This is the first of a new series of posts. I began with the "My thoughts on..." a while ago, and i will pick that up again shortly, either with a piece about Gordon Brown or America, haven't decided yet; and obviously there's also the series of posts about my travels, but I think for now that needs a little rest!
So, if I ruled the world...
I'm sure I'm not alone in this, but every now and then I think to myself "If I ruled the world, I would change...."
I'm not for one minute staking a claim to become king of the world or whatever (cool as it may sound), but I thought I would share a few of my random thoughts on a regularish basis with you, now that I officially have over 30 readers (according to Mr Google!)....
So, I was in the hairdresser earlier. Not literally obviously, that would be plain wrong, I only wanted a haircut, and I know for a fact that my mum reads this, so moving swiftly on.
So, I walked in, the place looked nice enough, if a tad quiet, and within a minute I was reclining into one of those seats where they wash your hair at the most unnatural angle known to man, with water that is never the right temperature even though you always say it is. Anyway, this wasn't an ordinary chair, it was a massage chair, and after a minute I ignored the cold water and long nails of the person washing my hair and started to relax.
When I awoke, I was asked to move across to the chair by the mirror, and the haircut began. Now, it was at about this time that I was asked if I want coffee. Fine, yes please, I like coffee. But I couldn’t help thinking that as far as timing goes, it could have been better. If someone is standing behind you with either scissors or a set of clippers in hand, the last thing you really want to do is lean forward and drink coffee. Particularly while wearing one of those short sleeved straight jacket numbers that hairdressers love. Also, they always put the cup just out of reach, so you can’t even subtly have a mouthful (sorry mum) on the sly. So, if I ruled the world.....hairdressers would stop to let you drink, or simply serve coffee at a better time!
Second thing I noticed, and its hardly groundbreaking, is that hairdressers the world over, well Western Europe anyway, talk like their mouths will seize up if they don't. My hairdresser today was no different, even when I told her I didn't understand her (I did, I just didn’t want to encourage her), that just set her off talking about England, and foreigners, and elephants, and nuclear fission, and the sex life of amoebas and...Well to be honest I wasn't listening so I can’t be sure what she said. But, my point is, they always ask the same questions, so if I ruled the world, everyone would be equipped with a sign for use in the hairdressers,
"No I am not going anywhere nice on holiday.
No I do not watch Big Brother.
No I do not give a shit about Paris Hilton.
No I do not want to buy any of your over priced products."
And, in my particular case today, "No, I do not want to look like a cross between Dolph Lundgren and 80s pop star Limahl, so get the scissors back out of the drawer and start again"
Bis bald....
Thursday, 28 June 2007
Sunday, 24 June 2007
Earth, Wind & Fire....
Not a tribute piece about the 70s funksters unfortunately, but rather an update on my rather random ability to attract freak weather/natural disasters. Admittedly that is a rather bold statement, so..... allow me to elucidate with reference to specifics....(by the way you have no idea how long i have been waiting to use that particular line!)
When i was but a wee boy of 18 I worked in France on a campsite for a summer. It was about an hour south of Bordeaux, in a village called Gastes, half a hour inland from the Atlantic coast. Now, the camp site was in the middle of Europe's biggest pine forest, near Europe's biggest Sand Dunes....in most people's minds the words "tinder box" and "fire" will be coming forth. However, being slightly naive i didn't ever consider the possibility that the camp would somehow catch fire in the middle of summer. But, rather predictably, it did. And, as i was an employee blessed with the requisite language skills, it was my job to help evacuate the camp. No problem, except it was my night off (a Sunday i think) and its fair to say that my alcohol intake that night had rendered me a fire hazard too. Anyway, long story short, not something I'm good at i know, i "survived" a forest fire.
Then, less than a year later, while living in Cologne, I was rudely awaken one morning by my wardrobe door slamming shut. Strange enough in itself, i then realised the room was shaking. And i was pretty sure i hadn't had a drink the night before. Anyway, half asleep i thought nothing of it until later that day i heard that an earthquake had hit in Holland about 70miles away, measuring about 4 on the old Richter scale. So, that's "earthquake" added to the list.
All of which, in a rather round about way brings me to the purpose of today's post, namely to tell you that recently Vienna has been hit by what the locals call "unwetter" or basically a rather severe storm, with winds of 120km/h, 2 deaths, floods and, slightly worryingly, a minor lack of a roof on the building next to mine! So, "storm" can also be added to the list.
T
When i was but a wee boy of 18 I worked in France on a campsite for a summer. It was about an hour south of Bordeaux, in a village called Gastes, half a hour inland from the Atlantic coast. Now, the camp site was in the middle of Europe's biggest pine forest, near Europe's biggest Sand Dunes....in most people's minds the words "tinder box" and "fire" will be coming forth. However, being slightly naive i didn't ever consider the possibility that the camp would somehow catch fire in the middle of summer. But, rather predictably, it did. And, as i was an employee blessed with the requisite language skills, it was my job to help evacuate the camp. No problem, except it was my night off (a Sunday i think) and its fair to say that my alcohol intake that night had rendered me a fire hazard too. Anyway, long story short, not something I'm good at i know, i "survived" a forest fire.
Then, less than a year later, while living in Cologne, I was rudely awaken one morning by my wardrobe door slamming shut. Strange enough in itself, i then realised the room was shaking. And i was pretty sure i hadn't had a drink the night before. Anyway, half asleep i thought nothing of it until later that day i heard that an earthquake had hit in Holland about 70miles away, measuring about 4 on the old Richter scale. So, that's "earthquake" added to the list.
All of which, in a rather round about way brings me to the purpose of today's post, namely to tell you that recently Vienna has been hit by what the locals call "unwetter" or basically a rather severe storm, with winds of 120km/h, 2 deaths, floods and, slightly worryingly, a minor lack of a roof on the building next to mine! So, "storm" can also be added to the list.
T
Thursday, 21 June 2007
A Northerner Abroad...Part 5
Like I said, I will get to talking about Vienna in a bit; first let me say a few things about the Slovak people. Saša aside, I didn’t know anyone when I arrived, and although a couple of weeks later I can’t exactly claim to now possess a large number of Slovak friends, I have at least met a few of her friends and observed a few locals while enjoying a cheeky afternoon beer in the sun. From a personal point of view, being completely unable to speak the language makes it incredibly difficult to get a handle on the people here. As someone who speaks a couple of languages this is incredibly frustrating, as I feel both completely ignorant and utterly useless, incapable of even introducing myself properly, or arguing that my change is wrong. The one word I knew when I arrived was Ahoj, which predictably means Hello. I remember this word because a friend and I took great delight in doing camp sailor impressions while shouting AHOJ one night after a couple of beers.
Not knowing the language is a huge stumbling block; no matter how hard I listen I just can’t pick up tone or emotion or anything apart from my own name and Ahoj! So, understanding the people is difficult, particularly in a few short days, but I will say this, the Slovaks know how to laugh. On my second evening we went for a drink with Saša’s parents and some of their friends at the local canoe club on the Danube, and despite not understanding anything for about two hours my sides hurt from laughing. Saša translated as much as possible, but most of the time she was bent double herself. Now, the egocentric part of me would like to think that this whole performance was for my benefit, but I know that this is not the case, especially not the story about the Communist crisps, which genuinely tasted like 5 day old crisps that had been re-bagged! For all I understood that may actually be true. Just so I don’t disappoint you, let me reassure you that I have added to my ridiculously limited Slovak. For instance I can say please, thank you, cheese, mushrooms, ham, beer, cheers, and I learnt that Ahoj also means goodbye. If I can learn the word for Jack Daniels I may even stay longer.
One thing I will say though, the locals are not scared to make a few quid from tourists. I was sitting enjoying a beer and a sandwich in a little bar just of the main square, by now I was comfortable enough with the lingo to point at the menu and say please and thank you. When I got the bill though, which incidentally came in a little wooden box, the kind of thing you might put your Uncle Bill’s ashes in or something, I noticed that all is not as innocent as it first appears in Bratislava. The bill was all in Slovak naturally, form the address at the top down to the price at the bottom; numbers are universal so no worries there. Then right at the bottom I noticed they had sneakily added a little sentence in English, “The final price doesn’t include the tip, thank you”. Now, aside from the bare faced cheek, a couple of things struck me about this little additional sentence. 1 – The English was perfect, this wasn’t the kind of translation you usually get, normally done by the owner’s cousin’s neighbour who loves Bond films and can thus speak English, or so he claims. No, this was a professional translation. Why not do the whole bill then? 2 – The word “tip”. Not service charge, but tip. As a Yorkshire man I find it hard to tip at the best of times, but there’s not a prayer when it’s that blatant. On a slightly more serious note, I don’t really begrudge the local bar owners and the like making a bit extra out of tourists, heaven knows we do it in Britain, not just foreign tourists either, the woman on the door at York Minster (makes it sound like a Christian nightclub doesn’t it?) tried to charge me over five pounds to get in. I explained that a couple of years ago when I last visited it was free, with a donation box for those from the south, but she didn’t budge. Then again she was a fairly rotund woman so budging probably doesn’t come naturally.
Before you get all comfy thinking I’m ready to move on, bad news, this isn’t the only example of blatant exploitation of foreigners I experienced. And it happened on the same day! On my way back from the bar to the flat I went via the train station to check the times for the trains to Vienna, and to be honest I don’t mind admitting I was perspiring ever so slightly. I don’t normally say perspiring, I was just reminded of a story my mum told me about when she first started working back in the early 70s (or was it late 60s!). Apparently she went into work one summer morning and complained, as only my mother could, that she was sweating from the heat. One of the older ladies in the office kindly pointed out to my straight talking mother that “Horses sweat Mary, ladies perspire”. I can imagine my mum’s reply. So anyway, I was a bit sweaty when I arrived; it was in the low 30s, which is about 3 degrees below death for most northerners, so I went to buy a bottle of water. Unfortunately, I only had a 500SK note, and the drink was about 28SK. I gave my note to the woman in the kiosk, who tutted at me audibly for burdening her with such a vast amount of money, before proceeding to short change me by 100SK. I counted my change, looked at the sign with the price, and did a little bit of open mouthed waving of my arms, and she didn’t even look at me. So I said, in my angriest German (I’d been advised that the Slovaks prefer Germans to Brits, although I found out later they had lost 2-1 to the Germans in a Euro 2008 qualifier the night before), that she owed me money. Again, she didn’t even acknowledge me. I had to admit, while I was holding the best cards she was bluffing like a champ. What could I do? Cause a scene for the sake of a couple of quid? I didn’t want to, there’s nothing us Brits hate more than causing a scene, but it was the principle. So I did what I’m sure my mother would have done, I swore very audibly in German and turned on my heel and left. Quickly, for there were a few big blokes looking my way who obviously spoke a bit of German.
By the way, I’m aware that I should have written “we Brits” before, but I don’t say “we Brits”, I say “us Brits”, so there.
When I told Saša she was suitably horrified at what had happened, but I think she was just humouring me really. Anyway, if memory serves the main idea here was to talk about Vienna…
Not knowing the language is a huge stumbling block; no matter how hard I listen I just can’t pick up tone or emotion or anything apart from my own name and Ahoj! So, understanding the people is difficult, particularly in a few short days, but I will say this, the Slovaks know how to laugh. On my second evening we went for a drink with Saša’s parents and some of their friends at the local canoe club on the Danube, and despite not understanding anything for about two hours my sides hurt from laughing. Saša translated as much as possible, but most of the time she was bent double herself. Now, the egocentric part of me would like to think that this whole performance was for my benefit, but I know that this is not the case, especially not the story about the Communist crisps, which genuinely tasted like 5 day old crisps that had been re-bagged! For all I understood that may actually be true. Just so I don’t disappoint you, let me reassure you that I have added to my ridiculously limited Slovak. For instance I can say please, thank you, cheese, mushrooms, ham, beer, cheers, and I learnt that Ahoj also means goodbye. If I can learn the word for Jack Daniels I may even stay longer.
One thing I will say though, the locals are not scared to make a few quid from tourists. I was sitting enjoying a beer and a sandwich in a little bar just of the main square, by now I was comfortable enough with the lingo to point at the menu and say please and thank you. When I got the bill though, which incidentally came in a little wooden box, the kind of thing you might put your Uncle Bill’s ashes in or something, I noticed that all is not as innocent as it first appears in Bratislava. The bill was all in Slovak naturally, form the address at the top down to the price at the bottom; numbers are universal so no worries there. Then right at the bottom I noticed they had sneakily added a little sentence in English, “The final price doesn’t include the tip, thank you”. Now, aside from the bare faced cheek, a couple of things struck me about this little additional sentence. 1 – The English was perfect, this wasn’t the kind of translation you usually get, normally done by the owner’s cousin’s neighbour who loves Bond films and can thus speak English, or so he claims. No, this was a professional translation. Why not do the whole bill then? 2 – The word “tip”. Not service charge, but tip. As a Yorkshire man I find it hard to tip at the best of times, but there’s not a prayer when it’s that blatant. On a slightly more serious note, I don’t really begrudge the local bar owners and the like making a bit extra out of tourists, heaven knows we do it in Britain, not just foreign tourists either, the woman on the door at York Minster (makes it sound like a Christian nightclub doesn’t it?) tried to charge me over five pounds to get in. I explained that a couple of years ago when I last visited it was free, with a donation box for those from the south, but she didn’t budge. Then again she was a fairly rotund woman so budging probably doesn’t come naturally.
Before you get all comfy thinking I’m ready to move on, bad news, this isn’t the only example of blatant exploitation of foreigners I experienced. And it happened on the same day! On my way back from the bar to the flat I went via the train station to check the times for the trains to Vienna, and to be honest I don’t mind admitting I was perspiring ever so slightly. I don’t normally say perspiring, I was just reminded of a story my mum told me about when she first started working back in the early 70s (or was it late 60s!). Apparently she went into work one summer morning and complained, as only my mother could, that she was sweating from the heat. One of the older ladies in the office kindly pointed out to my straight talking mother that “Horses sweat Mary, ladies perspire”. I can imagine my mum’s reply. So anyway, I was a bit sweaty when I arrived; it was in the low 30s, which is about 3 degrees below death for most northerners, so I went to buy a bottle of water. Unfortunately, I only had a 500SK note, and the drink was about 28SK. I gave my note to the woman in the kiosk, who tutted at me audibly for burdening her with such a vast amount of money, before proceeding to short change me by 100SK. I counted my change, looked at the sign with the price, and did a little bit of open mouthed waving of my arms, and she didn’t even look at me. So I said, in my angriest German (I’d been advised that the Slovaks prefer Germans to Brits, although I found out later they had lost 2-1 to the Germans in a Euro 2008 qualifier the night before), that she owed me money. Again, she didn’t even acknowledge me. I had to admit, while I was holding the best cards she was bluffing like a champ. What could I do? Cause a scene for the sake of a couple of quid? I didn’t want to, there’s nothing us Brits hate more than causing a scene, but it was the principle. So I did what I’m sure my mother would have done, I swore very audibly in German and turned on my heel and left. Quickly, for there were a few big blokes looking my way who obviously spoke a bit of German.
By the way, I’m aware that I should have written “we Brits” before, but I don’t say “we Brits”, I say “us Brits”, so there.
When I told Saša she was suitably horrified at what had happened, but I think she was just humouring me really. Anyway, if memory serves the main idea here was to talk about Vienna…
Tuesday, 19 June 2007
Just a quickie....
Given the length of my latest posts I've had to juggle the site layout a bit, so to read previous posts just click on the archive bit on the right. No, your right stupid.
Monday, 18 June 2007
A Northerner Abroad....Part 4
Like the rest of continental Europe (well, the bits I’ve seen), the Slovaks also get certain things right that we Brits will never enjoy. The first of these I have already mentioned, but I will go through it in detail because it’s an alien concept in the UK. Basically, imagine you want to get the bus. You go to the bus stop, and there you find a ticket machine. You put a few coins in, take your ticket, and wait for the bus. When it comes, it is one of those long, bendy busses with about 3 sets of doors. You let people get off, then climb aboard and put your ticket into a machine by the door, where it is stamped. Then you sit down and enjoy the ride. All of which means that the bus takes a few seconds at each stop meaning that they generally arrive and leave on time. In fact, on the bus timetables it tells you how many minutes it will take to get to each stop, and I’ll be buggered if they are ever late. Right, so now you are thinking, “Ah yes, but it’s too easy to just not buy a ticket and ride for free.” And indeed it is, but only if you are British, or just generally not the kind of law abiding person the Slovaks are. It’s a cultural difference maybe, but take the metro in Barcelona, the U-Bahn in Cologne, or the tram in Vienna and rarely do you see someone who hasn’t paid. When I lived in Newcastle we used to say that the Metro was a free service with the occasional £10 donation; here nobody would ever think of not paying. I remember once being stood on a platform waiting for a tram in Cologne, it was late at night and there was only a punk on the platform to keep me company, so needless to say I was doing my best to not attract his attention. He started coming towards me and I tensed a little, natural really I’m sure you’ll agree. Then he asked if I could change a 5€ note so he could buy a ticket! Didn’t punks in England used to go around ripping the upholstery of busses and trains with their Swiss army knives in the hope of bringing down the government? Not in Germany.
It’s not just bus tickets that impress me though, thankfully. The trains are always on time, and by that I don’t mean vaguely on time like in the UK, but to the minute. This never ceases to amaze me, along with the fact that never once in a European county other than the Britain have I heard a tannoy announcement apologising for the delay/slow running/general crapness of the service, it just doesn’t happen. Granted, if it were in Slovak I would be none the wiser given my vocabulary of one solitary word. We will come back to this point shortly, but just to keep you on tenterhooks a little longer, the word I know is Ahoj, any guesses?
The next think I appreciate in many a fine European city is the idea of having a central square, where people can meet, have a coffee in the sun, dangle their feet in a fountain or merely admire the passing Slovak girls. Now, obviously every city in Britain has a square of some sort, but they are generally bordered by a post office or similar, and taken over by market traders for most of the day. Also, I admit that the weather in Britain isn’t always conducive to al fresco living. London has a few nice little squares like this to be fair, as do other cities I’m sure. Bratislava, as I have already suggested, has a beautiful central square, Vienna has an abundance of tranquil little hideaways, Paris too. My favourite though has to be Barcelona, and a place called Plaça Reial. If you get there early enough it is simply charming, an enclosed courtyard about the size of half a football pitch, surrounded by cafes and bars and a brilliant restaurant called Els Quinze Nits where you can eat like a king for a fiver. But at night it really comes alive, people sit on the fountains, the floor, the many walls and benches, in little groups usually where they have brought their own beer and music, or else they buy a few cold ones form one of the many Asians who walk around with coolers full of drinks. At night it is not quite as pretty as by day, there is a continual police presence too, presumably to keep an eye on the drink sellers who do a little sideline in hashish, but I absolutely love the place, and spent many a summer night there relaxing, having a couple of beers, or even on occasion when the police had been called away, having an impromptu game of football, much to the dismay of the bar owners! Bradford has a central square, and recently they have developed it a bit to add a few bars and restaurants opposite the town hall. It’s nice enough, but the town hall itself is surrounded by roads on all sides, so it’s hardly the nicest place to sit and relax. An architect by the name of Will Allsop drew up plans to redevelop the north of England along the M62 corridor, from Hull to Liverpool, ranging from creating Tuscan style housing in the hills of Barnsley to flooding the entire central square of Bradford to make a lake. Not sure what the flat caps of Barnsley thought of his plans, but many a head nodded in agreement in Bradford.
We come now to one of my personal favourites, fashion. Being a modern metrosexual who owns a jacket or two from Zara, I consider myself at least moderately aware of fashion. Not saying I’m fashionable myself per sé (up north there will be thousands of people currently saying “who’s Percy?”), but I have a rough idea what is and isn’t. I remember having a conversation with a hairdresser in Cologne (and yes, they all talk bollocks there too) about why the British seemed to always where jeans and a t-shirt, regardless of the weather. I didn’t really have an answer, particularly as I was wearing just that. Since then I have started to pay a bit more attention and it’s true, it’s like a uniform or something. I’m not suggesting that we have a monopoly on t-shirts and jeans, but we certainly seem to wear them an awful lot more than the rest of Europe. The people in Bratislava seem fairly fashionable to me, the shops certainly suggest this, and a couple of afternoons spent with a beer and a notebook in the centre have backed this up. But then again, like I have already said, Bratislava is rich by Slovak standards, the cars on the road are certainly not the cars of the poor, BMW, Mercedes, Audi, and I even saw a Bentley. Although, I have noticed with immense satisfaction a number of Skodas and Ladas on the streets too, no Trabis yet, but I’ll keep my eyes peeled. But you still don’t see people in tracksuit bottoms, or leggings, or anything that shouts PINK across the street at you. And personally, that is how I like things. However, that being said I did spy a man walking through Bratislava clad head to toe in white; white linen trousers, white vest, white shirt (open, naturally), white espadrilles, and the bit that made me laugh the most, a white flat cap. Not the kind of cloth cap I see at home, obviously some kind of designer number, but no matter the name it was still a flat cap in my eyes. I guess a male model on the catwalks of Milan could have pulled the ensemble off, but a middle aged man with a beer belly is a different matter altogether. I should point out here that the first thought that when through my head was “how does he eat without spilling something?”
Which brings me nicely onto my next little subtopic; namely food. Now, I will keep this short, because it will come up again and again. I had asked Saša what the local dish was, with the intention of trying it before I left. I did so one evening alone in town. I love going to restaurants alone, some people think it’s sad and lonely but I think its brilliant, like going to the cinema alone too. So, I went to a restaurant just outside the old town, a place called Apetit. The place was dead except for me and the waiters, and there was a slightly disconcerting smell or stale cigarettes and old people about the place. I didn’t let it put me off though, for I had already eaten here the previous week and knew the food was good. I ordered a starter of deep fried cheese with salad, a main course of the local speciality and a beer. The cheese dish I had tried and liked the week before with Saša, but the main course was a mystery really. Even the description I had been given was a tad ambiguous, “it’s a bit like gnocchi, but not really, and with sour cream”. When it came I did my best to look enthused, but it was difficult. I looked very much like a plate of cottage cheese with some grated cheese and bacon on top. That may sound appealing to some, but personally I have always grouped cottage cheese together with skydiving and bomb disposal, basically things I would rather leave well alone. But, and I mean this, it was very nice. A bit on the stodgy side maybe and probably best eaten in winter, but it was tasty, filling and generally pretty good. I finished it all, ordered a coffee and then gasped in disbelief at the bill, £4 for everything. I think I like Bratislava.
It is not all good news though; there are a couple of little things that grate slightly with me. Firstly, the currency. There are about 50SK to the pound, which is fine by me, nice and easy to work out. But they have notes for 20SK, or about 40p. This means that buying a bottle of water with a 200Sk note, which I did one morning, has left me with a hernia from trying to lift my wallet and manoeuvre it into my pocket. This isn’t just a Slovak thing though; when the Euro was introduced I would have thought it was a perfect opportunity to get rid of all the small coins. Think about it, what do you do with anything below 10p other than collect it in a jar and take it to the fancy counting machine at Asda? You can get Euro coins for 1 cent or about 0.7pence in old money. What is the point of that? Why not round all the prices to the nearest 10 cent and get rid of all the silly little coins? It’s trivial I know, but if i were in charge.....
It’s not just bus tickets that impress me though, thankfully. The trains are always on time, and by that I don’t mean vaguely on time like in the UK, but to the minute. This never ceases to amaze me, along with the fact that never once in a European county other than the Britain have I heard a tannoy announcement apologising for the delay/slow running/general crapness of the service, it just doesn’t happen. Granted, if it were in Slovak I would be none the wiser given my vocabulary of one solitary word. We will come back to this point shortly, but just to keep you on tenterhooks a little longer, the word I know is Ahoj, any guesses?
The next think I appreciate in many a fine European city is the idea of having a central square, where people can meet, have a coffee in the sun, dangle their feet in a fountain or merely admire the passing Slovak girls. Now, obviously every city in Britain has a square of some sort, but they are generally bordered by a post office or similar, and taken over by market traders for most of the day. Also, I admit that the weather in Britain isn’t always conducive to al fresco living. London has a few nice little squares like this to be fair, as do other cities I’m sure. Bratislava, as I have already suggested, has a beautiful central square, Vienna has an abundance of tranquil little hideaways, Paris too. My favourite though has to be Barcelona, and a place called Plaça Reial. If you get there early enough it is simply charming, an enclosed courtyard about the size of half a football pitch, surrounded by cafes and bars and a brilliant restaurant called Els Quinze Nits where you can eat like a king for a fiver. But at night it really comes alive, people sit on the fountains, the floor, the many walls and benches, in little groups usually where they have brought their own beer and music, or else they buy a few cold ones form one of the many Asians who walk around with coolers full of drinks. At night it is not quite as pretty as by day, there is a continual police presence too, presumably to keep an eye on the drink sellers who do a little sideline in hashish, but I absolutely love the place, and spent many a summer night there relaxing, having a couple of beers, or even on occasion when the police had been called away, having an impromptu game of football, much to the dismay of the bar owners! Bradford has a central square, and recently they have developed it a bit to add a few bars and restaurants opposite the town hall. It’s nice enough, but the town hall itself is surrounded by roads on all sides, so it’s hardly the nicest place to sit and relax. An architect by the name of Will Allsop drew up plans to redevelop the north of England along the M62 corridor, from Hull to Liverpool, ranging from creating Tuscan style housing in the hills of Barnsley to flooding the entire central square of Bradford to make a lake. Not sure what the flat caps of Barnsley thought of his plans, but many a head nodded in agreement in Bradford.
We come now to one of my personal favourites, fashion. Being a modern metrosexual who owns a jacket or two from Zara, I consider myself at least moderately aware of fashion. Not saying I’m fashionable myself per sé (up north there will be thousands of people currently saying “who’s Percy?”), but I have a rough idea what is and isn’t. I remember having a conversation with a hairdresser in Cologne (and yes, they all talk bollocks there too) about why the British seemed to always where jeans and a t-shirt, regardless of the weather. I didn’t really have an answer, particularly as I was wearing just that. Since then I have started to pay a bit more attention and it’s true, it’s like a uniform or something. I’m not suggesting that we have a monopoly on t-shirts and jeans, but we certainly seem to wear them an awful lot more than the rest of Europe. The people in Bratislava seem fairly fashionable to me, the shops certainly suggest this, and a couple of afternoons spent with a beer and a notebook in the centre have backed this up. But then again, like I have already said, Bratislava is rich by Slovak standards, the cars on the road are certainly not the cars of the poor, BMW, Mercedes, Audi, and I even saw a Bentley. Although, I have noticed with immense satisfaction a number of Skodas and Ladas on the streets too, no Trabis yet, but I’ll keep my eyes peeled. But you still don’t see people in tracksuit bottoms, or leggings, or anything that shouts PINK across the street at you. And personally, that is how I like things. However, that being said I did spy a man walking through Bratislava clad head to toe in white; white linen trousers, white vest, white shirt (open, naturally), white espadrilles, and the bit that made me laugh the most, a white flat cap. Not the kind of cloth cap I see at home, obviously some kind of designer number, but no matter the name it was still a flat cap in my eyes. I guess a male model on the catwalks of Milan could have pulled the ensemble off, but a middle aged man with a beer belly is a different matter altogether. I should point out here that the first thought that when through my head was “how does he eat without spilling something?”
Which brings me nicely onto my next little subtopic; namely food. Now, I will keep this short, because it will come up again and again. I had asked Saša what the local dish was, with the intention of trying it before I left. I did so one evening alone in town. I love going to restaurants alone, some people think it’s sad and lonely but I think its brilliant, like going to the cinema alone too. So, I went to a restaurant just outside the old town, a place called Apetit. The place was dead except for me and the waiters, and there was a slightly disconcerting smell or stale cigarettes and old people about the place. I didn’t let it put me off though, for I had already eaten here the previous week and knew the food was good. I ordered a starter of deep fried cheese with salad, a main course of the local speciality and a beer. The cheese dish I had tried and liked the week before with Saša, but the main course was a mystery really. Even the description I had been given was a tad ambiguous, “it’s a bit like gnocchi, but not really, and with sour cream”. When it came I did my best to look enthused, but it was difficult. I looked very much like a plate of cottage cheese with some grated cheese and bacon on top. That may sound appealing to some, but personally I have always grouped cottage cheese together with skydiving and bomb disposal, basically things I would rather leave well alone. But, and I mean this, it was very nice. A bit on the stodgy side maybe and probably best eaten in winter, but it was tasty, filling and generally pretty good. I finished it all, ordered a coffee and then gasped in disbelief at the bill, £4 for everything. I think I like Bratislava.
It is not all good news though; there are a couple of little things that grate slightly with me. Firstly, the currency. There are about 50SK to the pound, which is fine by me, nice and easy to work out. But they have notes for 20SK, or about 40p. This means that buying a bottle of water with a 200Sk note, which I did one morning, has left me with a hernia from trying to lift my wallet and manoeuvre it into my pocket. This isn’t just a Slovak thing though; when the Euro was introduced I would have thought it was a perfect opportunity to get rid of all the small coins. Think about it, what do you do with anything below 10p other than collect it in a jar and take it to the fancy counting machine at Asda? You can get Euro coins for 1 cent or about 0.7pence in old money. What is the point of that? Why not round all the prices to the nearest 10 cent and get rid of all the silly little coins? It’s trivial I know, but if i were in charge.....
Sunday, 17 June 2007
Over to you....
Suitably encouraged by the flood of comments (merci Karen) I have posted the first three parts of "A Northerner Abroad..."
Have a read, let me know what you think, and we, or rather I, will take it from there.
T
Have a read, let me know what you think, and we, or rather I, will take it from there.
T
A Northerner Abroad...Part Three
Bratislava
Like I said, first impressions late at night after a long day including a lost bag are unlikely to be accurate. However, as I’m not in the employ of the Slovak tourist board, I will share them with you all the same. In fact I will stretch it a bit further to include my first daylight bathed trip to the train station by bus, from where I caught the train to Vienna.
So, first impressions? Well, the first thing I noticed, other than the fact in Slovakia they trust you to buy a ticket for the bus in advance and validate it yourself, was that all the buildings seemed to be a universal shade of washed out grey. Imagine your local Andale centre, which if the one in my hometown is anything to go by will be a concrete monstrosity, and that’s the colour I mean. In fact the only colour evident other than grey was from the graffiti which graced more or less every building I saw. In many ways it reminded me of those news documentaries about East Germany just after the fall of the wall, which I suppose is probably not a bad comparison. The closer to town the bus took me the more shops and neon signs became apparent, and the more recognisable things I saw, most notably of course the Coca Cola sign on every kiosk. I think Coca Cola is probably the only word other than Taxi that has achieved universal status throughout the world. Obviously, McDonalds and Starbucks are trying their hardest to join the club. Actually there may be another word in that exclusive little group, for I was surprised to notice that one particular graffiti artist with a little bit of commercial nous has sprayed the words Sex Shop in 10 foot high letters, complete with a helpful arrow, along the bottom of an entire apartment block.
The train station was disappointing to say the least. I don’t really know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t what I found. There’s no grand entrance, or flight of stone steps, or anything even remotely suggestive of the central station of a capital city. The entrance I used was squashed between too tobacco kiosks, and the whole place had a general air of missed opportunity. I bought my ticket and waited for the board to tell me which platform to go to, it was one of the old fashioned boards where all the letters and numbers flick round in unison when a change is made. I know I’m sounding very much like the capitalist twenty-something I am, with expectations of a King’s Cross or a Gare du Nord, and it is not meant to come across as a slight on the city as a whole, in fact I would probably have been equally disappointed to find electronic boards and flashy signs. The point I’m trying to make is really that for many travellers a train station is the first stop in any city, and had I arrived here by train I would have probably bought a ticket to somewhere else straight away. There is an almost temporary air about the place, as if everyone is waiting for the real station to be built. (Actually, having been graced by my presence one part does need a bit of work doing; I leant on a handrail to steady myself while scraping chewing gum off my shoe on the steps, and the railing came free of the wall. Needless to say I haven’t moved so fast in years.) However, that being said, it didn’t affect the punctuality and efficiency of the train service itself, which at the end of the day is the most important part of any train station. Britain take note. As with 99.9% of all trains I have take in continental Europe my train to Vienna arrived and left exactly when the timetable said it would. It is quite ironic really that one of the principal reasons for establishing Greenwich Mean Time (GMT) was to facilitate train travel in Britain, as people in different towns had their watches set to slightly different times. The idea being that by having a consistent time standard train timetables could be established and followed. As we know in Britain it seems that this is still awaiting introduction, whereas in the rest of Europe you really can set your watch by the trains.
So, with my watch suitably adjusted to 10.50 I headed for Vienna, in search of Wiener schnitzel, Coffee houses, Sachertorte, but first and foremost, somewhere to live. However, before we cross the border, let me tell you about my second impressions of Bratislava. That very same day, refreshed by a rather impromptu thunderstorm, I headed into the centre with Saša, my colleague, for a bite to eat. To get to the centre we again took the bus, but a different one this time. Again, I looked around me, wide eyed enthusiasm and child like wonder at being in a new city but I couldn’t help but feel I was in Sheffield or Halifax on a wet Monday morning. The rain had done nothing to improve to overriding grey of the buildings, and even the graffiti now seemed dull. I did note though that there was a lot of construction underway, signs of improvement on almost every street corner. But then, as we got closer to the centre the city began to change, the streets widened into tree lined avenues or boulevards even as I’m feeling vaguely European and romantic. The buildings changed too, fewer apartment blocks, more offices and banks. Saša pointed out her favourite bars on the way into town, including a place where, and believe me these were her words, “they have the best strippers”. Now, having never once set foot in a bar where they have strippers I have no idea what she meant by best. Are they the best looking? The best dancers? Or just incredibly proficient in the actual removal of clothing? Hopefully, it’s all three, for as my girlfriends over the years can attest there’s nothing worse than the sight of an ugly bloke getting his foot caught in his boxers and falling on his arse.
The city centre itself is magnificent, particularly the old town. It is everything I hoped and imagined it to be. The main square is beautiful, old municipal buildings on all sides, all in perfect condition, now home to bars and cafes whose tables stretch across the square. A small fountain marks the centre of the square, and in an evening the locals can be found sitting on its edge, sipping a beer and generally enjoying life. From the square the city spreads in all directions, to the Danube, the train station and the magnificent Castle on the hillside, all within 15 minutes walk. One thing I love about Bratislava is that in the centre a lot of the big old buildings are painted in various shades of yellow, blue, green and pink. It’s the same in some of the German cities I have visited. It sounds a bit garish really, but it really works. In fact I’ve seen something similar in my hometown, usually in areas where a high concentration of Pakistanis live, I guess it must be a cultural thing, but it always looks wrong in Bradford. Maybe it’s the difference in light (the sun always shines in Yorkshire, just not always as bright as here!). It’s interesting to note actually that in terms of population Bratislava is roughly the same size as my home town, give or take a few illegal immigrants on either side. Unfortunately that is more or less where the similarities end. Where Bradford is a shrine to everything the 60s got wrong; traffic filled streets criss-crossing the centre, concrete monoliths where once stood fine Georgian and Victorian buildings and an infuriating layout where all the shops are on one side of town, and the bars and restaurants the other, Bratislava is almost the polar opposite. Now, for fear of sounding too much like a tourist guide I won’t go into too much detail, but suffice to say that the socio-political histories of both towns differ wildly, but in Bratislava at least there is a sense of that very history that shaped the town, from the elaborate architecture of the heavily guarded Presidential Palace, to the brass plates that line the cobbled streets of the centre marking out the route taken by the horse drawn procession following the coronation of a king. In Bradford we have tens of former textile mills that have been turned into flats and a Wool exchange building that is now a Waterstones/Starbucks. Not quite the same really is it? I know it is woefully unfair to compare an industrial town in my beloved north with the capital of an eastern European country, but still…!
Like I said, first impressions late at night after a long day including a lost bag are unlikely to be accurate. However, as I’m not in the employ of the Slovak tourist board, I will share them with you all the same. In fact I will stretch it a bit further to include my first daylight bathed trip to the train station by bus, from where I caught the train to Vienna.
So, first impressions? Well, the first thing I noticed, other than the fact in Slovakia they trust you to buy a ticket for the bus in advance and validate it yourself, was that all the buildings seemed to be a universal shade of washed out grey. Imagine your local Andale centre, which if the one in my hometown is anything to go by will be a concrete monstrosity, and that’s the colour I mean. In fact the only colour evident other than grey was from the graffiti which graced more or less every building I saw. In many ways it reminded me of those news documentaries about East Germany just after the fall of the wall, which I suppose is probably not a bad comparison. The closer to town the bus took me the more shops and neon signs became apparent, and the more recognisable things I saw, most notably of course the Coca Cola sign on every kiosk. I think Coca Cola is probably the only word other than Taxi that has achieved universal status throughout the world. Obviously, McDonalds and Starbucks are trying their hardest to join the club. Actually there may be another word in that exclusive little group, for I was surprised to notice that one particular graffiti artist with a little bit of commercial nous has sprayed the words Sex Shop in 10 foot high letters, complete with a helpful arrow, along the bottom of an entire apartment block.
The train station was disappointing to say the least. I don’t really know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t what I found. There’s no grand entrance, or flight of stone steps, or anything even remotely suggestive of the central station of a capital city. The entrance I used was squashed between too tobacco kiosks, and the whole place had a general air of missed opportunity. I bought my ticket and waited for the board to tell me which platform to go to, it was one of the old fashioned boards where all the letters and numbers flick round in unison when a change is made. I know I’m sounding very much like the capitalist twenty-something I am, with expectations of a King’s Cross or a Gare du Nord, and it is not meant to come across as a slight on the city as a whole, in fact I would probably have been equally disappointed to find electronic boards and flashy signs. The point I’m trying to make is really that for many travellers a train station is the first stop in any city, and had I arrived here by train I would have probably bought a ticket to somewhere else straight away. There is an almost temporary air about the place, as if everyone is waiting for the real station to be built. (Actually, having been graced by my presence one part does need a bit of work doing; I leant on a handrail to steady myself while scraping chewing gum off my shoe on the steps, and the railing came free of the wall. Needless to say I haven’t moved so fast in years.) However, that being said, it didn’t affect the punctuality and efficiency of the train service itself, which at the end of the day is the most important part of any train station. Britain take note. As with 99.9% of all trains I have take in continental Europe my train to Vienna arrived and left exactly when the timetable said it would. It is quite ironic really that one of the principal reasons for establishing Greenwich Mean Time (GMT) was to facilitate train travel in Britain, as people in different towns had their watches set to slightly different times. The idea being that by having a consistent time standard train timetables could be established and followed. As we know in Britain it seems that this is still awaiting introduction, whereas in the rest of Europe you really can set your watch by the trains.
So, with my watch suitably adjusted to 10.50 I headed for Vienna, in search of Wiener schnitzel, Coffee houses, Sachertorte, but first and foremost, somewhere to live. However, before we cross the border, let me tell you about my second impressions of Bratislava. That very same day, refreshed by a rather impromptu thunderstorm, I headed into the centre with Saša, my colleague, for a bite to eat. To get to the centre we again took the bus, but a different one this time. Again, I looked around me, wide eyed enthusiasm and child like wonder at being in a new city but I couldn’t help but feel I was in Sheffield or Halifax on a wet Monday morning. The rain had done nothing to improve to overriding grey of the buildings, and even the graffiti now seemed dull. I did note though that there was a lot of construction underway, signs of improvement on almost every street corner. But then, as we got closer to the centre the city began to change, the streets widened into tree lined avenues or boulevards even as I’m feeling vaguely European and romantic. The buildings changed too, fewer apartment blocks, more offices and banks. Saša pointed out her favourite bars on the way into town, including a place where, and believe me these were her words, “they have the best strippers”. Now, having never once set foot in a bar where they have strippers I have no idea what she meant by best. Are they the best looking? The best dancers? Or just incredibly proficient in the actual removal of clothing? Hopefully, it’s all three, for as my girlfriends over the years can attest there’s nothing worse than the sight of an ugly bloke getting his foot caught in his boxers and falling on his arse.
The city centre itself is magnificent, particularly the old town. It is everything I hoped and imagined it to be. The main square is beautiful, old municipal buildings on all sides, all in perfect condition, now home to bars and cafes whose tables stretch across the square. A small fountain marks the centre of the square, and in an evening the locals can be found sitting on its edge, sipping a beer and generally enjoying life. From the square the city spreads in all directions, to the Danube, the train station and the magnificent Castle on the hillside, all within 15 minutes walk. One thing I love about Bratislava is that in the centre a lot of the big old buildings are painted in various shades of yellow, blue, green and pink. It’s the same in some of the German cities I have visited. It sounds a bit garish really, but it really works. In fact I’ve seen something similar in my hometown, usually in areas where a high concentration of Pakistanis live, I guess it must be a cultural thing, but it always looks wrong in Bradford. Maybe it’s the difference in light (the sun always shines in Yorkshire, just not always as bright as here!). It’s interesting to note actually that in terms of population Bratislava is roughly the same size as my home town, give or take a few illegal immigrants on either side. Unfortunately that is more or less where the similarities end. Where Bradford is a shrine to everything the 60s got wrong; traffic filled streets criss-crossing the centre, concrete monoliths where once stood fine Georgian and Victorian buildings and an infuriating layout where all the shops are on one side of town, and the bars and restaurants the other, Bratislava is almost the polar opposite. Now, for fear of sounding too much like a tourist guide I won’t go into too much detail, but suffice to say that the socio-political histories of both towns differ wildly, but in Bratislava at least there is a sense of that very history that shaped the town, from the elaborate architecture of the heavily guarded Presidential Palace, to the brass plates that line the cobbled streets of the centre marking out the route taken by the horse drawn procession following the coronation of a king. In Bradford we have tens of former textile mills that have been turned into flats and a Wool exchange building that is now a Waterstones/Starbucks. Not quite the same really is it? I know it is woefully unfair to compare an industrial town in my beloved north with the capital of an eastern European country, but still…!
A Northerner Abroad...Part Two
CHAPTER 1
Arrival
Now this may start by being a touch confusing, but it will all make sense, trust me. About 10pm local time and the seatbelt lights came on in the plane; I duly turned my ipod off and readied myself for landing. Now, those who know me will know that while not exactly being a bad flyer, I’m hardly likely to be found jumping for joy before, or during a flight. Afterwards, probably. So, the wheels hit the ground at about 120mph (a fact kindly supplied by my mate who took me to the airport, just to reassure me I think), the ABS kicked in and we came to a halt. We loaded ourselves onto the bus, drove for approximately 150metres and arrived at Passport control. I passed the test and found myself immediately in baggage reclaim; a single carousel in a small, brightly lit hall. The wall facing me was entirely made of glass, and outside, literally outside, were the people waiting to collect loved ones, friends, and anyone else who had sneaked onboard at Manchester. This made me smile a bit, because, and maybe I should have told you this earlier, this was not Vienna, but rather Bratislava. I can hear the sound of horses being held across the country, “Bratislava? That’s not even in Austria”. Indeed it is not, it is in neighbouring Slovakia, and given my budget and the unbelievable difficulty I had in finding a direct flight to Vienna, it was the next best thing.
So, back to the smile. I have never been to Slovakia before, in fact I only know one Slovak, a work colleague who was waiting somewhere outside to pick me up. But, in true stereotypical fashion I had a couple of ideas in my head about how it might be. As an aside I should probably point out that at various stages in the last 6 years or so I have studied intercultural management, and the importance of not reverting to stereotypes. However, I have found that in most cases stereotypes are based in truth, albeit exaggerated, so I have no problem with stereotyping until I know different!
So, Slovakia? In my head, one obvious thing springs to mind; Communism. And that is about it really. So, the fact that the people waiting to collect their friends were doing so outside made me smile. It seemed to be a very unusual thing, and in my head the reason for this was Communism. Then I noticed the razor wire on top on a wall outside, and a mental picture of a man with a sub-machine gun jumped up at me and woke me up. By this point the conveyor belt had started moving, but as a seasoned traveller I knew it would run empty for at least five minutes. Wrong, the bags were coming out already. Again, I put this down to the lingering Communist influence. Now, as I am moving to Vienna to live, I am not exactly travelling light. So, on top of my hand luggage I was keeping an eye on the conveyor for my suitcase, cricket bag (£14 for sports equipment and they didn’t even check the contents. 1-0 to me) and my laptop bag which had all my books and papers, but no laptop (which was in my hand luggage). So, I got the suitcase. Then the cricket bag. And then….nothing. I guess that makes it 1-1. Fortunately there was another guy who was still waiting when they turned the conveyor off, so I was not alone, which was good since I only know one word in Slovak. Andy, who I guess was actually called something else entirely but took pity on my northern ears, spoke excellent English and we set off to the lost luggage office to register out losses. Again, I was about to put the loss of my luggage, the first time this has ever happened to me, down to Communism. Then I realised that the cock-up had occurred in Manchester Airport. So, not the fault of the Commies at all, but rather the bloody Lancastrians. Is there no escape?
So long story short, I met my friend, got a receipt for my missing bag, and we loaded up the car and set off. By the way, as I write this 3 days later I can confirm my bag is here safe and sound, delivered at 7.30am by a very scary looking man who spoke English better than most of my mates. So, we were in the car heading to my friend’s flat. 11.30pm on a Monday night after a long day in an airport is no time to judge a city in a ten minute car ride, so I won’t. The flat looked nice though.
Just realised I forgot to mention that due to my lack of planning I had spent most of the day in Manchester airport, 7 hours to be exact. Basically I had booked a train ticket to the airport a few weeks in advance, without thinking about how I was going to transport myself and all my bags without causing myself, or anyone else, an injury. So, the day before I travelled I started asking my friends for a lift. On a Monday. At about 3pm. Needless to say, there was a common theme in their answers. All bar one, my best mate Mark, who works for the police and was starting work in the afternoon. So, that meant getting to the airport at lunchtime, for a 7pm flight! I really should plan more sometimes.
Arrival
Now this may start by being a touch confusing, but it will all make sense, trust me. About 10pm local time and the seatbelt lights came on in the plane; I duly turned my ipod off and readied myself for landing. Now, those who know me will know that while not exactly being a bad flyer, I’m hardly likely to be found jumping for joy before, or during a flight. Afterwards, probably. So, the wheels hit the ground at about 120mph (a fact kindly supplied by my mate who took me to the airport, just to reassure me I think), the ABS kicked in and we came to a halt. We loaded ourselves onto the bus, drove for approximately 150metres and arrived at Passport control. I passed the test and found myself immediately in baggage reclaim; a single carousel in a small, brightly lit hall. The wall facing me was entirely made of glass, and outside, literally outside, were the people waiting to collect loved ones, friends, and anyone else who had sneaked onboard at Manchester. This made me smile a bit, because, and maybe I should have told you this earlier, this was not Vienna, but rather Bratislava. I can hear the sound of horses being held across the country, “Bratislava? That’s not even in Austria”. Indeed it is not, it is in neighbouring Slovakia, and given my budget and the unbelievable difficulty I had in finding a direct flight to Vienna, it was the next best thing.
So, back to the smile. I have never been to Slovakia before, in fact I only know one Slovak, a work colleague who was waiting somewhere outside to pick me up. But, in true stereotypical fashion I had a couple of ideas in my head about how it might be. As an aside I should probably point out that at various stages in the last 6 years or so I have studied intercultural management, and the importance of not reverting to stereotypes. However, I have found that in most cases stereotypes are based in truth, albeit exaggerated, so I have no problem with stereotyping until I know different!
So, Slovakia? In my head, one obvious thing springs to mind; Communism. And that is about it really. So, the fact that the people waiting to collect their friends were doing so outside made me smile. It seemed to be a very unusual thing, and in my head the reason for this was Communism. Then I noticed the razor wire on top on a wall outside, and a mental picture of a man with a sub-machine gun jumped up at me and woke me up. By this point the conveyor belt had started moving, but as a seasoned traveller I knew it would run empty for at least five minutes. Wrong, the bags were coming out already. Again, I put this down to the lingering Communist influence. Now, as I am moving to Vienna to live, I am not exactly travelling light. So, on top of my hand luggage I was keeping an eye on the conveyor for my suitcase, cricket bag (£14 for sports equipment and they didn’t even check the contents. 1-0 to me) and my laptop bag which had all my books and papers, but no laptop (which was in my hand luggage). So, I got the suitcase. Then the cricket bag. And then….nothing. I guess that makes it 1-1. Fortunately there was another guy who was still waiting when they turned the conveyor off, so I was not alone, which was good since I only know one word in Slovak. Andy, who I guess was actually called something else entirely but took pity on my northern ears, spoke excellent English and we set off to the lost luggage office to register out losses. Again, I was about to put the loss of my luggage, the first time this has ever happened to me, down to Communism. Then I realised that the cock-up had occurred in Manchester Airport. So, not the fault of the Commies at all, but rather the bloody Lancastrians. Is there no escape?
So long story short, I met my friend, got a receipt for my missing bag, and we loaded up the car and set off. By the way, as I write this 3 days later I can confirm my bag is here safe and sound, delivered at 7.30am by a very scary looking man who spoke English better than most of my mates. So, we were in the car heading to my friend’s flat. 11.30pm on a Monday night after a long day in an airport is no time to judge a city in a ten minute car ride, so I won’t. The flat looked nice though.
Just realised I forgot to mention that due to my lack of planning I had spent most of the day in Manchester airport, 7 hours to be exact. Basically I had booked a train ticket to the airport a few weeks in advance, without thinking about how I was going to transport myself and all my bags without causing myself, or anyone else, an injury. So, the day before I travelled I started asking my friends for a lift. On a Monday. At about 3pm. Needless to say, there was a common theme in their answers. All bar one, my best mate Mark, who works for the police and was starting work in the afternoon. So, that meant getting to the airport at lunchtime, for a 7pm flight! I really should plan more sometimes.
A Northerner Abroad….Part One
Firstly, before we get to where we are going, I should explain the title. I am indeed a northerner, hailing from sunny Bradford in West Yorkshire (although recently exiled in neighbouring Leeds), and, as the title so helpfully suggests, I am ‘abroad’. Not too difficult really is it? But why not “A Brit Abroad’ or something similar. Well, it’s simple really, and can best be explained by a comment my history teacher, Mr Aske (what a great name for a teacher by the way), made when discussing European nationalism during the 19th Century. (I’ve just reread that and realised it could be read to mean that Mr Aske was teaching me in the 19th Century. Obviously not the case.)
“You see the thing with nationalism is that it has many different forms, and not always
relating to a nation as a whole. Take me for example, as a Yorkshire man the first war I
would sign up for would be against the Lancastrians. Then, second on the list, The North
versus The South. Then, having won both of those I would triumphantly march into Paris
and teach the French a thing or two about life, mainly that snails are not food.”
Now, being a kind hearted sort of bloke I will give Askey the benefit of the doubt here; he was exaggerating to make a point, as is any teachers wont. He probably expected to raise a smile, or even a laugh, but he forgot that he was preaching to the converted, and all he got was 30 heads, nodding in unison, wondering when the order would be given to retake Saddleworth Moor from those bloody Lancs. Before I lose you altogether, the point I’m long-windedly trying to make is that, I, Thomas Clayton, being of sound mind, consider myself first and foremost as a Northerner. In truth, first and foremost I’m a Yorkshire man, but I thought “A Yorkshire Man Abroad” would put all the Lancastrians off from buying this, and there’s nothing us Tykes like more than taking money of a Lanc (forward thinking you see, I will get published!!) So, I’m a northerner, and all that entails.
Now then, how about the abroad bit of the title. Stereotypes would suggest that that could mean anything south of Sheffield, west of Halifax or north of Richmond. In fact, I am heading for Vienna. I had to resist the urge to write “Vienna, Austria” there. Of course its bloody Austria, every fool knows that, it just seems we need to clarify everything remotely geography related for our friends across the pond these days doesn’t it? To be fair though, they did steal all their place names from us Europeans anyway, so they may be easily confused, I daresay there is a Vienna somewhere in the US. Anyway, I digress (get used to it I’m afraid). Vienna, capital of Austria, former home of Napoleon (more of a temporary residence than anything), centre of the long forgotten Austro-Hungarian empire, and gateway to Central and Eastern Europe, at least that is what my guide book says. I’m going there to work, not just swan about in parks, drink coffee and write witty witticisms (can a witticism be anything but?) about the locals, though I daresay that may happen occasionally.
I suppose the next thing I should sort out is the why. Why write about going to Vienna? Well, firstly, and I’m sure you saw this one coming, but why not? Secondly, well there isn’t a second point really, other than every time I travel I think to myself that I should write about it, pass on my humour and wisdom or something. So, that’s that settled then. It’s probably worth adding here that I will undoubtedly cover not only my current spell abroad in Vienna, but also some of the previous trips I have made over the last 7 years or so since going to University as a lively 18 year old. You see being from Bradford has one huge benefit really, or two to be more precise. Firstly, Bradford was built on the textile industry, with our mills supplying countries all over the world. This means that despite being located on the slopes of the Pennines there has always being a faintly exotic air to Bradford. This is heightened by the high proportion of imported labour, much of which came in the 50s and 60s, primarily from India, Pakistan and other colonial countries, but also from Italy, Poland and Russia. As such, growing up in Bradford was probably quite different to growing up in say Newcastle or Norwich. I suppose, looking back at it now with all my worldly experience, Bradford was a forerunner for many of today’s multicultural cities. I don’t just mean the Indian restaurants for which it is famous, but also Polish social clubs and genuine Italian ice cream men, not just blokes called Barry with a dodgy moustasche and accent. I went to school with kids from families hailing from all over the world, all this not 2 miles form where Emmerdale Farm was filmed! This means that I have always had the idea in my head that the world is not such a big and scary place after all. Rather like the kids of Dockers on the Mersey or the Thames or the Tyne who dreamt of joining the merchant navy and visiting the places the cargo came from, I have always wanted to travel. The second major advantage about being from Bradford is that wherever you end up, chances are it will be better than home! Don’t get be wrong, I am proud of my home town, and since embarking on various trips I have come to appreciate it far more, but it’s hardly the stuff of postcards and poetry. Bloody good place to go for a decent meal though, as long as you don’t want anything British.
The people of the world can be divided into two groups, those who plan, and those who do not. I belong to the second group, the “let’s make it up as we go along” group. And that is very much what I intend to do here. There is no semblance of structure, no chapter headings already written down, no list of “must include” topics. It’s pretty much just me, a notepad and pen, my take on the things I see, and no doubt the odd story thrown in for good measure. As such, I can’t promise that this will be the most linear of books. I may write at length about a particular building in a part of town, then skip the rest of the district altogether in favour of a story about a uni-cycling penguin I had a dream about. I don’t honestly know, but at least by telling you now, you know what you are getting yourself into. Fair deal?
So then, onwards and upwards, chapter one awaits....
“You see the thing with nationalism is that it has many different forms, and not always
relating to a nation as a whole. Take me for example, as a Yorkshire man the first war I
would sign up for would be against the Lancastrians. Then, second on the list, The North
versus The South. Then, having won both of those I would triumphantly march into Paris
and teach the French a thing or two about life, mainly that snails are not food.”
Now, being a kind hearted sort of bloke I will give Askey the benefit of the doubt here; he was exaggerating to make a point, as is any teachers wont. He probably expected to raise a smile, or even a laugh, but he forgot that he was preaching to the converted, and all he got was 30 heads, nodding in unison, wondering when the order would be given to retake Saddleworth Moor from those bloody Lancs. Before I lose you altogether, the point I’m long-windedly trying to make is that, I, Thomas Clayton, being of sound mind, consider myself first and foremost as a Northerner. In truth, first and foremost I’m a Yorkshire man, but I thought “A Yorkshire Man Abroad” would put all the Lancastrians off from buying this, and there’s nothing us Tykes like more than taking money of a Lanc (forward thinking you see, I will get published!!) So, I’m a northerner, and all that entails.
Now then, how about the abroad bit of the title. Stereotypes would suggest that that could mean anything south of Sheffield, west of Halifax or north of Richmond. In fact, I am heading for Vienna. I had to resist the urge to write “Vienna, Austria” there. Of course its bloody Austria, every fool knows that, it just seems we need to clarify everything remotely geography related for our friends across the pond these days doesn’t it? To be fair though, they did steal all their place names from us Europeans anyway, so they may be easily confused, I daresay there is a Vienna somewhere in the US. Anyway, I digress (get used to it I’m afraid). Vienna, capital of Austria, former home of Napoleon (more of a temporary residence than anything), centre of the long forgotten Austro-Hungarian empire, and gateway to Central and Eastern Europe, at least that is what my guide book says. I’m going there to work, not just swan about in parks, drink coffee and write witty witticisms (can a witticism be anything but?) about the locals, though I daresay that may happen occasionally.
I suppose the next thing I should sort out is the why. Why write about going to Vienna? Well, firstly, and I’m sure you saw this one coming, but why not? Secondly, well there isn’t a second point really, other than every time I travel I think to myself that I should write about it, pass on my humour and wisdom or something. So, that’s that settled then. It’s probably worth adding here that I will undoubtedly cover not only my current spell abroad in Vienna, but also some of the previous trips I have made over the last 7 years or so since going to University as a lively 18 year old. You see being from Bradford has one huge benefit really, or two to be more precise. Firstly, Bradford was built on the textile industry, with our mills supplying countries all over the world. This means that despite being located on the slopes of the Pennines there has always being a faintly exotic air to Bradford. This is heightened by the high proportion of imported labour, much of which came in the 50s and 60s, primarily from India, Pakistan and other colonial countries, but also from Italy, Poland and Russia. As such, growing up in Bradford was probably quite different to growing up in say Newcastle or Norwich. I suppose, looking back at it now with all my worldly experience, Bradford was a forerunner for many of today’s multicultural cities. I don’t just mean the Indian restaurants for which it is famous, but also Polish social clubs and genuine Italian ice cream men, not just blokes called Barry with a dodgy moustasche and accent. I went to school with kids from families hailing from all over the world, all this not 2 miles form where Emmerdale Farm was filmed! This means that I have always had the idea in my head that the world is not such a big and scary place after all. Rather like the kids of Dockers on the Mersey or the Thames or the Tyne who dreamt of joining the merchant navy and visiting the places the cargo came from, I have always wanted to travel. The second major advantage about being from Bradford is that wherever you end up, chances are it will be better than home! Don’t get be wrong, I am proud of my home town, and since embarking on various trips I have come to appreciate it far more, but it’s hardly the stuff of postcards and poetry. Bloody good place to go for a decent meal though, as long as you don’t want anything British.
The people of the world can be divided into two groups, those who plan, and those who do not. I belong to the second group, the “let’s make it up as we go along” group. And that is very much what I intend to do here. There is no semblance of structure, no chapter headings already written down, no list of “must include” topics. It’s pretty much just me, a notepad and pen, my take on the things I see, and no doubt the odd story thrown in for good measure. As such, I can’t promise that this will be the most linear of books. I may write at length about a particular building in a part of town, then skip the rest of the district altogether in favour of a story about a uni-cycling penguin I had a dream about. I don’t honestly know, but at least by telling you now, you know what you are getting yourself into. Fair deal?
So then, onwards and upwards, chapter one awaits....
Saturday, 16 June 2007
So....
...I'm in Vienna, and I am going to write about it, the one problem I have is that I started writing and got a bit carried away. 10,000 words later, I'm not sure what to do really. I have it on good authority that at least 4 people read this blog, maybe even 5, but will they, or rather you, read so much?! Answers on a postcard please, or better still an email!
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