a penny for my thoughts

[abbeywilkins]

le chat noir (at Paris Canal)

[abbeywilkins]

Today is Thanksgiving

Today is Thanksgiving.  ‘Tis an American favorite, and one of my favorites to be sure. 

  Today, I am not celebrating Thanksgiving.  Not in the proper way, at least.

  Today is the first ‘real’ holiday that I will not spend with my family.  It’s odd.  It’s unfamiliar.  There’s a first time for everything, right?

  Today, I am going to Paris.

  Today, I will slip through the ‘Chunnel,’ and revisit what is one of my favorite places on earth.  Kenzie, my friend from Berkeley, will meet me on the platform, Paris-side.  I will stay with her this weekend.  I will meet her friends.  We will do our best to recreate the festivities that we will be missing at ‘home’. 

  Today, I didn’t wake up to the smell of herb-roasting bird or its drippings.  I woke up to the whining of that that friend we all have, that friend we all wish would disappear, that friend that we know we can’t live without – the alarm clock.  Normally, the scent of gravies and roasting fowl at eight o’clock in the morn makes me rather nauseous.  (Sometimes, it is just too early.)  I stand firmly behind the idea that coffee is the only drip-tastic thing that I should smell before noon.  But today, I’m missing that savory wakeup call – the idea of it anyway.      

  Maybe Ken had it easy this year – he didn’t have to make me a special chicken.  Then again, since I’m not there to craft the pie, he had to try his luck at that pesky crust.  Sounds like it went okay, but he did forget to use the Silpat Roll Mat – amateur.  : )  

  I’ve already made him promise that he will recreate it all for me when I get back.  The year just wouldn’t be complete without that chicken.  Yeah, chicken.  We throw down on Mohawk.  Get in the game.  Turkey is so Plymouth Rock.  Everyone else knows it too, because even though they refuse to admit it, somehow, the gatherers always end up with cousin birds on their plates. Where’s the loyalty, guys?  Tisk, tisk.

  Today, as I sit on this train, I’m revisiting memories of Thanksgivings past.  Some of the insane matching outfits that Nora would make Ju and I wear back when we attended the massive feast in San Mateo with family friends.  The year I finally mastered the pie crust.  The year I decided to pull a Kitchen-Stadium, and reinvent Thanksgiving Dessert – deconstructed pumpkin pie, comin’ at ‘cha.  And then, there was Thanksgiving of ’11, when the party was smaller, just the original Wilkins crowd.  Bounce to three years ago, when I decided to make three individual pies for everyone, because I simply couldn’t decide which flavors to make.  That was the same year I encouraged Kiin include Jameson in the festivities – Cheers!  Welcome, friend.  That was a new tradition in itself, the beginning of a wonderful journey with the Whiskey clan that we still enjoy today.  If nothing else, it made all those miniature lattices on those freakin’ pies a hell of a lot more fun to make…

  Today, I am prepared to offer perhaps the most formal form of ‘thanks’ that I have ever given on Thanksgiving.  I have been away for three full months now, and I have had an amazing experience thus far.  I am lucky.  I am appreciative.  And though I knew it before, and was keen to it, I am now hyper aware of how fortunate I am to have the family that I have, the friends that I do, and to have had the experiences that have made me, me.  All of these things, these people, have helped to shape me into the person that I am today, and I have learned about the world and about myself as a result.  This abroad experience has crystallized so many things for me, things independent of the program itself.  I am thankful for this; I am happy for this.

  I’m on the train; I’m writing.  My chosen playlist in the background is the new Florida Georgia Line, partly because it’s my current favorite, partly because it’s impressive and catchy as hell, partly because I can’t get enough of it, but also, partly because I know that it’s being played (or will be played) in my house today.  Ken will be jamming whilst stuffing and basting that twenty-two-pounder.  Nora might roll her eyes once or twice, begging for the volume to be turned down.  “After this song,” Ken will say.  Right now, Nora, I’m willing you, Yogi style, from across the Atlantic, to let it play.  Ohhmmm.

  ‘Confession,’ has just come on.  I’m not physically home right now, but this song is taking me there.  In my mind, I’ve just returned to the bar stool in the kitchen, to assume the classic jamming position opposite Ken, after having run to the living room to crank it up between songs.  We stop everything, and just listen... 

  Tyler sings, Trying to find a place to disappear to. 

  I know the place. 

  A few moments later, Embers in the ashtray glow like memories that won’t let go, I’m out here trying to get ‘em untangled.  I remember them all, each one beautifully untangled.

  I’ll take a sip and say a prayer, wait for a shooting star and stare off at the headlights on the highway.  

  Meanwhile, Nora is counseling me on which outfit to wear.  I simply just can’t decide.  Too many options…

  That guy in the windshield lookin’ back looks just like me but there’s a crack in the reflection.  Hope he’s moving in the right direction. 

  I can see myself in the reflection of the train window.  Physical Abbey and Window Abbey are having a silent dialogue, but there is no confusion.  They hold eye contact through the glass.  Physical Abbey is moving in the ‘other’ direction; not wrong; but perhaps, not exactly ‘right’ either.  Not today, anyway.  Her mind, though...  Her mind is moving in that ‘right’ direction.  Towards it, at the very least.  Always working toward that ‘right’ direction… I’m sending some of my energy back West, hoping it will suffice for the day.       

  This is just a moonlight soaked, ring of smoke, right-hand-on-a-cold-one confession. 

  There it is.  All of it.  Today’s ‘confession’.  I am at the point now where I am starting to notice the California-shaped-void.  Missing the fam, missing my friends, missing my life.  I’m anticipating Ju’s Thanksgiving diorama with its potato mountains, pea trees, stuffing deserts and gravy waters, and I’m missing that, too.

  Today will be good.  I have no doubt.  I am going to spend the next three days in the greatest city in the world, with a good friend from home.  I will meet new people, cool people I’m sure.  We’ll have a good time.  And, I will explore the city.  I will go see new things.   I will revisit the places that I loved two years ago. 

  And tonight, I will raise a glass (take a sip) give a silent nod to the group back home  (say a ‘prayer’ – my version of one anyway) and enjoy all that the evening, the weekend, and my remaining three weeks have to offer (wait for a shooting star and stare off at the headlights on the highway).   

  Cheers, guys.

  Happy Thanksgiving.      

[abbeywilkins]

the girl who drank coffee under the stairs #gingervanilla #leatherchair #myspace #afternooncaffeination #hideandseek #fleetstreet  

[awwww-cute]

[pussypopping-on-a-headstand]

Me

[soitsays]

abbeywilkins

!!!!!!!!

[abbeywilkins]

OMGGGG YAS

[abbeywilkins]

Bears in Berlin

Four days back from Madrid, and I was headed back to the airport: Berlin bound.  I was super excited for Germany, for all of the obvious reasons, but even more so because I was going to visit and stay with my friend from school, Camille.  Camille studied abroad in Berlin two years ago, and had just recently moved out to Germany permanently for grad school.  I hadn't seen her for several months since she moved, so a proper reunion was in order.   

  Hanging out in one of the ‘youngest’ and coolest cities in the world, with a good friend from home, with no pressure to play ‘formal tourist’.  I needed it.  It was the chance to see the city from the inside – no maps, no itinerary, no schedule.  Finally.   

  I got in to the city at around eight o’clock on Friday night, and went to meet Camille.  It was Halloween, and we were going to go meet up with some of her friends before we hit the city.   

  Matt answered the door, and then I was introduced to Julia, Tincy, and Fede.  Within ten minutes, I felt like I had known them all for years.  Beers for all; cheers; clink; drink!  They were all such cool and interesting people – all from different parts of the world, each with a unique story to tell.  I was so glad to have met them all, and equally as happy that Camille had found such a great group of friends in her new home.  Now, they were my friends too, and I was thankful for that. 

  Matt threw on a unicorn onezie, and Uli, a panda suit to match.  Tincy had declared that she was Minnie Mouse for the evening, Julia was a cat or a devil -- something with ears -- and Camille was wearing a dress with zebras on it, therefore, she was a zebra.  Duh.  “What are you, Abbey?  It’s Halloween, you have to be dressed up as something.”  My everyday wardrobe suddenly revealed an added bonus – dark colors, plus studs, multiplied by quick wit and rhetorical appeal equals a convincing response to the prompt that was before me.  Black jeans, a studded thermal, leather ankle-booties, and my beloved leather jacket (which I could not live without) suddenly morphed into none other than a classic ‘biker chick’ costume.  “Oh, awesome!  Love it!”  All smiles.

  The group took to a bar in downtown Berlin.  The Panda gave the Unicorn a piggyback ride.  Why not?  

‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’’ conquered the stereo system in the bar.  (European bars have some affinity for ‘90s American tunes; nostalgia or obsession, I’m still not sure.)  To my immediate left, some six-foot-something dude with hair longer than mine was suddenly whipping the air in every which direction with his locks in time to the raging chorus.  Up.  Down.  Left.  Right.  Back.  Forth.  Oh, loop-de-doop.   Gettin’ cray!  He was dressed the part, too.  Black on black on black everything, with a spiked choker and leather wristbands.  Given the circumstance, one would normally assume it was just another costume.  But, the homie was beyond passionate and existing blissfully in a rock ‘n’ roll parallel universe, whiplash and all.  Rock on, Dude, rock on.             

It was a spectacular evening.  Truly, one of the best I have had since I’ve been here.  A fun night, with fun people, in a fun city.  I’m already itching to go back.

  On Saturday morning, Camille and I got up, and headed over to her chosen brunch spot.  I had some creamy potato-vegetable-cheese-layered thing, and it was delightfully German, and satisfying as hell.  We spent the rest of the day just wandering through the city, catching up, swapping stories.  We found a farmer’s market; Camille showed me some of the major sights; we finished the night off at a Christmas market downtown.  Camille insisted that we indulge in some mulled wine.  To be honest, I wasn’t a fan.  Super sweet, and a bit ‘prune-y’.  But it was an experience all the same.  Then, Kartoffelpuffer – some cross between a potato latke and a hash brown.  Salty, crispy, fried, potatoes: no need to ask me twice.  It was my second potato fix of the day, and Germany was quickly wracking up points in the food category.  It was served with a freshly prepared, cinnamon dusted applesauce, so there was a nice balance of salty and sweet.  Why was this the first time I’d tasted this stellar combination?  I’ll be taking that one back to the states for sure.              

As it was late, I bid farewell to my friend after thanking her immensely for a fantastic weekend.  I was truly appreciative and grateful that I was able to share the experience that is Berlin with her, and it was such a refreshing reminder about how much the ‘right’ people in your life matter.  As much as I enjoy the company of my new friends from my abroad program, the relationships are still so new that I can’t quite enjoy them in the same way.  In due time, they’ll earn the same status – it just hasn’t happened yet.

  I was up early on Sunday morning.  I wanted to find coffee and see a bit more of the city before rerouting to the airport.  It was officially fall.  The sun was just popping out, but despite the sunlight, the air was cold and crisp on my cheeks because he hadn’t had the proper chance to heat the skies yet.  The trees were full swing into their seasonal change, and the green’s territory had been invaded by all shades of gold and copper, soon to be taken over completely.       

The rest of the city was still asleep.  I found a park, and was just in awe by the colors around me.  I sat down with my coffee on a bench hidden in an alcove of trees, and just observed it all.  I let my mind wander.  I revisited the recent memories of the weekend, I touched over my experience thus far, and finally flashed back to similar instances of sitting in the back yard on Mohawk, just gazing at the tree line.  I don’t do this often, but perhaps there is something to be said for its infrequency – when the moment does present itself, it is that much stronger.  I was connected to that park, to that moment, to myself.  I don’t have as many moments with myself as I would normally like over here – I’m always with and around people.  That’s not bad, or wrong, it’s just different. 

  Families were out walking, pushing babies in strollers, helping young kids learn to ride their bikes.  A few runners pranced past me.  Directly across from my bench, a toddler had run some thirty feet ahead of his parents.  He stopped at the top of the path’s hill, waiting for them to join him before he continued down.  He stood alone, feet spread hip’s width apart, hands clasped together behind his back: a young soldier nearly ‘at-ease’.  He stood on top of his little world, and was surrounded by such vast space, such promise, infinite possibility.  He was three, maybe four.  But he already had such a confidence, and a personality so dominant that I could observe it from across the park.  He would change the world someday, in some fashion, I was sure of it.  And the best part of seeing it was that he wasn’t even aware of it yet.            

I was mentally at peace that morning; calmed; zen.  The bear took a break from the world, and found salvation in the simplest of places: a wooded park.  There’s something incredibly beautiful and metaphoric about that.  All it took was a little break from the buildings just on the other side of those trees.  I’ll never forget that day, that morning, that rejuvenation of body and mind.    

  Wherever you go, go bears.

[abbeywilkins]

bar-cel-o-na

Queue The Knack’s, ‘My Sharona,’ in your head.  Go on, do it.  Now, as the melody jogs itself out of your memory, play along with me, and pronounce ‘Bar-cel-o-na’ to the same tune and syllabic breakdown as 'My Shar-o-na'.  Upbeat.  Cheery.  Whimsical.  It’s just more fun that way, right?

  Following Avignon, we took a quick train ride over to Spain.  ¡Hola, Barcelona!  First order of business: map.  Map acquired.  Oh, but, not so fast.  Nary a street sign in sight outside of the train station.  One can only accomplish so much navigating sans street signs, or the remotest indication of a starting point.   An inquiry was necessary.  Time to tap back into the Spanish reserves; I hadn’t spoken it in upwards of four years, but it would come back to me.  Right?

  I approached the clerk in the train station gift shop.  To my (pleasant) surprise, my conversational ability came flooding back to me – I was able to express, articulate, and understand every aspect of our verbal exchange.  How about that? 

  With an enhanced sense of direction, we quickly found the hostel, settled in, and took back to the streets.  Following a late afternoon sangria session, we wandered over the Parque de l’Estació del Nord, just in time for sunset.  The park was massive, and equally majestic, particularly so as the light faded behind the trees and the shadows conquered the scene. 

Once the darkness settled in, we went back into the heart of town to explore the city known for its viral nightlife.  One of Katie’s good friends from home happened to be in Barcelona for the weekend as well, so we met up with her and her friends for drinks.  Mojitos all around!  Too much sugar for my liking, but, it’s only fair to play by local rules. : )

  Day two was the true adventure.  Katie went to spend time with her friend, so it was just Lauren and I for the day.  I studied the map, proposed a route that would ensure we hit the main spots, and following a nod from Lauren, we were off. 

  Plain and simple, Barcelona is alive; it’s colorful.  The architecture is intriguing and intricate.  Pastel buildings are decorated and camouflaged behind the trees that carefully line the streets.     

El Mercat, St. Joseph, La Boqueria, was the market of all markets.  It was Pike Place’s big brother.  It was technically out of doors, but the entire maze of stations was positioned underneath a massive rooftop.  It was seemingly endless; rows and aisles of food ingredients, each stand positioned in a territorial grid amongst its brotherin’: meats and cold cuts to the left; fish to the right; fruits and vegetables to the front; baked goods and candies to the back.  It was inspiring.  If only I had a kitchen to cook in…  This market was reason enough to relocate to central Barcelona. 

I came across a case of ‘things’ that were unrecognizable on first glance.  A closer look revealed that the objects behind the glass were all of the parts of animals that one would not normally think to consume: stomach; tongue; cheek; feet; etc.  The thought of eating the accordion-style stomach lining was slightly discomforting, but hey, someone must eat it, or it wouldn’t be here.  Maybe it’s not as bad as I think it would be.  The man behind the counter snapped at me when I aimed the camera at the glass, “No Pictures!”  Oh, no?  (Too bad; I took one anyway.)

It was approaching noon, and I was determined to find a spot to eat; a spot I had read about, over and over again.  For several months, I had been researching food spots in Spain.  Tapas.  Small plates.  Bring.  It.  On.  I sought advice from the greats, Anthony Bourdain especially, via replays of ‘No Reservations,’ and a few miscellaneous articles.  Per the maestro himself, to go to Barcelona without paying a visit to ‘Quiment & Quiment’ would be a sure failure.  It was on the very outskirts of the city, an hour’s walk, but I had no doubt it would be worth it. 

  Finally found it.  I walked up to it, and knew, just knew, that it was going to be amazing.  I could anticipate the ‘Bourdain’ experience I was about to have.  The front facing wall was totally exposed to the street, as the doors had been completely pushed open and to the sides.  The wall opposite the streets and its partner to the left were covered floor-to-ceiling in wine-filled shelves.  The fourth wall was a full bar and food prep station, the perfect setting for preparing small plates.  Here we go.

  'The mussels are some of the best I’ve ever had; there is nothing like them.'  I ordered them, and I was excited to eat them.  The man behind the counter nodded in recognition of my request.  He turned around, and pulled an aluminum tin from a shelf behind him.  It was a cousin to a can of anchovies or sardines.  Uh oh.  #Danger.  He peeled the top off of the canister, and aggressively began to transfer six golf-ball-sized, raw, orange-stained mussels from their brine bath and onto the white porcelain plate.  He handed me the plate.  This has to be a mistake.  Right?  I was genuinely horrified.  But, I trusted Anthony.  He wouldn’t lie.  He wouldn’t have made such a big deal about this place for no reason.  Right?  I walked back over to the cocktail table we were stationed at.  I put my game face on.  This would not be the first time that I ‘tried’ something I was afraid of.  Ninety percent of the time, though, it resulted in a positive experience…

  I took a breath.  I introduced the mussel to my mouth.  I took one bite into it; it squished flat against my tongue.  It was salty.  It had no texture.  It exceeded the ‘fishy’ spectrum: a spectrum I very seldom explored.  My mind immediately flashed to a comparison of what I imagined wet cat food to taste like.  (Poor Alice.)  Surely, swallowing this miserable mass would be a solution.  Oh, wrong again.  I attempted to evacuate the thing from my oral cavity by forcing it down the esophagus tunnel.  Nope.  Back it came.  I couldn’t handle it anymore, but, at the same time, I couldn’t let the guy behind the counter see me heave.  That would be the ultimate disrespect.  Thank god that that fourth wall was exposed to the street.  I ran outside, hopeful to find some form of receptacle.  Shit.  I was surrounded by a sea of sidewalk.  Not the ideal location for a heart to heart with the ground.  I scanned the scene: hallelujah!  A tree, some twenty yards away on the other side of the street.  Flashback now to those countless practices when we’d hear, “Get on the line!,” a.k.a., time for sprints.  Ready, set, GO!  I kicked it in to high drive, and barely made it to the base of the tree before I fashioned the bark with a new winter coat.  This season, pastels are all the rage! 

  Several minutes later, I returned to the shop.  Lauren just stared at me, wide-eyed.  She couldn’t process what had just happened.  Hell, I couldn’t process what had just happened.  I downed what remained of our sangria, gathered my things, and fled the scene.  I couldn’t even look at those things anymore. 

  Anthony, how could you do this to me?  How could to propagate such blasphemy.  I was thoroughly disappointed.  I had been looking forward to that day, that moment, for weeks, and in a matter of minutes, it evolved into one of the worst (food) experiences I had ever had.  #tenpercent ... I suppose I was about due…

  I was immediately naseous.  I couldn’t do anything but relive it, over and over again.  I could not wash the memory of it from my mind, nor the taste of it from my mouth.  The perfect afternoon of adventuring was completely spoiled by a can of mussels.  I honestly didn’t know whether eating something else would solve the problem or not – it would either distract me from the nightmare, or perhaps make me sicker.  It was an absolute gamble.  I was on a mission though, I needed to find something.  It was a risk I was willing to take.  It was hot, I was quickly becoming dehydrated, and my memory bank was suddenly depleted of all things but those-which-shall-not-be-named. 

  Oh look, the pier.  Lovely.  I couldn’t even invest true appreciation into it, because salt brine haunted my taste buds.  Keep walking.

Salvation! A small tapas bar with an outdoor courtyard. Sirloin sliders and miniature baked potatoes with hot sauce and chopped chives.  Bring ‘em.  Cleanse thine palette.  Por favor.

That was real food.  My stomach was saved.

  To close out our loop around the city, we buzzed through another park, and then on over to La Sagrada Familia. 

The cathedral was unlike any I had ever seen before.  Unique, to say the least.  But also bizarre; very, very bizarre.  Colorful.  Architecturally ‘different’; perhaps modern?  I’m still not entirely sure. 

  We concluded our day of sightseeing and met back up with Katie for dinner.  I'd leave that decision to Zagat and / or my own eye -- neither has EVER lied to me...Damn you, Anthony.  Not sure you'll live this one down. 

  Madrid, ¡hasta mañana!

[abbeywilkins]

Avignon - Ramparts, Reserves, and Rhone, Oh My!

Avignon, France.  A small, medieval town in the heart of the Côtes du Rhone region, protected and bound by the cast-like rampart which keeps the city together as one.  It exists as a three-dimensional circular border around the city, and has proudly and prominently claimed the space as separate, special, and sacred for over seven centuries.  It will not cower to the strengths of man; built to protect the population from merciless mercenaries, to this day, it has maintained its intention to deny false entry or actions of mal-intent against the city.  The Rhône River has been its trusted companion since the beginning of time, the water an active agent in keeping the city alive. 

  To enter Avignon is to physically pass through this rampart as a trusted and welcomed friend.  Dominated by the Palais des Papes and the Rocher des Doms, I can’t believe that the entire city is any bigger than the Berkeley campus.  And since the main ‘attractions’ of the city were un-missable, exploring didn’t require much creativity; the spectacular views in union with the medieval ruins and architecture, however, served as the perfect trigger for my imagination, and I was encouraged to mentally pen my own fantastical history of Avignon, complete with the who’s, the what’s, the when’s, the where's, the why’s, and the how’s, of the past seven hundred years.    

  Up past the Pope’s Palace is the Rocher des Doms garden.  Up there, I just surrendered to the delicious views of the countryside that spanned every imaginable direction, the full three-hundred-and-sixty degrees.  October was winding down.  The trees pledged their allegiance to chlorophyll one last time; the sky was the color of that teal-ish blue Crayon we all loved so much as children – that one we always wanted to use, and did use, despite the fact that it was never an accurate representation of observed color on Earth.  (Why can’t I remember the name of it now…?)

  The river, the rolling hills, the tree lines were to one side.  About-face: homes and city buildings with their terracotta-sun-kissed roofs and shutter-framed windows.  Another ninety-degrees, and I was opposite the interiors of the park.  A small shrine-like fountain was hidden behind the steady stream drapery of a man-made waterfall.  Children were running in circles whilst parents sat blissfully to the side on iron benches.  It’s unfair of me to attempt to capture it all in mere words, because it can’t do it justice.  My skin would hate me later, because I shamefully reintroduced it without fair warning to a hated ex, the sun, ultimately forcing a very unwanted trip down memory lane of countless burns and scarlet-stained skin.  (I’m so sorry, please forgive me.)    

The trip back down the hill was similarly beautiful, carefully landscaped.  Ivy held tightly to stone walls and small bushes and flower beds danced along the wall’s base.  Carvings of names in the wall revealed themselves upon closer examination, a respectful tribute to local victims of the Holocaust.

  Weaving back down the paved ramps to the bottom, I caught an accidental glimpse of a pile of corks on the wall opposite a carefully placed bench.  There were about twenty of them.  I walked back over to them.  I was enchanted by them.  They were not arranged in any particular way, indicative that they had simply been left behind once separated from their individual bottles.  There was something indescribably artistic and symbolic about them, and the image of these corks laying asymmetrically to frame such a classic view of French wine country.  I felt like the corks were intimate whispers of experiences that others had shared, either with the scene or with another person.  What a perfect afternoon that would be: to rise halfway up the hill to share a bottle, to share the evening, to share parts of yourself, your mind, with someone who mattered to you.  I loved that they had coincidentally been collected here – at this spot.  There were benches all around the park, all around the city, but there was something about this view, this space, that drew others to it.  The corks were left as an offering back to the lands that had given them purpose; even after such harsh removal from their preferred habitat, they were still relevant.  Nobody had removed them, the elements had not scattered them.  These delicate objects were here to stay.  It made me smile.  Maybe one day I will return to this spot and have an offering of my own to leave behind in celebration of an evening well spent…

  Once we had seen the interiors of the city, a perimeter stroll was due.  The river was a reliable companion as we strolled down the tree-lined streets.  And for the first time since entering the city, we could see the rampart, active and forceful around the city’s edge. 

  A few hours later, we had dinner in the square, complete with a live performance: a band of drunken gypsies broke out into a brawl beneath church banners.  They were screaming at one another, throwing bottles to the ground, sending glass shrapnel in a myriad of directions.  Their dogs sat unbothered some thirty yards away; apparently, this was no freak occurrence, and they didn’t sense true danger.  (Dogs will tell you what you need to know.)  We decided to call it a night shortly after dinner, in anxious anticipation for the next day’s festivities – we were going wine tasting.  In wine country, we couldn’t afford not to. 

  Katie and I had done some research beforehand, and booked a private wine tour that would take us through Orange and further up into the Côtes du Rhone.  Our guide picked us up at eleven o’clock in the morning.  She introduced herself as Caroline, explaining that her name was “…pronounced ‘care-oh-lean,’” but quickly uttered that calling her  ‘care-oh-line,’ in classic American fashion would be perfectly acceptable. 

  Lauren replied, “Oh, good, well, I’ll just call you ‘Care-oh-line,’ then.”

  I looked at Lauren, and quietly suggested that perhaps that was just a tad insulting and insensitive, making the comparison that it would be like people referring to her as ‘Law-reen,’ rather than “Law-wren’ as she was meant to be called.  See the difference? 

  “Oh.”

  Yeah.

  We buzzed around to pick up the other four patrons whom would be joining us for the day.  An elderly Australian man of about sixty got in the car first; a couple blocks later, a woman called Mary, about forty hopped in; and last, but certainly not least, a Texan couple filled the remaining seats in the van, assumedly the same age as my parents.  Katie, Lauren and I were the trio in the back seat of the van, the figurative ‘babies’ of the group.  I’m sure it was a bit of a shock for our crew to see three twenty-something’s out on a vineyard tour instead of a bar crawl.  (You know me: if you try to put me in a box, and slap on a label, I promise, I’ll break it down and strip it off.) What can I say? I’m nor-cal born and raised; we like wine up there. 

  We started our journey, and Caroline energetically shared her story of Avignon’s history along with the ‘need-to-knows’ about the Côtes du Rhone region.  It was one of the most fun lessons I’ve had in a while.  We drove for a while, and took a brief pause once we arrived to Orange, at one of the three remaining original Roman Arc de Triomphes for a quick pic.  When we climbed out of the back of the van, I introduced myself to the Australian man, Paul, and Mary.  Good to meet you both.  Once in front of the Arc, I petitioned Paul to take our picture.  Please and thank you.  I turned around to see the Texan couple attempting to take a ‘selfie’ in front of the Arc.  Nah, homie.  This is not the place for a selfie – it wouldn’t do it justice.  I walked over, “Would you guys like me to take your picture with the whole Arc in the background?”

  “That would be so great, thank you.”

  One.  Two.  Three.  *Snap*.  “Here you go!  I’m Abbey, by the way.”

  “Abbey, thank you so much.  I’m Mike, and this is my wife, Monica.”

  “Very nice to meet you!”

  Back to the van!  Now that we were all semi-acquainted, we started to chat openly with one another, starting with mini-biographies and explaining what we were doing out in Avignon.  The usual.  As the day went on, we learned more about each other.  It was great fun.  Paul reminded me a lot of my Dad, and it was fun to poke fun at him every once in a while.  Mike was classic Texas, in a good way.  Confident, A&M diehard, loud, and told stories with that cheerful twang in his voice.  Monica was rather quiet, but she popped her head out of her shell every once in a while.  Mary was very shy, kept to herself.  By the end of the day, Mike wanted to be my best friend – I had him laughing hysterically for a good majority of the time that we spent in the van, and at some points, I can’t even claim to know why – I wasn’t trying to be funny.  He kept bringing up his son, who had just turned twenty-two.  “I really wish I could introduce him to you.  Monica, wouldn’t Jake just love her?”  Monica softly nodded and cracked a smile.  Yeah, I’m sure Jake would love that – Mom and Dad go away on vacation together and Dad starts playing matchmaker.  Silly Mike. 

  Next, we took a visit to a Provencal classic: the Roman Théâtre antique d’Orange. 

It was built some nineteen-hundred years ago, has the capacity to host ten thousand spectators, and boasts a rather impressive history as a theatre space, a quarry, a Barbarian defense post, a site of refuge and colonization, etc.  It is still used as a theatre today, and as such, has earned the title of The Best Preserved Theatre in Europe.  

We wandered through its hallways, up and down the rows of stone seats. 

Then, at the very top, I found a reflective glass window, which undoubtedly hosted the control room for the lighting and sound systems.  Rather uncharacteristically, I decided to take some selfies of my own.  Couldn’t afford not to.  I was standing in the center of a two-thousand year old theatre, with a statue of some unidentifiable Roman emperor behind me – when I found out that the heads for the statue were interchangeable so as to reflect the current ruler of the time, I made a joke that it was like the “Roman version of Mr. Potatohead”; Mike howled, and kept flashing back to it for the remainder of the day.   Lauren and Katie eventually found me up there, and joined me in the selfie fun. 

Then, in all seriousness, we wanted a traditional picture of us, so, when I looked over and found Paul, I asked if he would kindly snap one for us.  Paul, the gentleman that he is, obliged, and came over to take the photo.  He was quickly confused my technology, the iPhone.  He couldn’t work it to save his life.  Laughing, I said, “You must be an engineer, Paul.  Engineers are all about Microsoft products and anti-Mac.  You’re just like my Dad.”

  “Well, I’m actually an economist, but yes, I do prefer Microsoft.”

  “Ope.  Yep.  Xcel.  You gotta have that one.  That explains it.”  He laughed.

  I gave him a brief tutorial, showed him which illusive “button” to push.  He took the picture, and presented it to me to check my satisfaction level.  The guy was a natural, and I told him so.  It was arguably the best picture of the three of us from the trip thus far.  “Thanks, Paul!” 

  We finished touring the theatre, and had another thirty minutes or so to kill.  So we did a quick loop around the block, I stumbled into an edgy little boutique and bought a stellar scarf.  Mike and Paul gave me some shit for it later: classic California girl, can’t go anywhere without buying something…

  Caroline rounded us up, and we piled back into the van.  Now, for the main event: please, proceed to pour.  We drove, up and up and up, through the hundreds and hundreds of acres of vineyards which spanned the rolling hillside.  Welcome to Châteauneuf du Pape.     

Into the tasting room we went.  Mila, our sommelier, gave us the introduction and the brief run-down: the region, the vineyard, the proper tasting procedure, the growing, harvesting, and ageing processes – the works.  Then, just like that, we were sniffing, swirling, sipping, and savoring.  She asked us what we smelled, what we tasted; I offered a few thoughts, which, to my pleasant surprise, were right on the money.  Ken would be proud – I guess I have more of a wine palette than I thought.  All those years of growing up in California with wine-enthusiast parents, and wine-enthusiast friends of my parents, in company with my whiskey and scotch sampling as of late has served me well.

  The trip home was clouded by the fact that it would soon be over.  I didn’t want it to end.  The day had been so spectacular, from start to finish.  We got back to the city, and slowly dropped everyone off as we came upon their temporary dwellings.  We bid farewell to our teammates, and ventured onwards to find one last dinner in our beloved little Avignon. 

  I love this city.  I absolutely do.  Until next time…

[abbeywilkins]

Portside

Midterm break.  Ten days to go, see, do.  Anywhere and everywhere.  Very early on, Katie, Lauren and I decided that we would travel together for the duration of this break, because we had similar ideas with respect to where we wanted to go, what we wanted to see, what we wanted to do, etc.  The consensus for the proposed itinerary was the south of France (Marseille and Avignon), followed by a tour through Spain (¡Hola, a Barcelona y Madrid!). 

  Packing to live out of a backpack for ten days is no small feat.  The threat of having to repeat an outfit was a hard pill for me to swallow.  (Maybe I can mix it up if I bring enough pairs of shoes?)  Four-thirty rolled around a little too quickly on that Friday morning; the world was blackened, deadened, lost in the dream labyrinth.  I wandered downstairs to hail a cab, as Katie and Lauren had promised they’d be ‘right down’.  Katie found me on the sidewalk, wide-eyed with peanut buttered toast in hand, and Lauren was quick to follow. 

  An hour and a half later we made it to the airport.  No, there wasn’t traffic.  No, we didn’t get lost.  No, nobody forgot anything at home that we had to turn around for.  The airport is just that far away.  Ah, Oakland, how I miss you and your thirty-minute proximity. 

  Airport security was a true test of character.  Herds of people, aimlessly corralling themselves into eight different metal-detector lines; want-to-be airport security persons pretending to be occupied so that they didn’t actually have to do anything; people arriving to the x-ray conveyor belt without having removed their liquids from their carry-on’s, turning wide-eyed in state of false ignorance, pretending that this was a rule they hadn’t heard of before.  Oy.  It is six o’clock in the morning, on a random Friday in October.  Where could you all be going at this hour?  And, come to think if it, there is something painfully ironic about how, as a nation, England prides itself on being a ‘queue-ing culture,’ yet, in reality, they may be the worst of all at forming a ‘proper’ line.  #singlefile #oneaftertheother #payattention

  I fell asleep on the plane, and two hours later, ‘Bonjour, Marseille’.  The sun was shining, the water was blue.  Stepping out of the cabin of the plane was an immediate flashback to the west coast; I’d momentarily forgotten what warm weather was like.  I found myself a map, and charted the sky.  This way, guys: follow the sun.  We wandered down through the city, towards the water, the true hub of Marseille.  I was a bit surprised to see, and experience, how ‘dingy’ and dirty Marseille was, as a city.  I had heard nothing but fantastic things about it, but I as I walked along, I couldn’t help but harbor hopes that it would ‘get better than this’.  We made our way to the base of the city, to the port harbor.  Here we go.  This was it.  Picturesque, to say the least.  Docked sailboats; crowds of people; tented restaurants and coffee shops on the very edge of the water.  This is what people raved about. 

  Walking around the city, we first found a small beach, clearly, the most popular spot in town.  It was two-thirty in the afternoon, and there were hundreds of people on the sand, in the water, tanning, drinking, playing, reading, catching up with friends.  Children, young couples, retirees.  They all came to meet up in the same place, and to share in the simplest of pleasures.  (The quality of life in France could be worse…)  It was straight out of a movie scene, and easy, very easy, to just sit back and watch it all happen.         

  A bit further down the immediate coast line, we found another lookout point.  Elevated just enough to look back over and down on the city, with the harbor front and center.  The water was countless shades of blue: vibrant, alive, like a watercolor.  From the shallow edges which had bled out from their center, a steady stream of seafoam, turned to cobalt, cerulean to sapphire, finishing in a blackened-steel blue, back home, at the Mediterranean’s greatest depths.

  The sun was falling in the sky, but making every last effort to remain relevant to the day, forcing its presence on the glassy surfaces of the sea, threatening to blind us all should we discount it in its autumn glory. 

Further up the hill, was a park; it was decidedly my favorite spot in all of Marseille.  And, I found it on ‘accident,’ which made it even better.  Another stunning view.  The kind of view that makes it worth it to just sit and watch.  People slowly began to fill the park, freshly off of work, with their partners, out for an evening stroll with Fido.  It made me miss Bailey.  I could just imagine her running around with these French pups, chasing the other dogs, perked ears and all.  Lauren fell asleep, yes, asleep.  Apparently, the view wasn’t quite spectacular enough for her.  We would later learn that this was a habit for Sleeping Beauty, and we have evidence to prove it.  A whimsical photographical collection, simultaneously showcasing the parts of the world we were so fortunate to see, and Lauren switching gears to “snooze”.  The up-and-coming version of Where’s Waldo?  Can you spot her?

  The desire for a dinner-time meal found us at a North-African restaurant, La Kahena, right on the edge of the harbor.  I had never had “African” food specifically, other than frequenting my favorite Ethiopian joint back in Oakland.  The menu excited me, ‘Let’s do it!’

  Lamb meatballs and stewed vegetables on a mountain of garbanzo-bean-laden-cous-cous.  It was salty, it was savory, it was hot, and it was textured.  It was enough food for four people, but I am so glad that I found it.  I really don’t give cous-cous enough credit.  It is a fantastic grain.  Everything just kind of fell apart in my mouth, abandoning their former arrangements to become something unified, something new altogether.  I don’t have a lot of love for the Moroccan wine we sampled; not your forte, Africa.

  Following dinner, we did our best to focus in on and find the nightlife.  Surely, it was one of the more difficult games of hide-and-seek that I’ve ever played.  Come out, come out, wherever you are ... Marseille, time to step it up; I know you want to show us a good time.  We did our best, dabbled here and there for a few hours, but around two-thirty, we were ready to call it quits.  A quick trip to our friend Mickey-D’s was in store, and we ended up hanging out a bit longer than anticipated because, yes, you guessed it, SB fell right asleep.  Poor girl.

  Day two was set for some classic sight-seeing in the city.  I had a plan: we’d work our way from the top back down to the water.  The Palais de Longchamp did not disappoint.  By the time we made it up there, the eighty-degree heat had had its fun with me, I was a sweaty, sticky mess.  It decided to bully my jeans in particular, making them feel even more out of place than they already were.  Thanks for that, Sun.  It was, though, the highest point of the city.  It commanded attention.  It was detailed, decorated, classic and timeless.  The view of it was worth the trek, but the view from the top, even better.  The town, the harbor, the water.  It was all right there, in one perfect panoramic.

  We climbed down the hill, back to what is known as being the shopping district of the city.  We found a massive mall.  Hallelujah.  The prospect of shorts was not so out of reach anymore.  We hadn’t been able to stop fantasizing about shorts for the entirety of the day.  New mission: find some freaking shorts.  The jeans just weren’t going to cut it any more.  Thanks for playing, but, you lose.  We ran through the mall, eager to set our legs free from the suffocating skinny jeans we all loved so dearly (though, no love that day).  I found some, and went to try them on.  Surprise!  The jeans decided to do me dirty.  They anticipated my lack of fidelity to them, so, in retaliation, they went and stained my skin blue.  Yep.  Smurf status.  The walking, and the heat, and the sweat, had all contributed to a lovely new skin color that defies all current racial markings.  My legs matched the goddamn Mediterranean.  Never fear.  I wasn’t going to let the jeans win.  Hello, shorts.  Goodbye, jeans.  They broke my heart, but I’m sure that in time, I’d find a way to forgive ‘em.  So, I walked around with blue legs.  No big deal…Right?

  Next up on the loop was the Cathédrale.  It was massive, it was cool.  It was striped.  I’d never seen a striped cathedral before.  Pretty ahead of its time, I’d say.  We’d seen it, from a ‘far-away-perspective,’ from the park that we were at the night before.  The distance didn’t quite do it justice.  It was unique to be sure, but, on the whole, as compared to the tens of other Cathedrals I’ve now seen scattered across Europe, I wouldn’t quite place it in the top ten. 

  To close out the tour of Marseille, I led Katie and Lauren a bit down the road from the zebra building to a manmade peninsula, host to the Fort Saint Jean, the Villa Mediterranee, and the MuCem.  Again, we found the water’s edge, and took a seat.  Watching the sailboats return from their sea-day adventures to a rather impressive three-hundred-and-sixty-degree backdrop.  There were several “wedding couples” taking photos in full dress, which, at first seemed so romantic, but after we’d encountered six couples on the same peninsula at the same time of day, it was simply too much of a coincidence.  We assumed they were shooting for some wedding magazine.  Fun to watch, nonetheless.  Sitting there, on the edge of the water though, was one of those moments that probably doesn’t strike us as often as it should.  We were in Marseille.  We were traveling, freely, as adults: something we had always dreamed of, wished of.  The Mediterranean Sea was quite literally crashing against marble boulders beneath my feet.  The moment was independent of time.  I was suspended in a realm of uninterrupted thought: observing, reflecting, connecting, memorizing and memorializing.  One day, I’ll be able to look back on it, and it probably still won’t seem real. 

  Lauren was getting antsy because she had an imminent interview.  I advised that perhaps she should return to the hostel to prepare herself, calm herself, if it would ease her worries.  Katie and I would meet up with her in a few hours.  We bid ‘adieu,’ and Katie and I went to head back to our favorite spot: the park, the Jardin Du Pharo, just behind the Centre Euromediterraneen De Congres. 

  Oh, but wait.  Katie, I have a splendid idea.  Let’s go find a wine shop, buy a bottle, and go back to the park, and watch the sun set.  Without a moment of hesitation, Katie was on board.  We turned left down a street near the park.  I had a feeling.  Sure enough, at the end of the block, was a tiny little wine shop.  Artisanal even.  The owner was inside, with his mother, catching up on the day.  He was eager to help us.  We selected a nice bottle of white, had him uncork it for us, and we set out for the park. 

  Everyone should have a night like that.  Sitting on the coast of the Mediterranean, with a good friend, sipping wine, watching the sun make its way to the greater west.  The sky turned several different colors over the course of a couple hours.  Katie and I had some great conversation, just taking the scenery in as we swapped stories.  These are the moments worth remembering. 

  It was a great conclusion to Marseille, and with that, we were ready to venture on to Avignon…        

[abbeywilkins]

#england , let me introduce you to my good friend , #taco . you truly have no idea what you've been missing ... #tacolove #allhailthetaco #ivemissedyou #welcomebackbuddy

[abbeywilkins]

Why Belgium?

The adventure continued.  Next stop: Belgium.  One week after returning from Ireland, Katie, Lauren and I were ready to jet off to Brussels.  On Thursday night, I was in my room packing and gathering my things together, when roomie number two came into the room, and decided to open her mouth for the first time in weeks.  Gasp.  (It wouldn’t take much imagination to put it together, but homegirl is an oddball to say the least; she has isolated herself here from day one, making her a rather awkward housemate, not just for myself, but for the other four of my roommates as well.) 

  Cynthia asked where Isabel and I were going.  I told her that I was leaving with some other friends, but that Isabel was staying put for the weekend. 

  “We’re going to Belgium for the weekend; we’re staying in Brussels, but we’ll probably take a day trip to Bruges as well.”

  She looked at me blankly, as if she could not understand the words I had just muttered to her.  She squinted her eyes, and whispered, “Why Belgium?” 

  Her question though, was not in a genuinely interested manner.  It was a disguised, “What the fuck?  Why would you go there?”  It was backhanded, and passive-aggressive.  (Two of my least favorite modes of communication.  Just say what you need to say.)

  I took a moment, then said, “I don’t know how to respond to that,” because essentially, what she was doing was challenging my decision to go there, making a value-judgment that I was wasting my time and money by traveling there, implying that she knew something I didn’t.  But, here’s the thing: she didn’t know, she doesn’t know, because not once in the month that we had been here, had she even pretended to care to know me or my interests, despite my repeated attempts to make it happen.

  She repeated her question, but tonally dumbed-it-down, nearly time releasing the words in a way that seemed as if there was a ten-second pause between syllables.  Because, yeah, that’ll help.  “Wh-y-yyy Bel-gi-ummmm?”

  “No, Cynthia, I understood your question, I understood the words you were saying, I just do not know how to respond to it.”  Idiot.  “But, I’ll try my best.  Chocolate, waffles, medieval architecture, food, shopping, Brussels, Bruges…Do you need more than reason than that, or will that suffice?”

  She pursed her lips, forced out a quick, “Okay,” and slithered out of the room, returning to bury herself underneath whatever rock she’d been hiding under.  Mmk, bye.  Have a good weekend.  I’ll bring you back a souvenir.   

  I turned to Isabel.  “What the hell was that?”  Isabel laughed, “No Idea.”

  Fast forward, Friday morning at the train station.  I don’t know that I have ever taken the train as a form of legitimate transportation from point A to point B.  Sure, I’ve been on a train, but never with a true ‘destination’ in mind.  (Sorry, Gram, but Stockton just doesn’t count.)  I was amazed, though.  First of all, getting through “security” at the train station was a cake walk; almost laughable.  But, it was inarguably seamless.  Very efficient, very easy.  I’m in.

  The train was everything a plane is not, and everything you wish a plane would be.  They were spacious; there were no “carry-on” restrictions, we didn’t have to wait until we had reached some level of elevation deemed to be “safe” to turn on a battery-operated object, and we weren’t squished between or stacked on top of strangers in a crowded row of seats.  Nobody would be spilling coke on me, nobody would be eating tuna near me, nobody would be tensing up or screaming for fear of turbulence.  How lovely. 

  I sat near the window, coffee in hand, ear buds in place.  We were traveling at high speeds, down to France, over to Belgium, primarily through vast and endless countryside.  It occurred to me that I had the perfect soundtrack for this moment: Jason Aldean’s, Fly Over Town.  Call it cliché, if you’d like, but, it needed to happen.  I have blasted this song, on many an occasion, either in my room, walking to class, stuck in traffic, or flying down the freeway.  The song lyrics paint a very vivid, unmistakable picture, and by now, I’d imagine that I know the ‘area’ he is describing quite well.  But, never had I been in a situation where I had actually experienced the scene in an active capacity – California is a very different place than the Midwest and the South.  This was my chance.  Granted, I was not in the States, I was somewhere in the French countryside, but, crops are crops, and the idea was the same. 

  In fact, I would encourage you, whoever you are or happen to be, to take a moment, pause, and find the song on YouTube.  Go on, do it.  It’ll give you a better feel for what I’m talking about.  If nothing else, it’s a kick-ass song.  You’re welcome.                  

  The train was a great time.  Open space, open mind.  Just me, my tunes, my thoughts, and that expansive landscape, showing me and reminding me of all of those parts of the world that exist between these cities that we idolize so strongly.  It was peaceful, it was a good break.  Talking about it later, Katie and I realized that Lauren had missed the whole thing: she had been hunched over her laptop the entire time, eyes glued to that illuminated screen.  Darlin’, what a mistake that was. 

  Hour and a half later, we were in Belgium.  Goddamn.  I dug my navigator’s cap out of my bag, turned on my inner-Garmin, and began to lead the way to the hostel.  (Maps are so fantastic.)           

  Found it.  What a different kind of place this was.  This was not a hostel at all.  It was a freaking hotel.  Amen to that!  It was clean, we had our own room, our own bathroom, it was completely furnished, there were mirrors, alarm clocks, windows with curtains – all of which was decorated in a very modern, Ikea-like fashion.  Not too shabby for Abbey.  You’ve got some major work to do, Jacob’s Inn! 

  We ditched our bags, and took to Belgium.  The weather was perfect: sunny, but only about sixty-eight degrees.  No jacket necessary.  The entire of Belgium is on a bit of a slope, the higher you rise, the closer you find yourself to the Royal Palace. 

At the near southern edge of the downtown area, we stumbled upon a seemingly dedicated ‘gay’ district; gay bars, sites for drag shows, alleyways lined with rainbow banners, etc.  Belgium was a lot like San Francisco in this way, and very accepting of and welcoming to the LGBT community.  Good for you, Belgium!  Way to be forward-thinking and non-exclusive.  We did walk by one bar, The Homo Erectus, which had its windows and doors painted with the classic evolutionary progression of ape to man.  A great pun, and very clever.  Very clever indeed. 

  Katie and I were amused, and Katie offered that it might be fun to go there for a drink.  I agreed.  Then, out of nowhere, Lauren marched toward the bar, threw her arms up in front of her body in an “X” shape, pushed said arm signal outwards, away from her body, and screamed, “NO!”

  I was shocked.  Horrified.  Stunned.  And, I was suddenly immobile.  She didn’t just do that.  That didn’t just happen.  My eyes grew to twice their normal size.  I shook my head in disbelief.  I looked at Katie, hoping for a confirmation one way or another – either that she too, was horrified at what had just happened, or, I had dramatized Lauren’s true actions in my head somehow.  Eye contact with Katie affirmed the former, to my disappointment. 

  Lauren fits the stereotype of the white, middle-class, hyper-conservative, Christian girl.  Sadly, she is sheltered, and wildly closed-minded.  That is not a judgment, or an accusation.  It’s just the simple, hard and fast truth.  Wow.  That was bold of you, Abbey.  Perhaps.  But, there it is.  (She had earlier expressed to me on the train certain beliefs that women are not equal to men, that they have a certain role in society, a subordinate position to maintain – it was like time traveling back to 1950, but rather than press the issue, I had retreated to the iPod.  I didn’t have that escape on the street.) 

  What she did was a problem.  It was inexcusable, regardless of her political or religiously aligned ideologies.  She was a visitor to Belgium, a guest.  She was traveling through a space, very clearly designated to the LGBT community.  How dare she come here, and aggressively protest in their space.  And, as if the timing and placing of it all wasn't bad enough, I still could not believe that it happened, period.  It’s 2014.  I’m from California; the San Francisco Bay Area no less.  I go to school at Berkeley.  But, this is not about politics.  This is not about me proclaiming some liberal allegiance.  (Not my thing anyway).  But, at this day in age, I have yet to encounter, so closely, such hate.  I just haven’t seen it.  I grew up in a community of acceptance; my friends are socially progressive.  I have ‘gay’ friends.  I’ve had ‘gay’ professors, peers, etc.  Two of our ‘friends’ in our group, here in London, have gay siblings!  Thank god they weren’t here to see it.  I honestly could not fathom the idea of discounting someone entirely because of his or her sexual / gender orientation.  I would never walk into a church, and scream “ATHIEST”.  I just wouldn’t.  I wasn’t raised that way.  But, apparently the circumstances were different on the other side...   

  It put me in a delicate situation.  I only had a few moments to make a decision about how to respond.  Normally, if it was any other person in my life who had done anything even remotely close to what she had done, I would write him / her off entirely, “I can’t believe you did that, you insensitive asshole, I’m done with you,” kind of thing.  At the very least, I would respond in some manner, probably yell.  But, I have to spend the next three months with this person; in a very small network of people; and, we had literally only been in Belgium for two hours when she did this.  We had two days ahead of us.  If I decided to pick that bone at that moment, if I decided to have that discussion, if I decided to call her on the bullshit that that was, there were very negative potential repercussions.  Especially if it was going to come down to politics and religion, it was a conversation that was not going to go anywhere.  She would get stuck in, start lecturing me on “what God thinks about homosexuals,” which would surely only add more kindling to the fire inside my head.  My mind bounced through all of the possible scenarios and outcomes in a matter of milliseconds. Nope, this wasn’t the time, nor the place to hash this out.  That was the difference between Lauren and I – I could see that, she couldn’t.  I just had to take comfort in the fact that Katie understood and felt the same way, and we communicated it to one another through our eyes.

  I made a comment, neutral in its wording, but passionate enough in its delivery to make her understand my frustration, “Let’s keep walking, guys, Lauren is clearly very uncomfortable here.”  It was temporarily time to bury my reaction, and continue onwards.      

            Uneven cobble stones beneath us, we wound our way through narrow brick alleyways, at a slow incline, towards the center of Belgium: the Grand Place (pronounced Gran Plah), a square space bound by impressively decorated medieval buildings on all four sides.  It was stunning.  We looked around, and then looked back at each other.  To Katie, I said, “Why Belgium?”  We broke into hysterics, and the phrase that Cynthia had thrown at me the day before was now a tagline for our trip.  Why Belgium?  Because it was beautiful; because it was different, and; because we wanted to be there.

  We decided to lunch at a restaurant in the heart of the square.  Beautiful steak tartare and frites, paired with a Belgian amber ale.  I was impressed, with the food, the view, and with myself, because I have never eaten a portion of tartare all on my own.  Ju is always there to help. 

We wandered around until evening met us, meandering our way through various boutiques, chocolate shops, etc.  For dinner, I had probably the worst mussels that I’ve ever consumed, which was both odd and disappointing, because everything I had read about Brussels in particular had noted that mussels were a specialty.  #fail.  It also probably does not help that I am spoiled when it comes to food, and have relatively high standards and expectations.  Too bad, so sad.  Katie and Lauren enjoyed their second ham and cheese Panini of the day (boring), and then, we returned to the square, to observe it in all of its illuminated glory.

  It was simply spectacular.  Artful.  And, to top it off, the Grand Place happened to be hosting a concert that evening; a concert, that we just walked in on, no ticket necessary.  You can’t make this stuff up.  We were standing in the middle of a French rock concert, bound by medieval structures and the smiles of strangers.  I didn’t understand a single word, but the energy and spontaneity of the moment was infectious.   Why Belgium?  It started to rain, and despite the fact that I was not dressed appropriately for downpour, it didn’t matter.  The moment was magical, romantic, novel-esque. 

We hit a couple bars, found a cool group of American bros whom were eager to share their European experiences and swap stories.  It did seem that the main downtown center of Brussels was very … “tourist” friendly.  Not too many locals.  After chatting for a while, the guys invited us to come along with them to another music bar.  What they were really offering was to buy us drinks at another location, since our two respective groups seemed to hit it off rather well, and hey, we were all Americans exploring Belgium, so, we had some things in common.  This, sadly, went right over Lauren’s head.  She looked at Katie and I, and expressed that she was getting tired.  It wasn’t even a legitimate attempt to escape the boys, she was legitimately just tired, and cannot, for the life of her, determine when someone is hitting on her.  Poor thing.  Okay then.  Back to the hostel.  Thanks for the offer, guys, have a stellar evening.  I was bummed, because it would have been fun to hang out with them, to make new friends.  On the walk home, I clued Lauren in on what she had just unknowingly turned down, with the hope that she would know better for next time.  Her eyes were wide, and her jaw was dropped.  No.  Clue. 

  We found a waffle place on our way home, which was an equally satisfying alternative to bar round two.  The waffle was good, no doubt, and covered in Nutella (what’s not to like?).  But, to be honest, there was nothing special or spectacular about this waffle that set it apart from other waffles I had had in the past.  I’d give it a C.

  I did find a stellar spider / spider web on the way back to the hostel.  Normally, I am not one to find a particular interest in spiders.  But, this one impressed me; it seemed to be masterful in some way, almost like a bougie spider, with its expansive web fastened to the bridge, overlooking the small river below.  His web had the best view of all the spiders for sure.

  Day two: day trip to Bruges.  It was an hour away by train, and I had heard nothing but stellar things.  It was beautiful.  And though it was very small, it was somehow much more impressive to me than Brussels.  It seemed rather timeless, and had a genuine character that had not yet been overrun or crushed by the ideals and expectations of the modern west.  The entire city was picture / postcard worthy, and my camera definitely got a workout in.  I don’t have much more to say about it than that.  It was very much so a day of visual experience.  I would encourage people to go, because I don’t think that it gets nearly the attention or credit that it deserves.  It’s definitely not a place you could stay in for longer than a day (two days, tops, for Belgium as a whole, unless you knew people there), but it is worth seeing for sure.

  The train ride home the next day didn’t suck either.   Somehow, Katie and I ended up in first class (didn’t see that coming), and we were each afforded a massive reclining chair, living room style, with an outlet to charge our devices, and mid-ride, the attendants passed out wine, brie, and baguette.  Please and thank you.  Not a bad way to travel back through the country, not a bad way to conclude a weekend.  Bring it on, Monday.   

[abbeywilkins]

The House of Blues

If I was asked to describe myself in so many adjectives, there are several that would come to mind; one of the more determinant ones, however, would be ‘athlete’.  I think that it explains very particular facets of my personality and my personal history. 

  I am competitive as hell; I am a highly driven and determined individual; I take pride in working hard; I am hyper-disciplined; I know how to commit; I know how to anticipate and plan ahead; I am an effective time manager; I am aggressive (I’m not all bark and no bite); I am focused (sometimes too much so); I can adapt; and, I believe that I am an emotionally mature person.  I can read people.  Patience is not my strongest suit, but I do work at it.  

  And, very matter-of-factly, I am an athlete.  I played competitive soccer for fourteen years.  In a very real way, the game was somewhat of a third parent to me: it raised me, and largely shaped who I am today.  I cannot even begin to tally the hundreds, thousands, of hours that I spent on the field, with teammates, taking direction, honing my skill, ball at my feet.  It was more than a hobby, more than a way to pass the time.  It was my life, and I will forever be indebted to the game, past teammates, coaches, my Dad (the best coach of them all), and carpool with Mom, for making it all that it was for me.  (Thanks, guys.)

  So, it’s no secret that I am connected to the game.  I always will be.  For me, one of the major benefits to coming to Europe to study abroad was that Europeans value soccer the same way I do.  Football is everything to them; they have all played, grown up watching and going to games, and they are as die-hard as the average American NFL fan.  It is truly spectacular, and something that I have always wanted to experience, because as sad as it is, soccer just still hasn’t quite taken off in the states as it has everywhere else.  (It’s coming though!)

  Going to England for four months without going to at least one game would be an utter failure; especially for me.  I actually was surprised at how difficult it was to go about getting tickets to a game, though.  And, how few locals could tell me how to approach it.   I now know that it is indeed a challenge to purchase reasonably priced, single game tickets because, like I said, locals don’t take football casually: they are committed, and they all hold season tickets, making the pool of available, single-seat, single-game tickets very shallow.

  After some internet research, and mapping my availability, I bought tickets to a Chelsea FC match, set for a Wednesday evening after class, with a 7:45 kick off.  I was more excited for this game than I had been for anything in a long time.  I’ve been to professional soccer games before, but never like this. 

  Katie and I left for Chelsea, and Lauren and Caillie were going to meet up with us once they got out of class.  It was only thirty minutes out from Bloomsbury, and very easy to get to.  We hit the box office to pick up the tickets, and then I dragged Katie though the merch store.  Quite literally.  I was giddy – kid in a candy store type stuff.  They literally had a “Chelsea FC” version of everything and anything you could have ever wanted.  Sweatshirts and t-shirts of course, water bottles, balls, key chains, blankets, scarves, magnets, car stickers, lingerie, baby one-zies, I digress.  It was overwhelming, but in the very best kind of way.  I had been jazzed all week on the idea of getting a jersey, because, it was the proper thing to do.  Join in on the fan crowd, support the cause, go team!  It’s the only way to be a fan – be a committed fan.  I picked the jersey, and headed over to the screen-pressing counter.  “Can you print me an André Schürrle jersey, please?”  (They don’t stock pre-printed jerseys in the shop, because of the immeasurable turnover of products.  They just buy the blank jerseys so that fans can have any and everything printed on the jerseys, and there is no risk of disappointment or being ‘out of stock’.  I wasn’t expecting that, but it was quite genius really.)  I love André Schürrle.  He was one of my favorites to watch during the World Cup.  German, center forward.  He’s wickedly talented, and a set-piece master.  Even better yet, he’s so freakin’ attractive.  Just an added bonus to watching him play!  I was so happy, and just too excited!  I tried really hard – begged even – to get Katie to buy something, a souvenir!  Katie had never been to a sporting event of any kind before, so I felt that it was a historic moment.  Even if it was just a keychain, it would be fun to have something to commemorate the night!  She wasn’t havin’ it.  Damnit, Katie, play along. 

  I swapped out my boring white t-shirt for my new jersey.  That quick costume change was a vivid transformation, because now, I wasn’t just a person in the crowd.   I was a fan, I was a member of the exclusive supporters’ network, and it showed that I knew things, that I cared, that I bled blue.  Katie and I wandered across the street to a ‘fans-only’ pub.  I loved it.  We arrived to Chelsea early to take care of everything, so when we walked in to the pub, there were only a handful of people.  We situated ourselves in a back corner of the joint with a couple beers and some curry fries – like chili fries, but better.  One beer down, time for another.  Back to the bar.  What’s that? A Corona?  WITH lime?!  Heaven and earth.  We’ll take two.  By this time, the pub was crawling with people, a sea of blue.  You could not shuffle your way through the masses of people without dishing out high-fives to your left, fist-bumps to your right.  It was a proper fan warm-up.  Pre-game buzz, comradery, and an imminent football match: what more could you want?  Caillie and Lauren found us in the pub, and then, it was time to take to the stadium.

  We filed out of the pub, the streets were shut down due to the swarm of people returning to the hive.  There was work to be done, a game to be played, and cheering to do!

  We took to our seats inside the stadium.  They were perfect.  That perfect middle ground between field-level and nose-bleeds, where we were visually situated to see the entire game unfold, on both ends of the field. Massive flags were flying and streaming across the sidelines down below; the crowd was already on its feet; anthems were being sung (it didn’t take me long to learn them); and as the referees met centerfield, a massive blanket of cobalt found itself stretching across the entire die-hard section as fans unfolded it on top of themselves, creating a billboard of the traditional Chelsea emblem and year of foundry in massive block letters.  The house was packed.  It was game time.

  The announcer introduced himself over the speaker system, and with each player’s introduction, a massive roar of applause and cheers followed.  I felt particularly compelled to shriek once Schürrle was introduced to the field.  Leggo, Blue! 

The game was absolutely incredible – everything I would have ever wanted it to be, everything I’ve ever imagined a European soccer game to be like.  I paid relentless attention, eyes fixated on the ping of the rock as it traveled the field with and between the players.  I found myself shooting up to a standing position during those near-misses; screaming at the top of my lungs when Chelsea scored – twice.  (Good thing I had Ken to teach me how to unleash the proper ‘rebel-yell,’ as it is so known on Mohawk Drive.)  My skin was pebbled; not from the cold, but from the sheer enthusiasm and excitement of it all. 

I was high on the entire experience.  It made me miss the game in a particular kind of way that I haven’t experienced in quite some time.  I wanted to be on that turf, under those lights.  Goddamn, Chelsea, you sure know how to pull at the heartstrings.  My companions weren’t quite as into it as I was, but hey, they were good sports about it all (see what I did there?).  I am glad that they were able to make it out with me, and I am ever so thankful that the concession stand was so prominently stocked with hops and barley byproducts, so that they were able to entertain themselves. 

  Surely, this was one of the best experiences I will have over the course of this entire semester.  It was real.  It was normal.  It wasn’t flashy.  But again, there was something so beautiful about the neutrality of it all that made me once again remember those things that are important to me, that matter to me.  The trick to this abroad thing isn’t about doing the ‘should do’s,’ but finding a way to adapt ‘normal’ or ‘preferred’ experiences with a new cultural lens, find the ‘can do’s,’ and the ‘want to do’s,’ or find those opportunities to create ‘want to do’s’ of your own.  If I had it my way, I would be at a hell of a lot more of those games, and I would make sure that that jersey saw its fair share of wear-age. 

  The only way that night could have been better would have been if I had been up in that stadium with someone who shared that same passion with me, someone who understood the game, someone who was committed to it for reasons other than just for a good way to catch a buzz on a Wednesday night.  But, no complaints.  It was what it was, and for me, that’s one of the best kinds of nights I could ever ask for.  So, if ever there is a time when I need to disappear from the immediate city for a bit, don’t discount the possibility that you’d find me in the House of Blues; it ain’t a bad place to be.           

[abbeywilkins]

Eire

Early on, the six of us knew that it was not realistic (or necessary) for us all to travel together for the entirety of our stay in Europe.  The consensus amongst the group was that everyone wanted to make the trip to Ireland.  Excellent.  When to go?  Well, Lauren was set to turn twenty-one on September nineteenth.  A twenty-first birthday in Dublin, with a full guest list to boot?  Righteous.  Let’s do it.  (The scenario is more fun when you pretend and / or ignore the slight international discrepancy that is the determinate legal age with respect to one’s prospects for being sworn-in to that special social drinking club – twenty-one just isn’t as near and dear to the Europeans’ hearts as it is to ours.)

  We hopped on a plane, and fifty minutes later, we were in Dublin.  Ireland.  Another country.  I’m still blown away – and genuinely excited – by the concept of it all.  In less than an hour, we had crossed international borders.  Navigating our way to our hostel at midnight was an adventure, to be sure.  Thinking back, it is rather amusing, but wandering through dimly lit streets with hand-scribbled directions in the wee hours of the morn left something to be desired.  “Welcome to Ireland.  Now, you’ve gotta earn it.”  (I have also deemed this night to be the official origin of my recurring battle with the European ‘labeling’ system; apparently, they don’t believe proper street signs to be of true significance.  The few that do exist are in microscopic font, cemented on nearly camouflaged plaques to the sides of buildings, some five or six feet from the street-side exposed wall.  ‘I spy with my little eye…’ HOW do you ever give directions to someone?  ‘Take fifty paces straight, then make a right, then 100 paces, and two lefts.’ Unbelievable.  I now relish the idea of going home and seeing streets so colorfully decorated with multi-directional street names.  Revolutionary.  Ah, logic, how I will forever be indebted to you.)

  I’m not one to turn away a good challenge though.  So, we wandered.  We pleaded with the few folks still on the streets at one in the morning for some form of directions – the trusted folks we dared to approach were even fewer.  We survived the labyrinth, and found Jacob’s Inn.  Oddly enough, the entrance to the building was on the back side, ultimately affording its true street address to some other name, entirely different than is advertized; but, I suppose that is a topic for another discussion entirely, and perhaps it doesn’t matter at this point, because we found it anyway.  We win.  Commence the celebratory collapse onto the bed; see ya in the mornin’, Dub-town.

This was my first time staying in a hostel.  I can honestly say that hostel-style travel is not something I would have ever anticipated myself participating in.  It’s just not really my style.  Jacob’s Inn met every benchmark of a ‘traditional hostel’.  The six of us shared a room with six other strangers: barrack style.  Analyzing the situation was not an option if I wanted to maintain some semblance of sanity.   Turning the lights on in the room was not an option, because somebody was always sleeping.  So, we fumbled around in the darkness, being careful to not wake the tuckered troops.  There I was, the OCD, Purell-worshiping, germ-a-phobe, in the middle of a blacked-out room in a foreign country, listening to the R.E.M. breathing patterns of six strangers.  Swell.  But hey, new game, new rules, yeah?  I am lucky enough to be in Europe, and to have the freedom to travel and experience such a classic and highly desired part of the world, so the least I can do is channel my inner “Chucky” from Charming, and accept the fact that I’m crashing on a very old, very communal bed.  Or so I told myself, anyway.  New mantra for those unexpected and unanticipated challenges: “I accept that.”

  ‘Hello, Friday morning.’  ‘And hello, to you too, Dublin.’  Time to get acquainted.  We had a pretty solid game plan for the weekend because we had done some pretty intense researching the week before.  It is very important to me that when I travel, I don’t travel in the cliché, popularly frowned upon “American Fashion.”  I am not a tourist; at least, I don’t want to be.  I want to be a visitor, an adventurer, a traveler, an admirer. 

  First stop: Jameson Whiskey Distillery.  Today, I am a regular and passionate whiskey consumer.  Irish, Scottish, American.  Corn, wheat, rye.  I am always excited to test my palette, to let the drink divulge itself to my senses: color; smell; and finally, taste.  My first experience with whiskey though, my introduction to a life-long friend, was with Jameson Irish Whiskey, two years ago.  And what a brilliant place to start it was.  Jameson will always hold a special place in my heart and in my mind.  Without it, my love for Whiskey would have gone unrealized.  Visiting the Distillery was an absolute must.  (And, not a terrible way to kick off a twenty-first birthday celebration, eh, Lauren?)

  We had arranged to go on a tour of the facility, and I was itching with excitement.  Right off the bat, I made friends with the receptionist at the ticket counter; while he was fishing for my ticket for the tour, I noticed a Green Bay Packers sweatband on his arm.  I poked fun at him, and asked him how that happened, how he landed on Green Bay.  He smiled, laughed, and replied, “Because I have good taste in football.”  I said, “Okay, I’ll give you that.”  He begged to know my personal preference, and I pledged my allegiance to Denver.  “Ah,” he said, “you have good taste in football too.”  Bonding.  Yes!  Even better, bonding over one of my favorite things, with a guy who worked at the birthplace of another favorite thing.  How great this was going to be! 

  The tour itself was great, and I learned a lot about whiskey production.  (It was time.)  The tour guide was a small, elderly, charismatic Irishman.  He was sharp, and kept us entertained, but never waivered in telling us the story that is Jameson.  For the first half of the tour, though, he had been walking around with what looked like miniature wrapping paper rolls, about one foot in length, covered with the Jameson logo.  He had several of them.  I could not, for the life of me, figure out, or even afford a proper guess as to what they were, or what he could possibly need them for.  Suddenly, we found ourselves in the Mash room when he asked for a few volunteers.  Instinctively and reflexively, my arm shot into the air before he could even finish his sentence.  I didn’t even technically know what it was that I was volunteering for, but it couldn’t be too bad, could it?  As soon as I took a minute to process what I had just done by casting myself into the candidates’ pool, I remembered reading something on the Jameson website regarding the tour, which encouraged people to ‘volunteer,’ because it would result in a private tasting for the few and lucky selected participants.  In my head, to myself, I kept saying, ‘Please pick me, pick me, pick me!’  He only had eight batons.  He handed out a few, then walked over towards me, and as he did, two of Lauren’s friends from home whom had met up with us shouted, “It’s her birthday,” undoubtedly pointing at Lauren who stood immediately behind me.  My arm started to slowly fall, because of course he was going to give her the baton, because it was her birthday.  Further still, no way was he going to give two of his eight batons to two twenty-something blonde girls, in a crowd of thirty people (most of whom were men, and assumed whiskey aficionados).  To my surprise and excitement though, as my arm fell away, he had simultaneously began to extend the baton to me, and he asked if I would like to participate.  HELL YES I WOULD.  He gave one to Lauren as well (happy birthday), but to be perfectly honest, I would have been bummed, maybe even a little bitter, if she had been given the tasting opportunity and I wasn’t, especially if she was picked for no other reason than because it was her birthday.  She doesn’t even like whiskey; she turns her nose up at it every time I order it.

  We finished the tour, and the chosen eight tasters migrated to the tasting room.  Each of us had a ‘station’ to stand in front of, complete with Jameson placemats, three different whiskeys to try, and water, to cleanse the palette. 

We progressed through the three, beginning with the popular distillation that everyone knows and loves: amber, light, sweet, caramel-y; then, the special Jameson twelve year reserve, which can only be purchased on site at the distillery: smooth, woodier; then, we finished with a pungent, peaty, mineral-y Jameson whiskey (though, you could have called it Scotch, and I would have believed you).  It was so much fun!  Observing, tasting, evolving the palette with the different products.  Leaving the room, though, I noticed that Lauren’s three tasting-sizedglasses of whiskey were nearly full.  No joke.  I was disappointed.  By refusing to play along and participate (after begging to), she had missed out on an experience – she had just been presented with the opportunity to engage in a whiskey tasting, in a distillery, in Ireland.  Not to mention the fact that she deprived any and all of those other eager volunteers from that experience.  All because it was her birthday.  Walking out of the room, the man that had been beside me at the tasting table shook his head and said, “What a waste.”  I nodded in agreement, and told him that drinking wasn’t really her thing.  Fairly, he replied by asking the obvious: “Then what is she even doing here?”  I hear you, brother.

  The tour guide gave each of us a ‘certificate’ acknowledging our tasting experience, initiating us into the official Jameson Club. 

It turned out that the taster next to me was a Bronco fan.  I noticed his sweatshirt, and asked him about it.  Born and raised in Seattle, but has had a random allegiance to Denver his entire life.   “Oh, so then this last super bowl was especially rough for you!”  We swapped stories, had a good chalk talk.  It was fantastic.  How great is it that football can do that - unite total strangers in a matter of seconds.  Internationally.  It had happened for me twice in the three hours I had been at Jameson.  Goddamn, the NFL rocks!

  I bid a heartfelt farewell to Jameson, and then we wandered over to the Guinness Storehouse.  This visit wasn’t too high on my list of “to-do’s,” but, traveling is a team effort.  I’m also not big on beer, so venturing across town to schmooze over a pint of that especially acidic and bitter tar that is Guinness took some mental preparation: “I (should) accept that.”  The self-propelled ‘tour’ through the museum of Guinness was everything I feared it would and did not want it to be: crowded, touristy, aimless.  We were all over it rather quickly, and we escaped to the Gravity Bar on the top floor for that ‘free’ pint we were promised; more like the most expensive beer I will ever consume, because I paid fourteen Euro as an entry fee into the building.  Silly Guinness, you’re dealing with a Rhetoric Major.  You can’t fool me!  We hopped into the elevator, and quite literally shot up to the top, some seven or eight stories high.  Rising through the elevator shaft in a Wonka-inspired glass elevator, we suddenly broke out of the brick building into the glass sphere that is the Gravity Bar.  My heart dropped, and I immediately started to have a panic attack.  I was not prepared for the literal implications of the ‘gravity bar.’  I can’t say that I have a super positive association with being high off of the ground, so finding myself situated in a tiny glass elevator, encased in a glass elevator shaft, standing on a glass floor blew my anxiety up and off the charts, and left me itching to get the hell out.  Those doors could not open fast enough. Whew, wood flooring.  Welcome to the Gravity Bar.  Here, have a pint.

The 360-degree view of Dublin was incredible.  It was cloudy and gray, per typical Irish weather standards, but amazing all the same.  There is something miraculous and awe inspiring about seeing the world from such a different perspective; it has a different potential, a different spirit, quite literally a different ‘air’.  I still refused to get within five feet of the actual ‘edges’ of the room, as the ‘walls’ were concaved glass panels from floor to ceiling, but I promise, the view from the center of the room was equally impressive. 

  Aiight, later Guinness.  We continued to wander through the city for a few more hours, making our way back towards the hostel, but taking time to explore a Medieval fortress, the heart of the downtown area, etc.  My map took a beating that day, but it was dependable as hell.  Five minutes from the hostel, flash downpour struck.  We were soaked instantaneously.  There was no point in even using an umbrella, because there just was no escaping it.  True taste of Ireland, I suppose.

  We all channeled our inner ‘diva’ for the following hour, fixing ourselves up with proper hair and makeup so that we could go out on the town for real.  Post celebratory dinner (happy birthday, Lauren), we slithered down the intricate network of alleyways to a couple of bars that I had read about online which had solid reputations as not only being killer bars, but for being very off-the-beaten-path, a.k.a., no ‘tourists’.  #winning.  We went to No. 4 bar, and it was very nearly a brick tunnel in the underbelly of the building, sans windows, and very dimly lit with red-stained glass bulbs.  Medieval.  I can dig it.  The walls were decorated in a patchwork of LP album covers, music blasted out of overhead speakers, and a swarm of people clustered around the bar on the back wall. I cracked a proud and stoked smile – this was my kind of place.  Drinks all around! 

  We didn’t get to stay as long as I would have liked because in true twenty-first-birthday fashion, Lauren wanted to begin the crawl that is bar.  Sad.  She took us back into a slightly different part of downtown, a neighborhood called Temple Bar.  Damn it.  The one place I did not want to go, the one place I had worked so hard to avoid.  From our research, everything we read and / or encountered warned us to not go there.  It was essentially home base for American tourists.  Bleh.  Drunken Americans all congested into a smaller territory that has unofficially been marked as their own by the Irish and Americans alike.  How charming.  Katie, Ciera and I didn’t last long, because it was everything we knew it would be.   We bid adieu, and headed back to the hostel.

  Day two: the clear winner of the trip.  Back in the planning stages, we realized the importance of seeing the coast of Ireland.  The moors were a bit too far out of reach though for a simple day trip.  Glancing at a map of Ireland, I had just zoomed in on some random coastal town, Howth.  The more I read, the more I liked.  And, it was only a half-hour train ride outside of Dublin.  (Planning ahead is a wonderful thing.) 

  Howth was absolutely incredible.  The weather was kind to us, and the sun made an impressive effort to show itself; our California counterpart missed us, and we welcomed him with great enthusiasm.  Hello, old friend.  We explored the main street and grabbed some coffee before we headed over to Howth Castle.  A super friendly Irish passerby strongly encouraged our intended visit to the castle, and promised that we wouldn’t be disappointed.  He gave us a few tips for lunch, too, and it turned out that our fellow pedestrian knew his stuff, but more on that later.  We found the entrance to the grounds of the castle, and started walking up the trail, as the castle itself was set up on a hillside overlooking Dublin Bay.  The journey up was a surefire realization of every postcard image of Ireland that anyone has ever seen.  The landscape one imagines upon encountering the word “Ireland” came to fruition: rolling green hillside, herds of roaming sheep, and soft gray skies became the perfect backdrop to a relaxed day of exploring.  I have never seen so many shades of green.  Further still, for as much green as was surrounding us, each shade was vibrant in its own context, demanding inclusive attention to the scene as a whole while simultaneously claiming its difference, its uniqueness. 

I was particularly fond of the arboreous quality of the scene.  With the onset of fall, the trees were committed to giving it their all and displaying their magnificence, as if they were putting on an encore to their incredible nine-month performance.  Change was imminent, darkness was coming, and the ground was calling, but they just weren’t quite ready to go home.  A few more weeks, Mom, please.

A ways up the hill, on the backside of the castle, blue found its way into the panoramic, forming a seemingly perfect divide of the biological sphere. 

The castle grounds were now home to a culinary school and a golf course, both of which were yet another stretch up the hillside.  I wanted to see more.  Onwards and upwards!  I popped my head into the golf pro-shop, to ask if there was some form of intentional path up the hill itself.  “Oh yeah, you should definitely head up, the view is incredible.”  Done deal.  That was the fist hike I had been on in recent memory, but it was well worth it. 

Once I found the top, I never wanted to come back down.  That damn Gravity Bar had nothing on this 360-degree view!  We could see the outlines of the inland cities to the far left, the bay, the greenery below – everything!  There simply was not enough time to take it all in, and the grounding realization that “I’m in Ireland,” was stuck on repeat in my head. 

  We made the trek back into town.  The girls wanted fish ‘n’ chips.  I was determined to have mussels; we were in a harbor town, and I knew that they would be amazing.  Plus, the gentleman we had encountered earlier on the street raved about a restaurant called Beshoff’s at the Market.  I temporarily broke away from the group, and meandered over to Beshoff’s.  Table for one, please.  They sat me at the bar with a first row seat to the main show: the kitchen.  My favorite place to sit!  I sipped my sauvignon blanc, chatted with the bar and kitchen staff, and eagerly waited for my mussels.  How fun was this?! 

  Order up.  How beautiful they were.  Oh, and they tasted even better.  Definitely some of the best I have ever had.  Prepared in the classic French style, the fresh mussels were in a bath of white wine, shallots, and chives, with the surprise twist of some variety of hot red chili pepper.  They were absolutely divine, and I enjoyed every minute of my lunch date with me.  

  Back to the group.  We walked to the edge of the harbor, for an entirely new but equally impressive view.   

We hung out for a bit longer, and then decided to head back into Dublin, as it was nearing six P.M..  Well done, Howth.  Thank you for that insider’s taste of Ireland.  Thank you for your hospitality, your generosity, and for sharing your treasures with us. 

We settled in for the night, and prepared ourselves for our journey ‘home’ the next morning.  High off of the Howth visit, we left Ireland with fond memories and the feeling of a successful trip.  I hope to see you again, someday.

[abbeywilkins]

today , i ventured to the coast of ireland ; i saw a medieval castle , climbed to the top of a cliff , accessed one of the world's best panoramic views , ate fresh mussels , and sat seaside full of appreciation and excitement . thank you , #howth , for a spectacular adventure . (at Howth Head)

[abbeywilkins]

post yoga feast with the fav homie 🙏😋✌️ #namaste #nom #goodmorninglondon

[abbeywilkins]

maltby market

Now, it’s the middle of September.  I’ve been here for three weeks.  On the visitor’s spectrum, which ranges from ‘American Tourist’ on up to ‘Born and Raised Brit,’ I’ve landed myself somewhere just north of ‘Community Comrade.’  I’m not just playing house anymore; I know the area, I’ve learned to navigate the city, I’ve done my best to settle into the overwhelming public transit network, and I’ve seen several of the main attractions.  Sidewalk passersby now approach me hoping for some directional aide, and often times, I’m able to give it to them.  (YES! I fit the British Profile!)

Yesterday, though, I inched myself further up that spectrum.  I became a Londoner.  A local. 

Three weeks on the books.  I decided it was time to find those unique hot spots, the ones worth writing home about.  Some place that would set itself apart from the rest, apart from the ‘typical’ London attraction sites.  Those places are always the most memorable. 

But, how? There is a reason why ‘those places’ stay so well hidden, why they maintain the identity of a cherished local territory, as they are kept just beyond the visitor’s reach.  Better yet, how was I going to ‘find’ something when I didn’t even really know what it is I was looking for? 

Keep it simple. 

I sat, in active recall of those things that make me tick, the things that excite me, and the things that I have, on countless occasions, looked forward to.  Time to be a little selfish, and focus my attention back into myself.  There it is.  Found it.  Food; Fashion; Music; Sports.  New intention, set: take those favorite things and make new discoveries.  Go play. 

I hit the internet, did the research.  Then, the idea came to me.  A Farmer’s Market.  What a perfect Sunday afternoon activity.   Comparing markets, hours of operation, location, etc. on the computer, I stumbled across something better.  A food market.  Not produce.  Food.  The Maltby Street Market, a culinary street festival off the beaten path just behind Tower of London. I’m in.  To the host of friendly vendors and craftsman anxiously waiting to pedal their goods to the wanting public, please accept this as my formal RSVP to your Sunday afternoon festivities.

Katie and Isabel were eager to participate.  I identified the proper bus route (excellent, it would drop us off right on the corner of the market), and we set out.  Oh, but let’s keep it interesting, shall we?  Murphy woke from his extended nap, and decided to test me once again.  All right.  Challenge (forcibly) accepted.  We were not halfway across town when the bus driver decided to announce that he had “altered the bus route,” and had decided that the “end point” of Sunday’s route would be Elephant and Castle station, rather than London Borough, where we needed to be.  “Everyone, get off the bus.” Oh, sure.  Go ahead.  No problem, except for the fact that it was a problem.  This wasn’t where I wanted to go.  It wasn’t even halfway to where I wanted to go.  This wasn’t where your bus service had advertised it would take me.  Since when do busses just get to do that, alter their route?  I don’t particularly know, because in California, I make my best effort to avoid public transportation – it’s much more car friendly in the bay.  Then, it occurred to me, that of course the bus driver could spontaneously throw in the towel: it’s a government-run operation, and as we all know, the government can do anything it wants, eh? Some truths know no borders.

To the streets we went.  Staring at the screen-shot of the map that I had taken on my phone, we did our best to navigate ourselves to the market.  The three of us definitely earned our Garmin badges, and we went about it old-school, taking careful notice of surroundings, cross-streets, etc., all without any real GPS system or access to phone data.  What was the lesson for the day, folks? Map.  Always bring a tangible map.  Pictures of maps are a close second, but not as equipped or helpful as the real-deal.  We may look like nerds or lost tourists doing it, but the map never lies.

We were close.  We found Abbey Street.  Not kidding.  Oh, and what’s that? The street sign is posted on the fence of a cemetery? What a special coincidence.  “Isabel, take my picture!!” (Don’t worry, we’ve already established amongst the group that I am a bit 'odd', that I have quirks, and further still, I proudly embrace and own the unconventional, the dark, strange and what some believe to be 'weird'.  Katie and Isabel were fully prepared for that one.)

  Two more blocks, we turned the corner, and EUREKA! (see what I did there? #caligirl), we found it!  Mini jumps for joy and high-fives all around.  Motivated by empty stomachs, we welcomed ourselves to Maltby, to the “Ropewalk” as it is commonly known, and stepped foot into the alleyway.

We sauntered through the strangled archway, and were suddenly transported into my own personal “Wonkaland”.  The market stretched for three blocks down a narrow and compact alley between parallel brick buildings, and was decorated overhead by a banner of world flags and banners, marking the territory as an international meeting ground and place of offering.  Ah, I see.  We were walking the ‘tight-rope’ as it were, tasked with balancing the culture and palettes of international artisans, taking care to appreciate the collective spirit of the market without blurring the lines of these established artists.

The major players were present, along with some welcomed surprise guests (always game for something new to taste)! Argentinean street tacos, Brazilian wraps, Steak sandwiches, French pastries, doughnuts, tarts, Greek tapas, Italian bruschetta, a Gin joint, Beer, chocolate, etc., etc., etc.  How to choose?!  Wandering down the strip offered a glimpse of the old-tyme market culture: each of the vendors were situated in a hollowed out brick fort, set into the side of the buildings.  I could vividly imagine the butchers and bakers of seventeenth and eighteenth century London, earning some modest living off of their inherited familial trade as housewives made their way to market to gather the weekly nourishment necessities.  The best part was that these modern players had made the spaces their own without manipulating or tarnishing the history of the spaces.  The chefs contributed to the stories of these spaces, added to their histories, but did not dare to bulldoze or override them for the sake of a personal success story. 

  Once we had a general sense of our options, we settled on a game plan: divide and conquer.  The three of us would each pick something different, and then we would sit down together and gladly share in each of the plates: the proper way, the only way to have a true food experience.  Before we darted off in different directions, one of the vendors asked me if I wanted to try his locally produced beer.  Of course, sir, thank you.  Gabe, nice to meet you.  ‘Hiver’ was the name of his beer.  He explained that it was a blonde beer, light and delicate, brewed in the accompaniment of three different honeys, all of which are locally produced.  “Divine,” I told him, “and I don’t even like beer. I’ll take one.”  Cheers!

  The main event: food.  I was very prepared to head back to the steak sandwich that had made itself known to my senses when we first walked in.  Thinly sliced beef on a French baguette, complete with a mild cheddar, arugula, salt, pepper, and some version of an aioli.  On my walk back towards the starting point, something captured my undivided attention.  A quick double-take assured me that it was in fact, love at first sight.  An elderly couple was sitting at a small round table, slightly behind the immediate stream of people, devouring what looked like the most perfect pulled-pork sandwich I had ever seen.  I approached them, apologized for interrupting what I’m sure was a heavenly experience, and inquired as to where they had discovered this masterpiece and where I could collect one for myself.  They nodded back in the other direction, and explained where it was situated in proximity to the other food tents.  I thanked them, profusely, and eagerly made my way to the opposite end. 

Welcome to ‘African Volcano,’ an award-winning Mozambique-inspired food stop, owned and operated by one Grant Hawthorne.  I entered the queue, and my anticipation heightened at the thought of eating that “dirty porker” sandwich. 

A couple came up behind me in line, the boyfriend was wildly encouraging the girl to order the ‘dirty little secret,’ promising that she wouldn’t be disappointed.  I listened intently as he described the creation.  The boyfriend was careful to phrase it as a “palette orgasm,” and his giddiness from explaining it was infectious.

Now, I was hooked.  I turned around, introduced myself, and told him that his wildly vivid public relations campaign of this South African creation had done its job: I was sold, my mind was changed.  Even if girlfriend wasn’t going to order it, I was.  He smiled, and again promised that I would not regret it.  We continued to chat in line as we waited not-so-patiently.  He deduced that I was a Californian, being from the states himself, but he considered himself to be a Brit, as he had lived here most of his life.  He and his girlfriend were suddenly impressed with me when I told them that I was only here to study abroad, that I had only been here for three weeks, but had found the cool spots so quickly.  He asked me how I found my way to this secret, “locals only” market.  “People don’t just ‘find’ this place,” he said.  I was proud of myself for that.  I got myself, and my new friends here.  I earned points with locals, and I did it by myself.  I told him that an inspired Internet surf session and several Zagat clicks had let me to Maltby, and that I couldn’t wait to test it out. 

Order up.  Oh, and what a beautiful thing it was.  I could tell, just from looking at it, that I was about to have one of the top food experiences I had ever had – they don’t come often.  To this day, I remember four: a blueberry, porcini, black peppercorn steak in Italy; a classically prepared French lamb chop at our favorite home-town joint; the lemon, ricotta, blackberry compote pancakes I had at a Berkeley brunch spot; and the first time Chez Ken mastered bolognese on Mohawk Drive.  I said ‘adieu’ to my friends in line, and found Katie and Isabel.  We nestled into a community table some way back down the alley, and went crazy.

Mr. Hawthorne, I bow to you.  I thank you for finding your way here, and bringing this piece of South Africa to me.  (And to the comrade behind me in line, I thank you for voicing your opinion; timing is everything).  I had never had South African food before, and now, I am not sure why.  The classically grilled burger sang in unison with the pork.  Why don’t people marry these proteins more often? Wilbur and Betsy are long time friends, why do we insist on keeping them from one another?  This ‘dirty little secret’ was undoubtedly the bastard love child of two of Chef Hawthorne’s specialties, the ‘dirty porker,’ and the ‘dirty old heifer,’ (a pulled pork sandwich and a burger, respectively).  This ‘dirty little secret’ was an emmenthaler cheese-coated sirloin burger topped with a generous mound of peri-peri marinated pulled pork shoulder, decorated with gherkin pickle, tomato, lettuce leaf, sautéed onions, the special ‘peri-peri’ sauce, and rock salt, all smashed between the halves of a sweet ‘peri-peri’ African roll.  Spice, cola, garlic, olive oil, paprika, thyme, and orange all made their presence known as they walked the red carpet that is my tongue.  Definitely a happy moment, and as anticipated, this ‘dirty little secret’ prospect was quickly initiated into my club of ethereal food experiences.  Welcome, brother.

Katie’s Brazilian street wrap was great.  Tangy, grilled vegetables and chicken wrapped tightly in a flatbread, cousin to the tortilla. 

Isabel rocked the Argentinean tamale and steak taco.  Divine.  Who doesn’t love an authentic taco? 

I explained to her that my American friend from the African Volcano line had showed me his pastor tacos from the same vendor, and I showed her the picture of them, as I will now show you. 

It was enough to convince her to wander back for a taste of her own.  Ranks above the steak taco: spicy pastor with refreshing lime, pineapple and cilantro in a tiny corn tortilla. Beautiful.  But, we all agreed, mine was the best.  The African Volcano had erupted, and in its sheer magnificence, would forever hold us as prisoner to its fossilized memory.  

Then, because we were sitting directly across from the “Little Bird Gin” joint, and because there was a menu of drinks on our table, it seemed only fair to order one. 

Katie’s Bloody Mary was different than any other I had previously tasted; Isabel’s drink was much too sweet for me (lots of strawberry syrups and canned fruit additives), but that girl is all about cloaking her alcohol in sugar :) .  I ordered a gin and tonic: the ‘perfect G & T’ to be exact, concocted of the Little Bird Gin, Fever Tree Mediterranean Tonic, and the wedge of a fresh grapefruit.  Wow.  These gin birdies know how to sing.  Typically, I’m not a gin fan: too much “juniper” going on.  But this, this was somethin’ special.  Clean, pure, earthly, with that twist of citrus made for a beautiful finish to that lovely international spread we had just shared.

  Now, for everyone’s favorite part (though, I’m not sure I was ready to part with the memory of the ‘dirty little secret’ so soon).  They were the first thing we saw when we came in.  They were allusive, seductive, dark and dangerous, nearly perfect squares of chocolate brilliance.  Welcome to ‘Bad Brownie’.  Rookie mistake, we hit the brownie table last, thirty minutes before the alley would shut down for the week.  There were only a few options remaining.  Now, we know better for next time.  Never fear, we made it work.  Triple Chocolate, Bacon Bits, and Mint Fondant.  Not that chocolate needs any help to begin with, but oh.my.god.  Job more than well done, Brownie Babes.  They were, without question, the perfect conclusion to a marvelous Maltby market day.  (Surely, the rest of the crew won’t make the mistake of ‘opting-out’ again in the future.)

  We walked home, across the bridge, back through town.  It was the right thing to do, and the best football-less Sunday I’ve had for some time.  Good to meet you, Maltby, we’ll see you again soon.    

[abbeywilkins]

bowls - best of the bias

Friday afternoon, Lauren, Isabel, Katie and I participated in one of the program-orchestrated pass-time events: bowls. 

Bowls is a British lawn bowling.  The group of us took the train to a town about thirty minutes outside of central London, and found ourselves at a Bowls Club, complete with a full team of hosts, a clubhouse, a groomed field, and a backdrop of a neighboring sunlit park.  Just lovely.

We were divided into teams, and given a crash course on the history of the game, the rules of play, and the ‘proper’ technique, all by an organized team of ‘bowlers,’ or, retirees who had landed themselves a new hobby and pastime after leaving the workforce behind.

After a few practice rounds, we took to playing games.  I channeled those childhood memories of bocce nights at Roger-Smith Park when we watched and cheered for Grapes and Grains, and those select-few nights when my fellow minions and I would rush down from the park to the open court so that we could play our own version of the game once the other teams had left for the night.        

The old men were impressed with my ‘technique,’ Rusty joked that I should join their team.  (Yeah, that would bode well for you guys.)  It was odd though, and peculiarly challenging, because the bowl balls themselves weren’t evenly proportioned: their weight was intentionally dispersed unevenly, creating a ‘bias’ of weight.  This caused each roll of the ball to find its own curve inwards toward the center of the course.  It was difficult to understand, difficult to accept, because you seemingly had less control over the direction of the ball.  Unlike soccer, baseball, etc., the ‘bend’ behind the ball, that desired curve, was beyond your control, and less about your skill or technique than the sheer compound structure of the object.  As an athlete, this was hard for me to adjust to, because I could no longer adjust or manipulate my body to make the ball do what I wanted it to do.  I couldn’t use my hips as a compass, nor could I force some kind of ‘spin’ onto the surface of the ball, because its instinctive need to deny a straight-lined path was innate and did not need my help.  

Surely, the fact that these amateur bowlers had mastered this complication demanded some respect of its own, because they understood how to take advantage of and best the bias of the ball so that they could put points on the board by meeting that jack (the smaller ball that serves as a point of aim).  At the same time, though, my brief experience with this game led me to hold its friend, Bocce, in a higher esteem, because there were fewer rules, it was player-controlled, and less equipment-dependent.  But, of course, that is a bias of my own. 

It was fun, though.  I enjoyed chatting with the team of bowlers, I am appreciative that they took the time to teach and play with us, and it stroked that competitive gene of mine.  I wasn’t too bad, either.  I managed to land that bowl in an orbital ring around jack a few times :) . Get those points on the board, fellas!

[abbeywilkins]

merry-go-(drinks-all)-'round

Thursday night, happy weekend, everyone!  We have yet to find a stellar pub.  It’ll come in time, I’m sure.  We did have a good laugh at the bar when Caillie asked what her tequila options were, and the bartender pointed to something called “Authentic Mexican Tequila.”  Dude, I’m not sure what the hell that is, but I promise you, it is absolutely not tequila. 

  It occurred to me though, in that moment, that the ‘pub’ culture that exists here is not at all like a bar as we had all imagined them to be.  This is why there are separate bars from pubs.  The pub is brightly lit, there are few places to sit, they primarily serve beer, rarely any hard liquor.  It’s almost like an evening-time coffee shop.  People keep to themselves and their private company, and just privately ‘chill’ in the very public venue.  Now we know of, and respect, the differences between pub and bar culture -- they are distinguished for a reason.  

We took a walk through lit-up London town, down towards the Eye, to take in the city in a different perspective than that that the daylight brings.  London is a different town in the dark; beautiful.  It is no longer masked by funky clouds, or the “gray” overtones of the sky.  It is more elegant some how, calm, but appears to be more coherent than it does in the daylight. 

We made it to the Eye.  I’m honestly not sure I could handle the trip ‘inside’ the Eye, being helplessly held above the ground from some impressive distance.  Nah, not my thing. 

We turned around, and saw the top of what looked like some carnival ride.  Let’s check it out!

Right behind the Eye, was this carnival type festival: a food truck, alcohol, live music, and occasional ‘ride’ playground for persons over eighteen.  How cool is that.  The merry-go-round was a bar, the main grounds were covered with tables, lounge chairs, etc., for people to interact and mingle, and there were different snacky foods vending themselves throughout the courtyard.  Super cool, and a very accidental find, but we were very glad that we did find it. 

Oh, and then some random guy wanted to take a picture with us. Okay, cool!?