(excerpt from May 15 journal entry)
A blue, sun shiny day, sitting in a park behind St. George's Concert Hall (St. Gerorge's park?), listening to the dulled sound of traffic (wonderful how large city parks provide an escape to nature, but still,l a humming reminder of the city).
Jet lag and a cold got the better of me for the most part of yesterday, in combination with other factors. (Though I was down in the dumps my first day in New York, too; one must readjust.) By the time we made it from Manchester to the city, purchased bus passes, and checked into our hostel (the house of Brian Epstein's grandparents), it was well after noon; Allison had booked our Magical Mystery Tour before leaving the US at 2:30, which in the end was best, or we'd have zonked out, ready to roll as Liverpool tucked itself in for the night. Whether it seemed like it or not (as I regret being grumpy), I had a blast riding around in the vintage motorbus, seeing various Beatles-related sites (i.e. John Lennon's house, Strawberry Field, Penny Lane).
My inability to relocate myself lies in the absence of an initial culture shock (traffic patterns aside). Despite our flight, despite being surrounded by accents (or our accents), there's no Thames, there's no Seine. Am I in England? Well, of course I am, but it doesn't seem so (maybe being abroad is still surreal?). Nevertheless, Liverpool is a splendid city, much bigger and busier than the image I'd created in my mind, the people generally very kind. Beautiful weather, though a calling for rain tomorrow. Allison is presently touring McCartney's and Lennon's houses (how excited is she?), but should return soon. How I love walking, sitting in parks and letting my thoughts run, or simply daydreaming (and eavesdropping on natives!). When she returns, a picnic lunch on River Mersey's Albert Dock and two museums I've been anticipating: Merseyside Maritime Museum and Tate Liverpool.
Later: Can't quite grasp passing row after row of identical houses (always one building, two homes) -- it's a Brenda Blethyn film made reality. Mix housing with occasional trashy British women (the queen's crown adorning each back-pocket of tight jeans) and mothers accompanying daughters to dance classes, and I've become a (foreign) part of films I enjoy dearly (esp. Little Voice and Billy Elliot); something tangible. And no one has cell phones attached to their ears!
Leaving the Brian Epstein hostel tomorrow (due to weekend booking regulations), and how it's spoiled us! Allison and I have a five-bed ensuite to ourselves (we must've picked an off-time to stay; other hostels we've booked are full), a hot pot, mugs, tea, towels & garbage (rubbish) changed daily! What a change it will be to stay in six, eight, and twelve-bed (Munich) rooms. While I basque now in privacy, it will be a valuable, enlightening experience to share rooms with travelers from every corner of the earth. But what a £18.80/night luxury!
Oh, at the Maritime Museum: many chilling artifacts from Titanic (and Lusitania), including the telegram Bruce Ismay sent from Carpathia to New York to inform the world of disaster. Really, no words.
(May 17 journal entry)
On the rails to London!
A blue, sun shiny day, sitting in a park behind St. George's Concert Hall (St. Gerorge's park?), listening to the dulled sound of traffic (wonderful how large city parks provide an escape to nature, but still,l a humming reminder of the city).
Jet lag and a cold got the better of me for the most part of yesterday, in combination with other factors. (Though I was down in the dumps my first day in New York, too; one must readjust.) By the time we made it from Manchester to the city, purchased bus passes, and checked into our hostel (the house of Brian Epstein's grandparents), it was well after noon; Allison had booked our Magical Mystery Tour before leaving the US at 2:30, which in the end was best, or we'd have zonked out, ready to roll as Liverpool tucked itself in for the night. Whether it seemed like it or not (as I regret being grumpy), I had a blast riding around in the vintage motorbus, seeing various Beatles-related sites (i.e. John Lennon's house, Strawberry Field, Penny Lane).
My inability to relocate myself lies in the absence of an initial culture shock (traffic patterns aside). Despite our flight, despite being surrounded by accents (or our accents), there's no Thames, there's no Seine. Am I in England? Well, of course I am, but it doesn't seem so (maybe being abroad is still surreal?). Nevertheless, Liverpool is a splendid city, much bigger and busier than the image I'd created in my mind, the people generally very kind. Beautiful weather, though a calling for rain tomorrow. Allison is presently touring McCartney's and Lennon's houses (how excited is she?), but should return soon. How I love walking, sitting in parks and letting my thoughts run, or simply daydreaming (and eavesdropping on natives!). When she returns, a picnic lunch on River Mersey's Albert Dock and two museums I've been anticipating: Merseyside Maritime Museum and Tate Liverpool.
Later: Can't quite grasp passing row after row of identical houses (always one building, two homes) -- it's a Brenda Blethyn film made reality. Mix housing with occasional trashy British women (the queen's crown adorning each back-pocket of tight jeans) and mothers accompanying daughters to dance classes, and I've become a (foreign) part of films I enjoy dearly (esp. Little Voice and Billy Elliot); something tangible. And no one has cell phones attached to their ears!
Leaving the Brian Epstein hostel tomorrow (due to weekend booking regulations), and how it's spoiled us! Allison and I have a five-bed ensuite to ourselves (we must've picked an off-time to stay; other hostels we've booked are full), a hot pot, mugs, tea, towels & garbage (rubbish) changed daily! What a change it will be to stay in six, eight, and twelve-bed (Munich) rooms. While I basque now in privacy, it will be a valuable, enlightening experience to share rooms with travelers from every corner of the earth. But what a £18.80/night luxury!
Oh, at the Maritime Museum: many chilling artifacts from Titanic (and Lusitania), including the telegram Bruce Ismay sent from Carpathia to New York to inform the world of disaster. Really, no words.
(May 17 journal entry)
On the rails to London!
posted by Colin at
2:05 AM
3 Comments:
You were being grumpy, but I'm glad you enjoyed the MMT! Love you!
I'm glad you guys made it to London safely and no one freaked out on the plane. Sounds like you two are having a blast so far! I will make sure to keep updated on your lives and live vicariously through you! Have fun!
Jamie
Nice entry, Colin!
You write so beautifully!
I look forward to reading more soon! :)
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