Sleepy Suffolk

Barely a fortnight into the new year, and here I was jetting off again to some far-away overseas land. This is the fantastic thing about England: pretty much everything, save Wales and Scotland, is over a murky body of sea conveying excitement and mystery to any trip no matter how close, business-like, and uninteresting it may be. Yes, an escapade to a remote Walloon town can suddenly sound like a trek to an unchartered land all thanks to the Channel.
This time though, I was off to Madrid to visit my father who’d been dwelling in the eastern parts of the Spanish capital for the past 8 months or so. My mother still being in France, I decided I’d pay ‘my old man’ a visit and show him a good old time in Madrid’s many joints, bars, and restaurants.
Much like most travel from Eastern England these days, it all started with a Ryanair flight from Stansted Airport on route to Madrid’s 4-strip airport. And suddenly the excitement and thrills of overseas travel had been dwindled down to a bland necessity to fly on board Europe’s cheapest - in all senses of the vocable - airline. But to complain would be like shooting oneself in the foot. We, consumers, have brought Ryanair unto ourselves by begging for ever cheaper fares and complying with the airline’s whimsical regulations in order to achieve such ridiculous prices. And to be quite honest, if the wary traveller fully plays along (i.e. doesn’t bring luggage along other than a small carry-on bag; checks in online; lets other passengers fight for vital space in the long queue reminiscent of long-gone post-war rationning eras; take it easy and not care about flight delay), then the airline delivers perfectly.
I was surprised to note there were a few fellow Frenchmen flying out to Spain: in the queue, I eavesdropped on a very interesting conversation between two 20-odd French passengers ignorant that others may well understand their language. At least, time flew by for me as I listened to their banter. Once inside the aircraft, I grabbed a seat in the very last row and was shortly joined by a pretty girl and a male friend of hers. They too chatted away like there is no tomorrow. The girl seemed fidgety. She was merely nervous to be flying and surely soon enough she snapped at me in French thinking I wouldn’t understand. All this because I had my HTC contraption turned on (in flight mode of course). I replied that (a) I’d understood her every last word, thank you very much and that (b) my phone was turned off. It’s a shame we hit it off that way because apart from her nervousness, she seemed like a very nice girl in all proportions indeed.
The reason I’d left my smartphone turned on (in flight phone I stress again) was to be able to trace the plane’s route using a GPS receiver I’d recently bought. I had cached Google Map images of the route in my phone before the flight and so, I was able to plot my route and follow the progression of the flight as it went up north of Stansted and Stevenage to then circle round London, past Reading, Heathrow, then finally south to Southampton, the Channel, Britanny, and at least some 200km well off the French coast (past Nantes, La Rochelle, and Bordeaux) into Spanish mainland over Santander, close to Burgos, Segovia, and lastly Madrid.
Once the Ryanair bird (I mean by that the plane, not any of those calendar pin-up girls) touched down at Barajas, I hastily made my way to the underground and some 40 minutes later, both my Dad and I were enjoying a famous fizzy Dutch beverage in the apartment kitchen while chewing on some delicious local chorizo y morcilla (de Burgos por supuesto). We caught up on family chit chat and gossip which was thin indeed. That’s the problem with permanent ubiquitous communication means. Family members update each other in near-real time nowadays which means that by the time you get to see family facef-to-face, everyone already knows everything and there is little point in rambling on about Auntie Emma’s latest amorous conquest (no I don’t have such an aunt).
The hour being well into the night by French standards, we called it a night and went off to sleep to doze off.

Not so long ago, I’d have had to go to Harwich, take a wooden vessel - probably a small rocky caravel - to undertake the daring crossing of the Atlantic Ocean to eventually reach the New World.
Nowadays, I have to travel further away from Ipswich, all the way to London’s southern airport, Gatwick, to even consider reaching America. However, of course, we don’t travel in caravels anymore (not even the flying one) to America. The captain won’t be Sir Walter either. In lieu of sails, ropes, and masts, I’ll be snuggled into a close fit seat in one of many rows of a Boeing 767 - probably not the window seat - and the trip will last a mere eight hours or so. Rather than setting foot on the warm sand of the Carolinas Outer Banks, I will tread the possibly worn carpet of Atlanta’s hub airport, home to Delta Airlines who still love to fly (and it still shows). At least, I won’t be sea-sick.
It’s been a long seven years since I last strolled around American streets, nearly a decade since I deambulated in NYC’s downtown alight with the spirit of Christmas. I cannot begin to describe what it feels like to return to a land one has known well enough to call it home.
It will be the first time too since I’ve moved to England and as such going there will be a linguistic test. How much of the British language has rubbed off on me? Dare I walk on the pavement? Have my language inflections changed? Must I monitor my vocabulary closely for fear I slip a word a tad too Suffolk-like?
In due time, I will report on this whole new experience.

It’s nearly 7PM here in Ipswich - June 16th 2008. I’m still working on a paper for ECOWS 2008 - a conference on web services.
Thanks to Youtube, entertainment is blaring straight from my 3 1/2 jack to my ears. Suddenly pops up a Cranberries classic which brings back fond memories of my Cranberries period. I remember listening to Wake Up and Smell the Coffee when on the plane from Tours’s minuscule airport to Essex’s Stansted airport (1). It was back in 2004 and I was off to Ipswich for my second placement. Little did I know I would still be there some four years later. Whatever happened to my craving for travels and exotic places? Is that what they call senile rooting? The inability to move about till you receive brochures on senior travel to some remote middle east location for two including full board, wine, and a dedicated service should you need a pacemaker or a walker?

For your entertainment without further adue:

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(1) If you ever need to fly from Stansted and are bored in the long and winding security queue, spark off a discussion with your fellow passengers as to whether Stansted is part of Essex or Cambridgeshire or perhaps Hertfordshire. That is bound to get heated discussions about.

21:33 16/10/2007 - Arrival at the gate. Heathrow can seem like a gloomy place - not quite as odd and daunting as Gatwick but nearly. I’m at gate 14, terminal 2. Or is it a gate? No wireless, a mere phonebooth (not even BT), a flat screen screeching out BBC World news to an indifferent Greek crowd which - surprisingly enough - speaks a language that sounds all Greek to me. Well what did you expect?
It’s an evening flight. Departure a few minutes past 10PM. That’s already tomorrow in Greece. Arrival some four hours later. A normal, national airline. When’s the last time I didn’t fly Easyjet or Ryanair? That’s going to be a welcome change. Hopefully the flight includes food because I’m downright famished.
On my way to Heathrow from the easternmost bits of England, I stopped off at Paddington Station (home of the cuddly bear and one of London’s most prestigious hotels) for a pint with a long-time-no-see recently-londoner friend Vincent. He’s tunneled his way from Paris and is planning on spending a year in South Ken, little France if you ask me. Oh oui!

21:37 16/10/2007 - The gate’s ‘waiting room’ is filling up like a chicken coop at dusk. Everyone is clucking away. A staff member has just lowered a microphone and it’s only minutes before we board.

21:42 16/10/2007 - I’m in. Big bird. I haven’t been in such a big plane in about 8 years. The safety card tells me it’s an Airbus A300-600 model. For non-techies, it’s a 2-4-2 seater plane with a middle row numbered 24. No window for me. If only… Then again, at night over France, Switzerland, and Austria, there isn’t much to be seen, let alone the Channel for that matter.
While other passengers board, I try to tune in to the local language: yes it’s a tough one to crack. I always feel estranged when in an environment where I don’t speak the language. And in Western Europe it’s rare - well of course unless you step in Edgware Rd, Brick Ln, or Brixton (that’s English but a coarse-grained one that is).

21:46 16/10/2007 - Greek Stereotypes. Hmmm. Did I expect olives trees to grow all over the plane? Feta cheese to be delicately served bathing in a rich pungeant olive oil in the armrest’s former ashtray? Stewards running like the Marathon man? Well certainly not the passengers boarding who seem to be arguing over the seats as if this were a ruthless Ryanair flight. No sir, here we’ve got assigned numbers.

21:48 16/10/2007 - How many more are going to fit in? Captain, I’m worried the plane won’t take off with that many passengers. Where are the Brits? I feel alone.

21:52 16/10/2007 - The neighbor comes in. As a matter of fact, it feels like all of England’s Greek population decided to concregate here tonight - except for Theo who would come in handy just now. Theodosis, where are you? Actually no they’re not UK residents: they all proudly boarded the plane with one green Harrods bag in one hand and a white Harrods bag with toy beafeaters in the other. Have they pillaged every last tourist outlet? I can’t wait to see the Sun’s morning headlines: Rampage at London - shortage of mini Big Bens. PM reports shortage crisis in My Mom Went to London and All She Brought Me Back Was This Lousy T-Shirt shirts. Time Out would call for a time out and Portobello Rd would start scouring the country for new antiques.
Anyway, enough with my antics here.

It’s only a few minutes to take off and I’m kindly reminded of the security policy to clam that PC up and stow it safely.

Cheerio.

Caro Mauri, très cher Mômô, dear ol’ Maurizio,

I’d like to take this opportunity to thank you for your thoughtful text message a few hours ago. We did manage to get a wee bit of a tan although not as much as the burnt up toasted version you turned out to be after you ski hol’ (you should try the French ski slopes next time ).

Saying we didn’t see the slightest bit of rain would be a lie, but as it happens it rained at night and in the wee hours of the morning but the Campania skies soon cleared up and a generous sun came down on us as we hiked up hills, drove to small colorful villages and «chilled» on a very nice dark sand (thanks to Vesuvio Pyrotechnics ©) beach nestled round a small bar with friendly locals (belle ragazze).

To prove my point here are a couple snapshots. I hope you enjoy them in the dark damp office as much as we enjoyed our caffè correto.

Cheers matey!

Oh what a hectic day, that whimsical Saturday October 6th. It kicked off with an all too early flight from London to Naples during which I dozed off, head slumped onto the tablet in front of me, trying to avoid drooling. The plane was full of retired elderly people anyway. They probably wouldn’t pay attention to yet another drooler.
My first few minutes a few yards outside the main terminal at Naples Int’l Airport were sunny, slightly cloudly yet and most importantly heavy & steamy. Somewhat familiar to south-eastern US climate. A nice day somehow.
By the time Ivan landed, got his gear, collected the rental car and drove us both off to the Vesuvio, the clouds have welded back together to cast the Sun outside the picture. It was gonna be a grey climbing trek up one of the world’s most famous volcanoes.
The long and winding road took us a few hundred meters shy of the actual crater. We finished the rest off by foot. A steep starting path made way for an easier stroll round the rim. Ivan shot a couple pics, we awed at Pompei in the distance and gazed down the clammed & quiet crater. Seemingly quiet that is - the only apparent sign of activity was a few puffs of smoke here and there.

The cherry on top of the cake that day was our trip to Pompei in spite of an ominous weather (which eventually caught up with us). By the time dusk had wrapped us around an eerie shroud of darkness, a harsh rain was pattering down on us and we were desperately trying to find our way out of this 2 millenia old maze.

In the distance, a bobbing torch (a ghost?) neared us, scolded us in Italian for still being on the premises and showed us the shortest way to the exit.

Saturday October 6^th. Wee hours of the morning - barely four actually. My phone rang, my radio blared out Eels music, I emerged of a short sleep. Slide down the ladder, into my trousers. Shirt on. All set to go. Rats, where’s my phone? It’s hard to think straight with only 3 hours of sleep.

I fumble about the bedsheets and finally find the rascal. Just in time too: the cab driver calls me up to confirm the address. 141B, yes that’s on the station’s side of the football ground. I’ll be down in a minute.

A truck having burned down on the A12, we’ve got to take a detour. The driver speeds down a small countryside road. Gets the adrenaline shooting. Better wake up call than any espresso this side of Milan.

One turn, two turns, and finally Stansted. Two full hours before expected departure time. Plenty of time to grab a few snaps. The planes on the tarmac are all being readied for another round of extensive European travel. The actual strip seems clear of any traffic. However, the terminal is filling up steadily. Travellers from all over: businessmen, families, couples eager to clinch onto the last bits of summerly warmth.

Sleepy airbus

Time to board the plane. Switch the PC off. See you in Italy!

The City Hall fallas in Valencia - 16 March 2007

After a couple days spent in Madrid, Andreas and I boarded a slick Alfa train on route to Valencia. As it glided through the sleepy Spanish countryside, I hooked up my headphones to the internal radio and comfily . It left Atocha Station fifteen minutes into the twenty first hour of the day and eventually arrived a few moments into the new dawn.
It was a special weekend in Valencia as it was the town’s festival culminating in one of the world’s greatest fireworks on the Saturday evening and fallas burning down to ashes on Monday evening.

With Kai’s departure to London at the end of last month, Mario’s arrival couldn’t have been timelier. Mario? Who’s Mario? Well let’s jump back in time some nine years to summer of 1998. At the time, I went over to sunny Mexico for a month and stayed in a family - Mario’s family to be precise.

And now, nearly a decade later, it’s my turn to welcome Mario into my «family», i.e. my fellow German roommates. Goodbye kartofen, hello hello pimiento! Guten tag y comó estás?

Mario landed on Saturday in London after a tiresome ten-hour flight from Mexico DF (Federal District) and had to struggle his way through Immigration as her Majesty’s subjects were not so keen on letting a pulque-drinking, tortilla devouring man on British soil. To be fair with the Immigration officers, Mario had forgotten my details back home and couldn’t provide. A fifteen-minute interview between a charming lady and myself soon resolved the issue and moments later, a few minutes shy of 3PM, Mario came strolling through the opaque automatic glass doors into the airport arrivals hall.

From there on, we kick-started a wild tourism chase through London, its parks and monuments scorning the rain, taxis and wild bus drivers.We eventually ended up a few yards away from Nelson Square, in a British pub, where Mario enjoyed his first pie (chicken ‘n bacon) along a pintful of cold refreshing French beer. French beer? Well yes, French beer. Ale will have to wait for its own turn. And a pint of Nelson’s Revenge might have been quite a shocker after a nearly sleepless night.

To be continued…