Istanbul / Constantinople / Istanbul / Constantinople / Istanbul

29 April 2009

Two days and three nights in one of the world's greatest cities...thankfully we've been here before, as I appear to be the first of the group to succumb to Bulgaria Belly, and spent all of yesterday in bed. Still not 100%, but much better today and got to eat. Which was nice for a change. On the plus side, I am definitely skinnier. So that part of the Plan is coming together.

Spent today wandering the Grand Bazaar and the afternoon at the Cagaloglu Hamam, which must be one of life's great pleasures. An 18^th century stone and marble dome, pierced with stars to let the steam, rise up and out as you drench yourself from brass taps and stone basins, and then a big fat Turkish lady scrubs you down and gives you three massages. Such a blissful way to spend 55 euro. Did some shopping as well, got a blanket and a hot water bottle—no more shivering in the night for me! Take that, Mother Freaking Nature. David got a cheap-ish watch, and socks and boxers, so we're stocked up for the next few months. How quickly one's standards can drop...we're all very excited that we get a real campground for the next 6 nights, and deeply grateful.

Going over the Golden Horn to Galata tonight, it looks like, to have meze and possibly Raki—not for me though.  My tummy simply won't stand for it!  Even for the beautiful piles of Turkish delight...

They Might be Giants...or They Might be at the Turkish Border Forever

27 April 2009

At the Turkey/Bulgaria Border...where we've been for 2 hours.

Bush camp last night on a blissfully beautiful and goddamned cold site, between snow-capped mountains on one side and a lake with only a few dead fish on the other. I'm told sunrise was worth getting up for, but I think that's a filthy lie. NB: don't drink lake water in Bulgaria.

Absolutely freezing last night, as frigid as it's been. Thank christ for the thermals. I would give David's left arm for another fleece right now. Chilly and grey, although it was sunny in Bulgaria.

And on the subject of Bulgaria—really very nice. Poor, but loads cleaner than Romania, rubbish tip-wise, and, I think, nicer people. Stopped at a Russian Orthodox church on a hill, the outside in vivid coloured ceramic tiles and the roof of pure gold. After the queasy-making trip through mountain passes—in the clouds and snow, at 1180 metres or so—happy to be in a nice flat valley, even with a gilded Russian church for company.

As previously mentioned, now we're waiting on the Turkish authorities to let the truck in for two weeks. You can't complete the paperwork before time, you have to fill it all in here (in no-man's land), they fax it to Ankara, and wait on a fax back. Currently waiting on the back part. They've already stamped all our passports with visas, so we can get in, it's just the truck that's an issue. 

Quite strange to be leaving Europe—or at least, Christian Europe. Have driven from London in the last two weeks, through nine countries, two alphabets, several faiths, one hotel, six campgrounds, and three bushcamps. And a lot of peeing in the woods.

One Night in Bulgaria

26 April 2009

Last two days in Bucharest—read Paul Park's A Princess of Roumania a few years ago and have been waiting to get here since. I think it's my favourite place so far; immense classical buildings, all very Belle Epoque, but crumbling and ratty and draped with thousands of electrical wires like a sad Christmas tree. In 1930 the city was considered the Paris of Eastern Europe, but 50 years of Communism and dictatorship will do it to you. The simple geographical flaw of being close to Russia was enough to turn Bucharest from ravishing to ratty. Had a lovely sunny day on Friday, wandered the boulevards and parks, and the revolutionary square where Ceaucescu made his last speech before being shot in 1989, and then the Museum of the Romanian Peasant. Fantastic museum—fantastic shop. Have bought required hippy shirt of muslin embroidered by some Romanian granny/Indian 8-year old. 

Romanian food a bit stodgy—the fallback in every restaurant is mamaliguta, a sort of polenta with sour cream. Lots of pork and lots of soups. Went to a big beer hall-type place for a group lunch yesterday, the appetizer plate included headcheese (brawn), curd cheese, olives and some sort of cured sausage. Beer is fairly cheap and good—Ursus and Silva.

On the road today, driving toward the Bulgarian border. Bushcamp tonight—one night in Bulgaria which I suspect will make the hard men humble. Or it should. A bunch of them went out last night and got back to the campsite about an hour before we left at 7:30am—they're feeling it today.

Personal pet peeve—not that I like to complain, except I do—is the way bags are multiplying exponentially. I can't see how we're going to be able to fit all our stuff in the truck in another week at this rate. Every day there's another plastic bag (or six) containing god knows what tossed in the back, all of which have to be gotten off and on twice a day. Argh.

Just had lunch at the Dryanovski Monastery—very Durmstrang. Monks in black with long dark beards, chanting, and dark old stone-and-wood buildings. Cold today, drizzly and grey, and we're up in the mountains, very atmospheric. We skipped out on the 20 cent (or whatever it is here) fare for the loo. Definitely going to Orthodox hell now.

Speaking of fares and fare dodging...got caught out in Bucharest on the bus without tickets. Fair enough, we knew we needed them, though there wasn't anyplace to buy them at the campground. You'll understand that I would have happily paid if I tell you the nearest ticket booth is in fact at Ikea...but no one else wanted to hike up there. We all got fined 50 lei, which comes to about 10 euro. Rather excitingly, prison was threatened, but only because some us (who lack a healthy sense of fear-of-authority) wanted to debate the fairness of the system (with authorities who were part of a dictatorship in recent memory). Anyhow, we survive to skip another fare another day.

Jaffa Cakes by Proxy for Brett

23 April 2009

Ploesti, Romania

Sigishoara is a little German dream of a Romanian medieval city; the Germans have nearly all been kicked out (the Communists charged West Germany $8000 each to let them leave in the 1970s and 80s), but they left behind this place. There's a romantic little cemetery too, scattered with stark stones engraved 'Pro Patria' and iron crosses, all from the First World War—strange to think of Saxons in Romania going off to fight for Germany in France.

Romanian is a crazy language—the Romans only held this land for 175 years total, and yet they claim what they speak is the closest thing to Latin in the modern world. It feels like a made-up language, actually, like I can almost read it...but not quite. They've been conquered by every army that ever had a spare 10 minutes, so the people are a right mix of mutts. 

Have been driving ages today, from Sighisoara down to Bucharest, by way of Sinaia and Bran. Bran Castle is gorgeous, perched on a hilltop overlooking a river (and many sellers of Dracula t-shirts, clown wigs—it's a Romanian thing—Dracula mugs, Dracula ashtrays, Dracula toothpick dispensers, Dracula carvings, etc.). The last English queen of Romania, Marie, redecorated it circa 1910 in the Theatrical-Medieval Style...it's the sort of castle one can see oneself moving right in to.

Meant to be bushcamping tonight again, poor Lindsay was distraught, but having failed to find a spot to match last night's picture-postcard of a location, we're going to go on to Bucharest and spend 3 nights in a campground there. Which frankly is a bit of a relief—washing machines and showers most welcome. The first bushcamp was amazing--we all felt like we were living in the Odyssey brochure. Picture perfect rural idyll, lake and fields and farmhouse and all. Practically Wisconsin.

On food crew today (again—this comes around much too quickly). But once again saved by John and Tee, who were up well before the 6:30am required of us. David fears all these early starts are going to make us Morning People, but I trust in my innate lack of appreciation for anything that happens prior to noon. It shall see me through these difficult times. Hotdog sandwiches for lunch in Bran, and promised some sort of South African chicken stew for dinner. Cheryl tells us that last year, all the girls came back fatter and the boys thinner—not going to happen to me. I AM going to be fit and tan by Thailand. I swear to god, if I come back pudgy I will be seriously crabby. Now, must get back to the pack of sour cherry jaffa cakes I just bought (happy birthday, Brett!)

Don't Cry for Me, Romania...I'm in a Hotel

21 April 2009

Last night was the promised bush camp—up a dodgy dirt road into a dinky little village called Borozel, somewhere between the crappy Romanian border and Turda...gave a local a can of beer and a t-shirt in exchange for use of his field, then realized it was in fact not his field. The boys played a soccer game with some local ten year olds (who both beat them and stopped for cigarette breaks). David's first organized game of soccer ever, apparently.

Had to wear the pink headtorch to go up the lane for a wee...the She-Wee has come into it's own, making me the envy of the girls. Sleeping was good, barring the packs of wild dogs. Spent this morning driving up to a valley called Cheile, well known for walking trails and great natural beauty. Unsurprisingly, I stayed behind to read and sleep in the sun. I'm sure it was nice. Ask David; he went. The campground planned for tonight is in fact closed until June, so we've been rewarded with our first night in a hotel, the Rex, with it's sachets of Head & Shoulders and blessed hot water. Pizza for supper, all of $3 for an enormous pizza all to me. Yay for Romania.

A Town Called Turda

20 April 2009

En-route, Budapest to Turda, Romania

One of the more unexpected and yet entertaining aspects of this sort of trip is the Frantic Petrol Station Shop. As we near borders in countries with their own currency, we generally stop off to get fuel, and out come all 22 of us desperate to spend our euro, kruner, or forints. We descend like a horde of locusts, buying up snackfood shaped like animals, chocolate eggs, bags of pretzels, and bottles of coke. Clerks look on in fear and awe. Have just done this in Hungary.

Spent yesterday in Budapest—we've been there before, so spent the day in the lap of luxury instead of touring about. Brunch at the Gelert Hotel, an Art Nouveau beauty, eating from the extremely posh buffet on the terrace, overlooking the river, in the sunshine. Spent the afternoon in the famous Gelert Thermal Baths, which we missed the first time around. They're immense, a range of several pools (hot and cold, inside and out) with Art Nouveau mosaic domes and columns. Lovely to spend hours lounging in hot water. The Romans knew about the hotsprings in Buda, the Ottomans made great use of them during their occupation, and the Hungarians have kept the tradition up.

Now on to Romania. I'm looking forward to Romania especially—whenever you read in the paper that some nutjob has done something especially bizarre, it's a good bet they were Romanian. I suspect British newspapers just make things up and say it happened in Romania, as no one goes there to check. We're checking.

Tonight is the first bush camp, no loos and no washing machines, no proper campground at all. Staying near Torda, in Transylvania. Then to Sighisoara tomorrow. We're going to be in Dracula country, apparently there are underwhelming Goth festivals in the summer, but sadly we shall miss all the angst and Doc Martens. May break out the liquid eyeliner though. You know.

Europe is a Big Country

18 April, En Route to Budapest

On the truck again today; left the Czech campground at 7:30 (okay, 8-ish) this morning for a very long day of driving, to Budapest via Slovakia. Yesterday proved the peril of blogging on good weather—started raining just as we got up and continued past midnight. Prague is as lovely as they say, the buildings are just one beauty after another—ooh, look at that

 one! Ooh, that's rather unlike Poplar! Shop windows full of miniature Infants of Prague—the first thing that ever tempted me into church was the little Infant

 at St Pete's, which the Altar Rosary ladies dressed in new clothes every few weeks. Nanny and Poppy and I would sit near the front and contemplate the doll and his costumes—I suppose there's a reason people think Catholics are idol worshipers—because we kind of are.

Waterproofs remained waterproof, however, so that's cool. We strutted about in our waterproof jackets and largely matching, convertible, quick-dry trousers, looking like the bunch of middle-class travelers we are. The city is laden with tourists, and more American accents that we've seen since London. But the rain appears to have kept the worst of them away, and we had no trouble wandering all over. Saw the Orloj, or the great clock—the 12 Apostles pop out and bless you, one-by-one, every hour on the hour. Feeling rather holy catholic and apostolic just now.

David and I were on cook group yesterday, although the kindly Tee and John got up at some ungodly hour and pretty much sorted breakf

ast. Dinner was slightly delayed as the crew couldn't find a taxi from Tesco (even in Czech, ubiquitous), but we produced goulash at 9pm, eaten in a marquee at the campground (still pissing down rain outside). All tents have proved resistant to the rain, which is excellent news also.

As we go east, the sun is appearing from the sort of grey sky that I think of as London-ish. Just passed the city of Brno with it's pastel tower blocks circling the centre like a necklace of socialist relics—the sort of jewellery that looks better from a distance. Collectively, we've recently emptied a petrol station of it's stock of bacon-flavoured crisps (thinking of you, Brett & Natasha) and Coke Zero. My sense of Europe is already altered—we've tended to travel from airports to cities and back, maybe the surrounding area, but this gradual traversing the land makes it feel more of a whole. We've driven from Calais to Budapest this week, and having a better time than expected. Europe suddenly seems much bigger than it has before.

Also, the roads in the Czech Republic? Shite.

Loaves and Fishes and Pudding

16 April 2009, En Route to Czechoslovakia

We spent yesterday in Bamberg, the prettiest little city since Busch Gardens Virginia. I did sort of expect Aunt Mag to pop out of the gorgeously painted 17th century Rathaus, perched on a pair of manmade islands in the river. Camped along the river just outside of town; crucial factor here was that the shower was amazing. I believe I may be sadder to leave it behind than I was to leave London in general. There's a massive cathedral looming rather catholicly over the city, and every other street is named for one religious order or another. Shades of elementary school. David had the local specialty--smoked beer and an onion stuffed with beef, then roasted. Mmm.

Long day today in the truck, but we've bagged the front seats which means good legroom and a view through the front windshield. The truck is built with loads of windows so everyone really has a view all the time, though we were facing backwards yesterday, so could only see where we had already been. There's also two tables with four seats at each, and a set of games to play as we go.

Camping again tonight outside Prague; this is the first new country for me, David's been here for work. I've heard such good things about Prague for so long that I suspect it can't possibly live up to my expectations. But the weather has been absolutely gorgeous thus far, must have been 17 C yesterday and bright sunshine, and every place looks good like that. As we're driving the trees are getting more coniferous-y and the road hillier, the land looks different from the parts of Germany I've been to before. My crap German has come in handy, though, vielen danke, Mutti und Herr Godfrey. (Ooh, we went in a shop yesterday which appeared to be waiting on your arrival, Ingrid—Seasonal Cushions Galore. They even had Christmas ornaments out, with a metal one of a bloke selling bratwurst in a festive stall. Unnecessary in so many ways.)

We did have a night out in Bamberg as we knew we could sleep in yesterday. About 10 of us went into the city, to a little beer garden. Which was great fun and very wholesome etc. Then we ended in a Turkish men's club (and I use club loosely): a room with some tables and some middle aged Turks. Also beer and raki. We were there for a few hours, and in a cowardly fashion escaped with a few others in the first wave of deserters at 2am. The iron-livered stayed on until 5am, playing Texas Hold-em with our new Ottoman mates.

Stopped for lunch along the Czechoslovakian motorway. A bus full of Germans was just finishing eating at their bus, and waddled over to offer us their lunch and good wishes. This big blue truck certainly does make friends easily. Anyway, in admirable Teutonic style, this pack of sturdy hausfraus promptly provided enough “leftovers” to more than feed all 24 of us, with ham on the bone, potato salad, sauerkraut, coleslaw, and American (or German, I guess) style pudding—in two flavours. And now we have leftovers too. It seems fully possible that our Aryan friends are some sort of modern-day messiah-figures and potato salad is the loaves and fishes of the noughties.   

Unemployed, Homeless, and Trampolining

14 April 2009, Bamberg, Germany

Three days, two showers, one German superstore. Tournai was mostly about sorting ourselves out, and a statue which included a bare-breasted adolescent girl frolicking on an empty fountain (not that Belgium has any reputation for paedophilia). Up fairly early, and on the road to Koln in Germany, where one can partake of sausage by the meter and beer in tiny little glasses. Campsite right on the Rhine, and we daringly risked the wrath of German Authority by not paying for the tram into the city. To be fair, it wasn't entirely clear, and obviously the herd mentality gives strength to cowards like me, bred in fear of die Deutschen (or at least their reps in Delran).

David and I have been to Koln before, years and years ago, which was actually quite nice as there wasn't any stress about doing the sights. Also, I do enjoy a spot of amateur tour-guiding, and this trip means a whole new audience. Captive. Haha. Suckers.

More practically speaking, the truck is called Calypso...last year was Penelope, and Pete asked for suggestions. Only one of us bothered to make any, and so Jennifer has the honour. It's got individual seats, fairly comfortable, and a couple of tables, conducive to some Scrabble action yesterday. And no, Anna, I did not play. There's a huge sort of locker at the back, which holds all the ginormous bags we have and roll mats and sleeping bags and pillows, etc. After all the stress of stripping down to the bare necessities and worrying that I'd be the shallow girl with too much crap, surrounded by the sort of people who cut the handles off their toothbrushes to save weight, in actual fact I have come out looking pretty good. I even splurged on a new pair of socks today, damn their judgement to hell.

At the minute we're all sitting around in the late afternoon sun, writing in journals or on laptops, or reading. Camp chairs for us all, which we are assured are much better than those of the competition. Tim and Cheryl, the South African crew, are making dinner with the group assigned this task—it appears to consist of curry sauce, coconut, and cabbage. A lot of cabbage. The sort from which can emerge dolls with names like Chastity Nanette.

There are 22 people on the trip, including David and I. Three are Scots, called Paul (Aberdeen), Lindsay (also Aberdeen), and Richard (Edinburgh). Two are from Brighton, and promise to start some sort of girl gang in the near future—Debbie and Amy. Four Irishmen. Alan and Rachel are from near Dublin, have never camped before, and Alan is the one who I have mentioned previously had some issues opening a drink bottle, though he has since redeemed himself. Clearly it was just a freakishly powerful drinks bottle. John is a bit older, travelling on his own, as is Dennis from Cork, a native Irish speaker and hurler and plasterer moving to Australia. He's a lovely accent, though I can't yet understand much of it. (Reilly, I may have found you a man!) He's got tales of being taught Spanish in Irish, which I think explains a lot about something, but I'm not yet sure what. Tee and Le are a married couple from West Australia, also a bit older; sisters Abby and Elaine are traveling to Australia, where Abby lives. Remind me to tell you the one about Elaine and the Drug Trafficking.

Emma is an English nurse from Nottingham, Louise describes herself as a girl who likes to wander and take the odd photograph, Steve is from Preston. Alex is a French/ English maths teacher. Corrie has a lovely Welsh first name no one can say, and is a cheesemonger (which I personally think the most interesting career here), going home to Australia after 5 years in England.

Only cold showers in Koln, so most of us waited until tonight—worth it, as this camp ground has fantastic brand new showers and also a trampoline. Unemployed, homeless, and trampolining. That may be the name of my autobiography.  

And off we go...

12 April 2009, Tournai, Belgium

First day out of London. Only about 10 minutes late, but someone rocked up even later, so that seems forgiveable. Flat is vacant, unrented, but had several views last week so fingers crossed. Lots of decent people with us, mostly circa our age with about 6 who seem about a generation up. Truck is comfortable enough, our own seats and with power points and a bar and whatnot. Got the ferry from Dover, with the sun shining us out of Merry Olde. So nice to have someone else sort out the details...feel a bit lazy to do it this way, but at least when we went round the parking lot twice looking for the right queue, it wasn't cause for bickering. That's one more divorce-free day for D and me.

As I write in a blue tent, a group of crazed Belgians appear to be playing a rousing game of strangle-one-another just over the privet hedge. Have been (randomly, perhaps not wisely) assigned to the task of loading and offloading everyone's bags every morning and evening. Rest of the task group consists of a boy who had difficulty in opening his own Gatorade bottle this morning and a girl with a broken wrist. Add in me, who can't actually lift my own bag, and you've got the makings of a decent 1960s-era French farce film. Perhaps a musical. David gets to throw things off the roof of the truck. He seems pleased in a manly way. These are our assigned tasks until Baku, Azerbaijan...

Had a first communal meal of spaghetti bolognese, the traditional food of hardy campers anywhere...shades of Swartzwood State Park, circa 1982.

So far so good. Getting a bit chilly...some of my fellow homeless-cum-jobless folk have gone for a walk, but my Lonely Planet tells me that we are some 4km from the city centre, and even a 12^th century cathedral isn't enough to tempt me away from my tent-pitched-on-a-slight-hill at the minute. Tournai, as you know, is the only Belgian city to have ever sent an MP to the British Parliament, in the 16^th century I believe (no Wifi, can't google it), when the city belonged to England for about 6 years. So there.  

Sticking One's Head in the Oven

Cleaning this flat is deeply boring. I've managed to live here for five years without ever cleaning the boiler--how crucial can this be? Alas, to save the £150, we (read: husband) opted to do this ourselves. Anyone sitting around thinking you ought to be doing something more active? Come on over to Poplar, there's a stylish pair of rubber gloves waiting on you. Really, who looks inside an oven all that much anyhow?

Blog posts and Facebook notes from fellow travelers are on the up; comforting to know that many are having the same issues with fitting all the stuff we need into a tiny-tiny rucksack. I don't know these people yet, but I feel like we're at least all starting at the same point. Except the girl who says she's having no issues at all and has a giant bag--for her I feel only deep envy. 97LitreBagGirl, you are my role model. 

The others on the trip are mostly coming into London tomorrow and all seem to be planning to have lots of pints in pubs all afternoon. Jealousy is not attractive, I tell myself. But I want to be sipping ale tomorrow, not sticking my head in an oven. 

The Pub Crawl

Last night, I was out on what is likely my last London pub crawl for some time. Made an appearance at some old favorites, found some new gems and finally visited a pub I've been hearing about for years. The evening started at The Jerusalem Tavern and the St Peter's IPA. It's a great little pub, but the problem is it is too little and I have never actually managed to grab a seat inside. From there it was off to two new pubs. First was a quirky pub, The Three Kings, that serves a nice pint of Deuchars. Shame to only discover it now, but glad to nonetheless. Then it was off to The Eagle. Don't go for the beer, their own-brand IPA was average at best, but do go for the steak sandwich... beautiful. With my belly full, it was off to The Lamb (another new pub) and another pint of Deuchars. Finally, closed the evening at The Princess Louise, a pub everyone should at least pop into just to see the wonderful interior.

But this post is not meant to be a review of London pubs, but instead a lament at leaving London. I just finished reading Greg Gutfeld's 'Lessons From the Land of Pork Scratchings: A Miserable Yank Finds Happiness in the UK'. It is not a well written book. I think I could have described the utter lack of customer service in the UK, the shit weekends away or the drinking culture that leads to some pretty shocking sights for the uninitiated in better detail. But, the book was still on point and being a generally miserable git myself, I do understand where he is coming from. Not knowing quite what the future holds for us after this little expedition, the book's closing sums up my feelings right now (even if we haven't quite left yet!):

I know why I'm sad... you really wish you were there. And I do. I just miss the that damn place, and wish that one day I'll be able to return. If it'll have me, of course.

So, cheers to London. I'll be back soon.

Horsham-Bound

Man with a van came this morning and gathered all our things into a big wooden crate, where they will live while we travel.  The crate is on it's way to Horsham, south of London (near Gatwick if you'd like to visit).

This is storage unit number two if you're keeping track.  The other lives in NJ, though it gets broken into enough without me being any more specific than that.  My dream is that someday all of my things will be in the same country as me, but I may be chasing rainbows there.

A lovely mate is coming tomorrow to adopt some or all of my houseplants, we've got currency and extra keys and all the other things we had to acquire, we're ready to get going.  Cleaning industriously today, which is very boring! I want to be a glamorous traveller and I remain (temporarily) a household drudge.  Sigh.

The Leaving of London

So we're well into the festivities that surround leaving a life...after last week's Christies-centric events, tonight we both went out for drinks with David's Tata people. Started at the Gun on the Thames with a few, and then moved on to the North Pole in Canary Wharf with a bigger group. Lots of tears as David was going, such a sympathetic character he is.  They did a whip round and got a card for him and all, and the essential boys stayed out quite late...apparently he's nicer to people than I had realized.  

Though it's a bit sad to be leaving again, also nice to know we're well-thought-of, or at least liked. I mean, I know I'm awesome, but it's good to be reminded that he is pretty cool as well. As we're now going to spend nine months of uninterrupted time together. Oh, god. 

Out of the Salt Mines

Tomorrow is my last day of work for the next 9 months or so.  Not sure that has really sunk in yet, but am keen to see how long it takes me to stop instinctively fumbling around for my blackberry as soon as I wake up.  What I won’t be missing are the random calls from India in the middle of the night or 6:30 Friday afternoon calls from Canada*.  But it all ends on a fitting note as just back from my last business trip (Krakow, Poland, this time).  In addition to the usual meetings, we had a tour of the Wieliczka Salt Mine.  After a few hours at 150 meters below the surface, you can imagine how good it felt to breath in the cool, fresh air again when the elevator door finally opened. 

 

Of course, one cannot pass through Poland without at least sampling the Vodka on offer.  There’s the premium, well-known brands such as Belvedere, the bison grass flavored version, Zubrowka, (which, as an aside, my freshman year college roommate - who was Polish and proud… as his sweatshirt attested - once accused me of stealing from him.), and then there was the 1950s stuff in the cardboard TV that Danny couldn’t stop ordering.  Don’t know exactly what it was, but after we got through the two bottles the bar had in stock, I am pretty sure I don’t want to see it (or any other Vodka) again for some time.  Then again, I guess it is less then a month till we get to our first CIS country, so maybe I should just think of it as training.

 

*And before any of my Tata friends get any ideas, as of 5:30 tomorrow, the going rate for consultancy service is $150/hour ($250 if your name is Gaurav).  Payment requested in advance.

Of Storage and Stretch Pants for Men

Just a bit more than a week left in London...two more days at Christies and then I shall be gone. The week's farewell festivities have so far resulted in a lovely dinner at Awana in Chelsea with Pat, Lizzy and Rachel (Malaysian food, I think they're trying to wean me off the chips), continue tomorrow with a traditional Textiles Tea, and will end on Friday night with an elegant evening of pints in the Duke. Not sure if all this means that in fact they are quite pleased to see me go. I choose to think people are trying to ease their inconsolable grief at the loss of me. I am pretty cool. 

Estate agents have shown the flat a few times, but no takers yet.  In a spectacularly badly-timed jaunt, husband has taken off to Poland for a few days of Tata-Fun with the boys (not as naughty as it sounds, actually). I have it mostly well in hand, but am enjoying making him feel guilty anyhow. Also ordered long-johns for him, despite his protests--photos will follow, once he realizes I'm right and it will be cold in a tent in Belgium in April. That's right, David in leggings. Don't say you're not giggling.

Storage people coming with a giant crate a week from today, to take away all my lovely things. I will now be the proud owner of two households-worth of stuff in storage, 3,500 miles apart. Must pack it all...but I think I shall wait on David for that part.