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Apr. 29th, 2001
One more time....
Apr. 29th, 2001 11:13 pmAnother whack at my adventures today.
I'm digesting a late tapas meal in an Internet café off of La Plaza Catalunya. I got a vodka martini tickling my brain and trying to tap out stuff on a Spanish keyboard that has only moved the subconsciously-hit keys to strange places (like, for instance, the parentheses).
The lovely Leia took me to Brick Lane, which is kind of an open-air flea market in London. Stalls line streets as far as the eye can see, as well as underground in an old industrial loading dock that the clever vendors seem to use to avoid the omnipresent London rain. The vendors themselves are an interesting melding of commerce. The British vendors smoke hand-rolled cigarettes, are usually missing a tooth, are quite weathered and a lot of fun. They talk in sentences missing random letters: " 'at roi' thur, m'luv? 'at'l b' fo' qui'." The non-Briton venders speak a quick and brief patois of pigeon Arabic and spotty English that is easier to understand than the Britons. The Britons sell CDs and DVDs, the Easterners sell CD and DVD players. The Britons sell rusty used tools (ever lose a hammer? Odds are it found its way to Brick Lane where it was sold with a twin, two for one quid). The Easterners sell a wide variety of skincare products, labeled in Spanish and Russian. The Britons sell old paperback books. The Easterners sell old issues of fashion magazines -- A cosmo advertising a sure-fire way to achieve a one-hour orgasm caught my eye. I almost bought it, for research purposes of course. It's always handy to learn a trade.
I miscalculated the time badly, and missed my flight to Brussels (where I was to connect to a flight to Barcelona). A bit of negotiating and a bit of cash got me a later ticket, so Leia and I ate lunch at an airport restaurant, ate omeletes and pizza, and drank weak American beer. We made fun of British accents (as well as Ozzie and Uhmerucun accents). We spoke of the States and Oz, of tropical climates and green trees.
...to be continued
I'm digesting a late tapas meal in an Internet café off of La Plaza Catalunya. I got a vodka martini tickling my brain and trying to tap out stuff on a Spanish keyboard that has only moved the subconsciously-hit keys to strange places (like, for instance, the parentheses).
The lovely Leia took me to Brick Lane, which is kind of an open-air flea market in London. Stalls line streets as far as the eye can see, as well as underground in an old industrial loading dock that the clever vendors seem to use to avoid the omnipresent London rain. The vendors themselves are an interesting melding of commerce. The British vendors smoke hand-rolled cigarettes, are usually missing a tooth, are quite weathered and a lot of fun. They talk in sentences missing random letters: " 'at roi' thur, m'luv? 'at'l b' fo' qui'." The non-Briton venders speak a quick and brief patois of pigeon Arabic and spotty English that is easier to understand than the Britons. The Britons sell CDs and DVDs, the Easterners sell CD and DVD players. The Britons sell rusty used tools (ever lose a hammer? Odds are it found its way to Brick Lane where it was sold with a twin, two for one quid). The Easterners sell a wide variety of skincare products, labeled in Spanish and Russian. The Britons sell old paperback books. The Easterners sell old issues of fashion magazines -- A cosmo advertising a sure-fire way to achieve a one-hour orgasm caught my eye. I almost bought it, for research purposes of course. It's always handy to learn a trade.
I miscalculated the time badly, and missed my flight to Brussels (where I was to connect to a flight to Barcelona). A bit of negotiating and a bit of cash got me a later ticket, so Leia and I ate lunch at an airport restaurant, ate omeletes and pizza, and drank weak American beer. We made fun of British accents (as well as Ozzie and Uhmerucun accents). We spoke of the States and Oz, of tropical climates and green trees.
...to be continued
(no subject)
Apr. 29th, 2001 11:39 pm...so after an uneventful, boring couple of flights I arrive in Barcelona where it is muggy and 20C, with a nice salty breeze wafting in from the Med. Then I think I badly insulted a cab driver.
See, we were driving to my hotel (meanwhile I'm cringing as I keep thinking he's driving on the wrong side of the road). We go through a section of town that's not very pretty, unlike 99% of the rest of the town. There are apartments with laundry hanging over the edges, grafittified, cars missing wheels outside. The cabbie shakes his head and points, saying something in Catalan. He doesn´t speak English, I speak bad Latin Spanish, and he keeps pointing and saying one word over and over again. I'm thinking he's talking about the buildings, so I ask "apartmentos?" He nods, but shakes his head again. So, in my stupid American ignorance, I say "apartmentos malos?" meaning bad or ugly apartments -- a place not to be. He shakes his head again, we try it a few more times, but he doesn't get his point across.
I look it up in the hotel. I think he was pointing to the Olympic Village, where the atheletes stayed. Ten years later, the Barcelonans are still proud to have been a host (as are us Atlantans), and I hope I didn't seem too unimpressed by the site. He was still friendly, even told me the maximum to pay at the hotel (which was a good thing as they tried to rip me off), so perhaps I still misunderstand, or he wrote me off as a silly tourist who wouldn't recognize a historic landmark if it fell on him.
See, we were driving to my hotel (meanwhile I'm cringing as I keep thinking he's driving on the wrong side of the road). We go through a section of town that's not very pretty, unlike 99% of the rest of the town. There are apartments with laundry hanging over the edges, grafittified, cars missing wheels outside. The cabbie shakes his head and points, saying something in Catalan. He doesn´t speak English, I speak bad Latin Spanish, and he keeps pointing and saying one word over and over again. I'm thinking he's talking about the buildings, so I ask "apartmentos?" He nods, but shakes his head again. So, in my stupid American ignorance, I say "apartmentos malos?" meaning bad or ugly apartments -- a place not to be. He shakes his head again, we try it a few more times, but he doesn't get his point across.
I look it up in the hotel. I think he was pointing to the Olympic Village, where the atheletes stayed. Ten years later, the Barcelonans are still proud to have been a host (as are us Atlantans), and I hope I didn't seem too unimpressed by the site. He was still friendly, even told me the maximum to pay at the hotel (which was a good thing as they tried to rip me off), so perhaps I still misunderstand, or he wrote me off as a silly tourist who wouldn't recognize a historic landmark if it fell on him.
