bus has left. I have to wait for the next one.
9. I get the next one with the last 2 remaining passengers. We travel the 40 minute journey into Rome in 20 minutes thanks to our teenage Italian driver and his amazing one-handed abilities while using a mobile phone and changing radio stations to find the most offensive techno music he can.
10. we split all bills, despite the fact I eat and drink substantially less than the two big English blokes who are part of our group. I protest at one meal only to be given the change I would have been given if the bill had been equally split, so I decide not to argue the point.
11. the queue for the Dome of St Peter’s is offensively long. I stand in it anyway. It is still offensively long 45 minutes later. I finally see the Dome and Rome from the Dome.
12. the toilet queue is huge. It’s not cool of me, but I am so annoyed at all the Italians pushing and shoving and blocking the door to get out and not moving aside even when I stand there for 2 minutes to show them that I can’t get out unless they move, which they don’t, that I push past anyway and step on a little girl. Not nice of me.
13. I get blisters on both feet.
14. everyone else gets sunburn. I am the only one who has brought suncream and doesn’t burn. Everyone askas to borrow it. This is no problem except that a) it is Vichy and I love it b) it’s the gel version so it’s extra posh c) I had tried to find some more last week but could only find it in factor 20, not 30. I share it round 7 other people. Everybody stops burning.
15. on Sunday, we take our bags to the station and leave them in left luggage because some people find that safer than in the hotel. The queue takes 35 minutes.
16. back at the airport, I have to pay another €12 to check-in my bag again.
17. I go through security. They notice 2 bottles. One is my water bottle: no problem. The other is my Vichy. It’s 150 ml. They take it.
18. it’s at this point that I crack. I have had enough. I go to the toilets to at least sniffle in peace. First toilet door lock is broken. Have to go to another one.
19. the flight is awful. Over the Alps we experience extremely bad turbulence and shocking noises coming from the engine and we descend quickly....but then level out, thankfully.
20. I hope that the flash I saw when driving home was a tourist camera flash and not a speed camera flash.
Driving in Paris
There's still nothing quite like making it round the Arc de Trimophe and down the Champs-Élysées alive, although it is rather confusing at the moment as there are blue lines everywhere to help the tanks know where to park for the 14th of July celebrations...as if Parisian drivers need any help in trying to make 4 lanes out of a 3 lane road.
In the past few days I have been witness to 2 acts of driver-related kindness and 1 act of grave stupidity. On my push-bike the other day, a driver in a little white micra was on my right on a one-way street and a scooter was ahead of him. In trying to over take the scooter by passing on the left, he did a quick yank of his wheel to the left, then checked his mirrors. Having seen my startled look, swift braking and clear yet decisive evasive manoeuvres, he slowed down, allowed me to pass him again and as I drew level, took both hands off the steering wheel, faced me, adopted the praying position and begged for my mercy. I smiled to show I had accepted his apology but simultaneously threw him a stern look to remind him to look first next time. Then I sauntered off. However, the other morning I was on my way to work on the scooter when ANOTHER little white micra over took me on the right hand side NOT on a one-lane road (tut tut). He was awfully close and I got a big fright but his progress was slowed by a big truck ahead and a taxi on his right, between which was a scooter. The next idiot in the white micra took the right hand lane, the truck in the left, the taxi further right in the taxi lane and me behind watching it all. At one point on Rue de Rivoli, the taxi lane and right hand normal lane are suddenly physically separated by a solid white curb with a platic cone as the only warning. I'm not sure what happened by the taxi was clearly in his lane, the white micra was pushing to get past the truck and the poor scooter literally ended up driving straight into the cone. He was ahead of the micra so the driver should have let him through but was obviously an idiot. The scooter man bounced slightly off the cone, lost his balance, had to put his foot on the floor, the bike went over the curb, the engine cut, the bike started to lean, the white micra stopped, the bike fell over, the driver jumped off, and the bike landed in front of the micra. All traffic came to a standstill except for the truck who kept going and me right behind it. Needless to say, everyone in my lane stopped for a better look, so I sailed onwards with clear roads. And finally, yesterday on my way in by bike I was bombing along the Quai as per my usual route, when the bus up ahead of me stopped, dealt with his new passengers and kept waiting. As I couldn't pass between the curb and buss, this forced me to join the fast moving stream of traffic to pass the bus. Only as I was passing did I realise there was a red light about 100 metres ahead and the only reason the bus wasn't moving was because he thought he may as well wait at the stop as at the red light. However, as I had been forced to risk life and limb to pass the bus while he snoozed, when he saw me he stuck his hand out the window and made apologetic gestures and, once the light was green, gave me a friendly beep as he passed. Couldn've been the blonde hair streaming...could've been a bus driver just having a good day. Either way, even if they make mistakes, at least they still know they are and feel bad. I just wish I could trade that for chocolate.....
In the past few days I have been witness to 2 acts of driver-related kindness and 1 act of grave stupidity. On my push-bike the other day, a driver in a little white micra was on my right on a one-way street and a scooter was ahead of him. In trying to over take the scooter by passing on the left, he did a quick yank of his wheel to the left, then checked his mirrors. Having seen my startled look, swift braking and clear yet decisive evasive manoeuvres, he slowed down, allowed me to pass him again and as I drew level, took both hands off the steering wheel, faced me, adopted the praying position and begged for my mercy. I smiled to show I had accepted his apology but simultaneously threw him a stern look to remind him to look first next time. Then I sauntered off. However, the other morning I was on my way to work on the scooter when ANOTHER little white micra over took me on the right hand side NOT on a one-lane road (tut tut). He was awfully close and I got a big fright but his progress was slowed by a big truck ahead and a taxi on his right, between which was a scooter. The next idiot in the white micra took the right hand lane, the truck in the left, the taxi further right in the taxi lane and me behind watching it all. At one point on Rue de Rivoli, the taxi lane and right hand normal lane are suddenly physically separated by a solid white curb with a platic cone as the only warning. I'm not sure what happened by the taxi was clearly in his lane, the white micra was pushing to get past the truck and the poor scooter literally ended up driving straight into the cone. He was ahead of the micra so the driver should have let him through but was obviously an idiot. The scooter man bounced slightly off the cone, lost his balance, had to put his foot on the floor, the bike went over the curb, the engine cut, the bike started to lean, the white micra stopped, the bike fell over, the driver jumped off, and the bike landed in front of the micra. All traffic came to a standstill except for the truck who kept going and me right behind it. Needless to say, everyone in my lane stopped for a better look, so I sailed onwards with clear roads. And finally, yesterday on my way in by bike I was bombing along the Quai as per my usual route, when the bus up ahead of me stopped, dealt with his new passengers and kept waiting. As I couldn't pass between the curb and buss, this forced me to join the fast moving stream of traffic to pass the bus. Only as I was passing did I realise there was a red light about 100 metres ahead and the only reason the bus wasn't moving was because he thought he may as well wait at the stop as at the red light. However, as I had been forced to risk life and limb to pass the bus while he snoozed, when he saw me he stuck his hand out the window and made apologetic gestures and, once the light was green, gave me a friendly beep as he passed. Couldn've been the blonde hair streaming...could've been a bus driver just having a good day. Either way, even if they make mistakes, at least they still know they are and feel bad. I just wish I could trade that for chocolate.....
zzzzzzzzz
I went to sleep last night in the recovery position – you know half on my side etc and once I’d settled, Jack jumped up on the bed, walked over to me and tried to climb up my back to find a comfy spot to sleep. But because I was at an angle, he kept sliding off. He ended up with his weight on his back legs supported by the bed, stretched out across my back with his front paws and head on my side behind my arm. And like that we slept.
Summer rain
Just because you're down in one area of life, it doesn't meant that everything else suddenly goes your way. Take last Monday evening for instance. I'd progressed from crying in the work toilets to crying in the Church toilets (bad day), but I was only in Church because we had a council meeting, during which, it was sprung on us that we would be having our photos taken for public display. I haven't seen the outcome yet but I'm told photoshop changes red eyes to blue. As we were finishing up the sky darkened, which is not unusual at 10 o'clock at night, but very soon the heavens opened. And I mean to-r-r-ential rain. My heart sank yet further because I had chosen that day to ride my bike. There was nothing for it but to ask around for a rain jacket? Umbrella? Hat? Plastic bag even? The best we could collectively come up with was the Lost Property Box. I didn't find a rain jacket, umbrella, hat or plastic bag, but I did find a ma-hoo-sive blue down-jacket. The thing was a size 22 and had a little plastic hood that came out of the collar. I put it on and it swung around my knees. I rolled up the arms to the wrist, did up the hood so it almost choked me and looking like a gnome, I went out for my bike.
It's hard to bike when the stinging rain hits your face. It's also hard to bike when the once feather-light jacket you are wearing is absorbing water like a nappy and weighs a ton. Not only that, but it's hard to bike when the spray of buses, taxis and cars drenches the lower part of your legs that might otherwise have been protected by virtue of being located below a horizontal thigh, and what the buses, taxis and cars didn't achieve was provided by zipping scooters, whose lighter spray was borne by the wind smack into my face. I was cold, wet, slow and distinctly unhappy.
There's no happy ending: I still had to carry my bike up the stairs, negotiate it through the front door, on to the plastic sheet, and sit on a damp saddle the next morning, but it looks like I live to tell another tale....
It's hard to bike when the stinging rain hits your face. It's also hard to bike when the once feather-light jacket you are wearing is absorbing water like a nappy and weighs a ton. Not only that, but it's hard to bike when the spray of buses, taxis and cars drenches the lower part of your legs that might otherwise have been protected by virtue of being located below a horizontal thigh, and what the buses, taxis and cars didn't achieve was provided by zipping scooters, whose lighter spray was borne by the wind smack into my face. I was cold, wet, slow and distinctly unhappy.
There's no happy ending: I still had to carry my bike up the stairs, negotiate it through the front door, on to the plastic sheet, and sit on a damp saddle the next morning, but it looks like I live to tell another tale....
Rain, rain, go away...
Weather reports had been warning us for days of impending storms and weather-related doom and gloom, so when Friday dawned bright and hot, it was easy to think the weathermen were wrong again. It was hot outside, hot in my office, and very, very hot when I left work. It's about 11km home and around the 8km mark are various shops. Being short of fish food for our tropical friends at work, it was my turn to get some assorted treats to help see them through another week. When I came out the shop, I happened to be facing south and when I looked up, could see huge purple storm clouds rolling in. The air had thickened and it was now becoming increasingly muggy. By the time I had turned on to my street, the sky had turned an amazing shade of green. By the time I had locked up my bike in the courtyard, the wind had really picked up. Windows were slamming, the trees were waving in all directions, litter started to whirl along the street and people started to speed up. By the time I had gone inside, grabbed an umbrella, rolled up my trousers and put on my flip flops (nothing like anticipating all eventualities), and returned to the street, pedestrians were sprinting, a hurricane force wind snatched my bag off my shoulder, my hair was everywhere, cars were beeping, scooters were scootling, and the first fat blobs of rain started to fall. Within seconds, the heavens darkened, the sun vanished and we were plunged into twilight. By the time I had reached the supermaket (a distance of 50 metres from my house), all street lights were on, the heavens were opening, people were running helter skelter and the wind took my umbrella. By the time I paid at the front of the supermarket (the need for toilet paper exceeds even major storms), around 20 people were in the doorway, most looking as wet as if they'd just come out the shower, exchanging wry smiles and 'oo la las'. I, being prepared, set off for home. The streets were empty: traffic had stopped moving due to the force of the downpour (the noise was deafening), no soul was to be seen and the force of the rain made the drops bounce a foot high or so (it was warm so not too bad). The drains couldn't cope and the roads had turned to rivers. I had to cross a 2 metre wide swirling mass in order to get to my front door and the ground had turned grey from the amount of water. I was soaked (despite umbrella), but at least could dry off with a cup of tea...and record the moment:
If someone could tell me how to add a video, that would be helpful.
If someone could tell me how to add a video, that would be helpful.
Entertainment: Mexican style
I have never been a roadie, never been friends with a famous person, and never, never formed part of an entourage...until Friday 11th May.
I had only been in Cancun a few hours, but Anita had already presented me with a HIGHLY sought after back-stage pass to THE musical event of the year in Cancun, none other than the WORLD famous Joan Sébastien (a guy, incidentally) [http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joan_Sebastian]. He looked like a Mexican cowboy; he was a Mexican cowboy...and apparently a very famous and popular one at that.
The charity Anita works for [http://www.cityofjoyfoundation.org/] were to benefit from the proceeds of Mr. Sébastien's concert. It involved a lot of hanging around at the concert venue Mexican style before being bundled into a black suburban and driven to the Hotel Zone to await the star in his sumptuous hotel, which I spent a few minutes oggling at. Finally, he arrived with his 3 minders and we all had to get back into the suburban to go back to the concert venue and en route, Anita was to deploy her most professional skills and anecdotal witticisms to convince him to make a personal contribution. Note however, that she was looking the part in heels. Her blonde friend was rather shiftier in not-very-professional-looking-flip-flops. I didn't quite know what to do but didn't want to be left behind, so literally just got in the back of the car while Anita chatted up front. One minder glanced my way but for some reason didn't consider me a serious threat. Back to the venue we went. When they saw our beast of a vehicle, official guys with walkie-talkies cleared the road for us, opened the gates and we sailed through amidst a hail of flashing bulbs and blinding video camera lights. We shot round the back and entered into the back-stage area, where Anita got some official photos taken. They all swept into the venue and we were left standing there with nothing for it but to go and watch the concert.
Anita's blog entry sums up the rest of our weekend on a tropical island just off the north coast of the Yucatán Penninsula...be warned, it's an envy-producer. [http://www.mymagicroundabout.blogspot.com/]
I had only been in Cancun a few hours, but Anita had already presented me with a HIGHLY sought after back-stage pass to THE musical event of the year in Cancun, none other than the WORLD famous Joan Sébastien (a guy, incidentally) [http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joan_Sebastian]. He looked like a Mexican cowboy; he was a Mexican cowboy...and apparently a very famous and popular one at that.
The charity Anita works for [http://www.cityofjoyfoundation.org/] were to benefit from the proceeds of Mr. Sébastien's concert. It involved a lot of hanging around at the concert venue Mexican style before being bundled into a black suburban and driven to the Hotel Zone to await the star in his sumptuous hotel, which I spent a few minutes oggling at. Finally, he arrived with his 3 minders and we all had to get back into the suburban to go back to the concert venue and en route, Anita was to deploy her most professional skills and anecdotal witticisms to convince him to make a personal contribution. Note however, that she was looking the part in heels. Her blonde friend was rather shiftier in not-very-professional-looking-flip-flops. I didn't quite know what to do but didn't want to be left behind, so literally just got in the back of the car while Anita chatted up front. One minder glanced my way but for some reason didn't consider me a serious threat. Back to the venue we went. When they saw our beast of a vehicle, official guys with walkie-talkies cleared the road for us, opened the gates and we sailed through amidst a hail of flashing bulbs and blinding video camera lights. We shot round the back and entered into the back-stage area, where Anita got some official photos taken. They all swept into the venue and we were left standing there with nothing for it but to go and watch the concert.Anita's blog entry sums up the rest of our weekend on a tropical island just off the north coast of the Yucatán Penninsula...be warned, it's an envy-producer. [http://www.mymagicroundabout.blogspot.com/]
Train notes
We took the train from Santiago to Havana, which first involved a 5 hour bus journey from Baracoa to Santiago. The bus from Santiago to Havana would have taken us 14 hours and we'd had enough of buses, so we decided to hot foot it to the train station.
Once there, it turned out to be quite similar to France. We waited our turn at the ticket booth, only to be told that tickets for Havana were to be found in a white hut across a football field, around a corner and under a tree. This we found, and watched and watched while one cashier filed her nails, showed off her new underwear purchases, had a cigarette and gossiped with her workmates. The other cashier was counting a huge pile of notes, that required seconding and thirding by a few other members of staff. By the time they'd finished, we'd devoted a large amount of time to exaggerated foot tapping, sighing and yawning, as had the queue of some 30 people that had formed behind us.
Getting the tickets was simple enough, but the presentation of our 100 peso bill caused great excitement, with multiple holding up to the light, scanning, flicking and folding. We finally got our train tickets and waited in the waiting room. Cubans love their TVs and there's always one in a public space, so we had the pleasure of watching the equivalent of Fame Academy. An elderly man came up to us and spoke to us in English and provided some interesting information, such as the fact that our train was 2 hours late and that we had been paying around 25 times too much for a trip to the toilets.
When the train finally came it was 11pm; dark and sticky. There were no lights on the train, so we all crammed on and had to pat people's heads to find free seats. There were no windows, half a door and unspeakable loos. It was quite an experience and, unfortunately, a long one. It took us 21 hours to get to Havana, around 12 of which were in the baking sun and hot wind and few of which I went anywhere near the toilets.
Once there, it turned out to be quite similar to France. We waited our turn at the ticket booth, only to be told that tickets for Havana were to be found in a white hut across a football field, around a corner and under a tree. This we found, and watched and watched while one cashier filed her nails, showed off her new underwear purchases, had a cigarette and gossiped with her workmates. The other cashier was counting a huge pile of notes, that required seconding and thirding by a few other members of staff. By the time they'd finished, we'd devoted a large amount of time to exaggerated foot tapping, sighing and yawning, as had the queue of some 30 people that had formed behind us.
Getting the tickets was simple enough, but the presentation of our 100 peso bill caused great excitement, with multiple holding up to the light, scanning, flicking and folding. We finally got our train tickets and waited in the waiting room. Cubans love their TVs and there's always one in a public space, so we had the pleasure of watching the equivalent of Fame Academy. An elderly man came up to us and spoke to us in English and provided some interesting information, such as the fact that our train was 2 hours late and that we had been paying around 25 times too much for a trip to the toilets.
When the train finally came it was 11pm; dark and sticky. There were no lights on the train, so we all crammed on and had to pat people's heads to find free seats. There were no windows, half a door and unspeakable loos. It was quite an experience and, unfortunately, a long one. It took us 21 hours to get to Havana, around 12 of which were in the baking sun and hot wind and few of which I went anywhere near the toilets.
Ah, adventures.xx
morenoteswithoutaspacebar
...we DID make it to the beach as indicated in my previous entry, but it was more gale force wind from Jamaica than gentle tropical breeze. We did get a swim in, but eventually flying sand, falling coconuts and the vast array of rubbish continuously offered to us as souvenirs by sellers got the better of us and we trekked home. I felt every km of the 16 km route thanks to a stinking hot head wind...why we'd decided to travel by bike in the hottestpart of the day is still beyond me.
From Trinidad it was on to Santiago de Cuba which, unbelievably, was even more hot - in more ways than one. Saturday night seemed to be REALLY a Saturday night out for the locals - little skimpy outfits and big African bums, and that was just the guys. The girls spent their time wiggling and jiggling to salsa beats. Neither of us could compete at all with such classy moves and neon clothes, so we hid on the balcony to get some air.
We are now in Baracoa which is right in the east of Cuba. We had to come through Guantánamo to get here but couldn't see a single McDonalds goldenarch, naval base or terrorist. It's possible to get within about 50 km of the base up a very high hill, but you need your own transport...and a friendly passport.
It's a little bit cooler here and thankfully, a bit cloudy. I am fed up with factor 50 suncreamwhich attracts dust, dirt, bits of plant, flies and just about anything that crawls. It's much less touristy here so i get that 'celebrity' feeling sometimes when kids gawp open mouthed at us.
We set off this morning only armed with our trust Lonely Planet into the depths of the jungle, but first only after walking to the end of town, crossing a sea-flooded river mouth, negotiating a cocount-strewn path, trusting a rickety wooden bridge, asking locals for directions on numerous occasions and turning round 3 times. Eventually we found a path that led us for a few miles into the mountains, where we located a swimming hole (and a guide) in a cave.
We're off on Wednesday night back to Havana so that i have plenty of time before flying on Friday to see Anita (woohoo!).
Will find some spaces in timefor my next installment.
xxx
From Trinidad it was on to Santiago de Cuba which, unbelievably, was even more hot - in more ways than one. Saturday night seemed to be REALLY a Saturday night out for the locals - little skimpy outfits and big African bums, and that was just the guys. The girls spent their time wiggling and jiggling to salsa beats. Neither of us could compete at all with such classy moves and neon clothes, so we hid on the balcony to get some air.
We are now in Baracoa which is right in the east of Cuba. We had to come through Guantánamo to get here but couldn't see a single McDonalds goldenarch, naval base or terrorist. It's possible to get within about 50 km of the base up a very high hill, but you need your own transport...and a friendly passport.
It's a little bit cooler here and thankfully, a bit cloudy. I am fed up with factor 50 suncreamwhich attracts dust, dirt, bits of plant, flies and just about anything that crawls. It's much less touristy here so i get that 'celebrity' feeling sometimes when kids gawp open mouthed at us.
We set off this morning only armed with our trust Lonely Planet into the depths of the jungle, but first only after walking to the end of town, crossing a sea-flooded river mouth, negotiating a cocount-strewn path, trusting a rickety wooden bridge, asking locals for directions on numerous occasions and turning round 3 times. Eventually we found a path that led us for a few miles into the mountains, where we located a swimming hole (and a guide) in a cave.We're off on Wednesday night back to Havana so that i have plenty of time before flying on Friday to see Anita (woohoo!).
Will find some spaces in timefor my next installment.
xxx
Notes from a socialist country
Keyboard is slightly dodgy here so I'll see how far we get.
We arrived at Orly on Saturday morning to huge queues and mass chaos, but that's not unusual for Paris. What was different was that this was OUTSIDE the airport. Apparently there had been a bomb scare and sure enough, a red bag sat about 20 metres away from the security tape...so much for security. Desite all this, we made it safely to La Habana and were mighty chuffed we evaded paying the full tourist whack to get an official taxi from the airport to the city. Instead, using stealth and cunning, we sneaked up to the Arrivals area where local taxis were dropping Cubans off, and using a mixture of broken Spanish, lots of accented French and wild gesiticultions, we got the 'local' rate into town. First achievement.
We ended up in a really nice 'casa particular' (homestay) and were able to see a bit of Havana.
We arrived at Orly on Saturday morning to huge queues and mass chaos, but that's not unusual for Paris. What was different was that this was OUTSIDE the airport. Apparently there had been a bomb scare and sure enough, a red bag sat about 20 metres away from the security tape...so much for security. Desite all this, we made it safely to La Habana and were mighty chuffed we evaded paying the full tourist whack to get an official taxi from the airport to the city. Instead, using stealth and cunning, we sneaked up to the Arrivals area where local taxis were dropping Cubans off, and using a mixture of broken Spanish, lots of accented French and wild gesiticultions, we got the 'local' rate into town. First achievement.
We ended up in a really nice 'casa particular' (homestay) and were able to see a bit of Havana.
The next day we decided to go to Viñales, about 3 hours away by air-conditioned bus. We stayed in casa particular recommended to us by our casa paticular, which is pretty much the way we travelled for the rest of our time in Cuba...by air-conditioned bus to casa-particular-friends of our current casa-particular.
We had a great time in Viñales - it's a lush valley with rocky mountains and bright red dusty roads...which resulted in bright red dusty tourists. We rented bikes and headed for a local tourist destination; some caves where slaves hid after escaping from their nasty colonial masters. They entered through a deep cave into another valley surrounded by hills. There, a local farmer found us and showed us where the slaves hid, how they got water and how they warned each other by beating on the cliffs if danger came around the corner (or through the tunnel). The farmer also showed us his tobacco drying house and for a few pesos, posed for a photo.
We had a great time in Viñales - it's a lush valley with rocky mountains and bright red dusty roads...which resulted in bright red dusty tourists. We rented bikes and headed for a local tourist destination; some caves where slaves hid after escaping from their nasty colonial masters. They entered through a deep cave into another valley surrounded by hills. There, a local farmer found us and showed us where the slaves hid, how they got water and how they warned each other by beating on the cliffs if danger came around the corner (or through the tunnel). The farmer also showed us his tobacco drying house and for a few pesos, posed for a photo.
Our second achievement was to use our trusty hand gesticulations to locate a dirt track, which locals (and the Lonely Planet) told us led to a cave with a swimming hole. Joachim found the right track by miming the international sign for breastroke at everyone we saw and they kept pointing us in the right direction. It was a couple of kilometres down a definite 'off-road' track and by the time we got there in the blazing sun, we really needed a wash. Unfortunately, there was no light as the peso-accepting guide with the light had clearly gone for lunch. With no light and no hope of finding the water, there was nothing for it but to head to the nearest posh hotel on the hill with a swimming pool for the afternoon.
We tried to get back to Havana for the May day parade on 1 May, but it starts at 7am and when we arrived at 11 from the bus stop, it was finito. Shame, but it meant there was no reason to hang around in Havana as we had scheduled some days at the end for sight-seeing. So we returned all forlorn to our dear friends at the casa partciular and they arranged for a taxi to Trinidad. Private taxis operate the route and charge (tourists at least) the same price as the bus. Each time they drop someone off en route, they arrange to pick up someone else, so it was always a squash in the back. I ended up in the middle in the back with Joachim falling asleep on one shoulder and a random asleep on the other. Both being men and fairly tall , their legs were everywhere and I was sandwiched in between with a quarter of the available space. Eventually I decided to stop being British about it and just pushed back.
After 3 hours we stopped so the men could go wee-wee but us women (one other in the taxi) can't do it by the side of the road so we just had to sit there and cross our legs. Half way, we dropped off the guy to one side of me and went round town to pick up his replacement. Unfortunately, there was no answer at the house, which made our taxi driver bonkers, because for him the lost money is a big deal. He drove off shouting and yeling and smoking his ciggie furiously. When he flicked the ciggie out the window, some ash came back in and hit me in the eye in the strong wind from driving at speed, so then we were all grumpy. Once we had left town, we were stopped by a guy standing in the middle of the road looking SERIOUSLY grumpy. He started running towards the taxi and when our driver looked like he wasn't stopping (or aiming right at him, I'm not sure), the guy on the street threatened to throw stones at the windscreen. THAT made our driver stop abrutly, jump out, run to the back of the car, and dig out this massive great big machete!!! All the time he was yelling at the other guy that he had tourists in the car and what sort of an example of the great Cuban country was throwing stones. Eventually, the guy's mates calmed him down and the woman in the front of our car calmed the driver down (we sat in the back, quiet as mice), and we carried on our way. Our driver was clearly on edge after this escapade and at the next roaside shack he stopped and picked up a beer. At least it gave me time to run to the loo.
One more hour brought us to Trinidad where we still are. It's an amazing place with old colonial houses, cobbled streets, colour, old cars and zillions of tourists. Tomorrow: the beach and then onwards and eastwards.
We tried to get back to Havana for the May day parade on 1 May, but it starts at 7am and when we arrived at 11 from the bus stop, it was finito. Shame, but it meant there was no reason to hang around in Havana as we had scheduled some days at the end for sight-seeing. So we returned all forlorn to our dear friends at the casa partciular and they arranged for a taxi to Trinidad. Private taxis operate the route and charge (tourists at least) the same price as the bus. Each time they drop someone off en route, they arrange to pick up someone else, so it was always a squash in the back. I ended up in the middle in the back with Joachim falling asleep on one shoulder and a random asleep on the other. Both being men and fairly tall , their legs were everywhere and I was sandwiched in between with a quarter of the available space. Eventually I decided to stop being British about it and just pushed back.
After 3 hours we stopped so the men could go wee-wee but us women (one other in the taxi) can't do it by the side of the road so we just had to sit there and cross our legs. Half way, we dropped off the guy to one side of me and went round town to pick up his replacement. Unfortunately, there was no answer at the house, which made our taxi driver bonkers, because for him the lost money is a big deal. He drove off shouting and yeling and smoking his ciggie furiously. When he flicked the ciggie out the window, some ash came back in and hit me in the eye in the strong wind from driving at speed, so then we were all grumpy. Once we had left town, we were stopped by a guy standing in the middle of the road looking SERIOUSLY grumpy. He started running towards the taxi and when our driver looked like he wasn't stopping (or aiming right at him, I'm not sure), the guy on the street threatened to throw stones at the windscreen. THAT made our driver stop abrutly, jump out, run to the back of the car, and dig out this massive great big machete!!! All the time he was yelling at the other guy that he had tourists in the car and what sort of an example of the great Cuban country was throwing stones. Eventually, the guy's mates calmed him down and the woman in the front of our car calmed the driver down (we sat in the back, quiet as mice), and we carried on our way. Our driver was clearly on edge after this escapade and at the next roaside shack he stopped and picked up a beer. At least it gave me time to run to the loo.
One more hour brought us to Trinidad where we still are. It's an amazing place with old colonial houses, cobbled streets, colour, old cars and zillions of tourists. Tomorrow: the beach and then onwards and eastwards.
Having a great time though - very hot but amazingly friendly and helpful people (aside from when yielding machetes) and really interesting country...sort of a cross between a 1950s bad film (old American cars count for one in eight vehicles here) and Eastern Europe (ladas account for the rest).
xx
xx
Sushi Bar
The fish tank outside my office is home to about 20 fish of 4 different species, all under stringent management systems and quotas, naturally. Last Monday, one of our beautiful long-finned silver fish (one of the more expensive ones) took to repeatedly shooting from the bottom of the tank upwards, out of the water, and cracking its head on the lid (audible from down the corridor). He wouldn't stop even though we told him to. He seems to have caused some damage, because after a few days of this, he curled up in a ball and sank like a stone. He refused to die though, but became paler and paler, only reviving long enough to shoot again upwards and crack his head. We left him for the weekend in the hope he would still be there by Monday. Alas, he appeared to be a contender for the porcelain highway when we couldn't see him alive and kicking on Monday morning. After some hunting though, we still couldn't find his little fishy corpse. We emptied the entire tank of all its contents (the fish stayed put). Nothing. Until we spotted a very fat looking snail, and very dead. And hanging out of his mouth was a perfectly formed pure white fish skull - only bones left. The current theory is the greedy snail tried to eat his dead friend and croaked.
There's a moral in there somewhere.
There's a moral in there somewhere.
Gay Paree
I felt like une vrai Parisienne this morning....scootering up the Champs-Élysées on my Vespa, blonde hair flying, sun blazing (so sunglasses required naturally) and the Roundabout of Death ahead of me. I always feel a great sense of personal achievement when I don't die going round Charles de Gaulle-Etoile, though I do tend to exit with pale knuckles, a fixed grin on my face, tense shoulders and a wildly beating heart. Then scootle off feeling pleased as punch. Shame I clipped someone's wing mirror further down the street.
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