[Originally posted on http://www.fodors.com/forums/threadselect.jsp?fid=2&tid=35079360; I refer to comments made there, which I cannot reproduce here]
I tried unsuccessfully to find any kestrel strangling going on. Unfortunately the closest I could get was a little pigeon-slapping at MOSI. The North has changed, Audere; as shown by the sad fact that the "Myth of the North" exhibition at Manchester's Lowry Museum (a later chapter) tried but was unsuccessful in finding a stuffed whippet to display. Flat caps and Vera Lynn 78s, sure, but no stuffed whippets anywhere in the north of England.
Thank you, Flanner, for untangling the hash I made of the Ship Canal history. In my defense, all of my reference material from the trip is still on a slow boat making its way around Cape Horn, unless a striking Royal Mail employee has just chucked it into the harbor.
The basic point to take away is that the Ship Canal was an attempt to avoid the Liverpool Docks.
I understand your antipathy towards your great commercial rival to the east, but I have to say I can't agree. I thought Manchester was terrific. The only thing I would have liked better would be if they had left the beautiful coat of grime on the buildings, both there and in Liverpool (the Liver Building is gleaming white, not brooding black, these days).
Flanner will not agree, but Manchester is clearly the Capital of the North these days. Their downtown revival is ten years further along. Liverpool is one of the great cities of the world, but it's at a bit of a dead end, a terminus; it's not really a gateway to anything anymore, not even Wales, while Manchester is the gateway to the entire north of England.
But the rivalry between the two makes for spectacular entertainment, and has for two hundred years. We will be returning to Liverpool.
As an example of the dispute between the two, we ended up not having enough time to visit the Lowry during our Manchester stay, and returned with our Liverpudlian friend (Mrs. Fnarf's old boyfriend from her time at University there several centuries ago). The amazing thing was, he had not been to Manchester FOR TWENTY FIVE YEARS, and even then only as an away supporter of Liverpool at Old Trafford.
He continually muttered that his mates would never believe where he'd been -- to MANCHESTER, clearly a less likely destination than the Sea of Tranquility on the moon. The Lowry is within sight of Old Trafford, which clearly upset him.
My wife has another old friend who lives in Wigan, halfway between Liverpool and Manchester, who in her fifty years on this earth has NEVER VISITED LIVERPOOL, something like twelve miles from her home.
If you read an excellent little book called "Pies and Prejudice" by Stuart Maconie, who grew up near Wigan right on the border between "Scouse" and "Woolyback" (Lancastrian), you will find much more on this topic of northern town and city rivalry and insularity.
Unfortunately, you can't borrow my copy, because British Airways apparently dipped the suitcase in which it had been packed into a pond of standing water, soaking the entire contents. The book, now dried, is now larger and fluffier than Don King's head, and all the pages have fallen out -- it's more of a pile than a bound book. Thanks, BA!
Josser, I did not get a chance to see the Anderton Lift, nor Pontcyssylte Aqueduct, nor Ironbridge, nor any of a dozen other landmarks that were on my list. Bizarrely, my wife believes that she should have some sort of input into our itinerary, and even more bizarrely didn't want to see any old boat lifts. Unaccountable. My arguments, even though they prominently featured detailed statistical and historical references, all went for naught, defeated by a simple "do they have an H&M there?"
Sarge56, I AM a writer -- I wrote all this lot, didn't I? Not by profession, though.
Anyways, on the Full English Breakfast.
Our hotel was right next to one of Britain's most charming contributions to civilization, the chrome cafe. The Abergeldie Cafe, by name, it is essentially unchanged since it opened in something like 1970, and features a high counter and lots of booths done in well-used wood and orange leatherette. Not as glorious as the New Picadilly in London, but charming nonetheless. And they serve breakfast.
Now, the details of a Full English have even more partisan disputes than Liverpool v. Manchester, and every one I tried was slightly different. The biggest area of disagreement seems to be on the inclusion of fried hash-browns or fried bread. I believe the correct answer is "both", but here's what I had at the Abergeldie:
Four large slices of bacon, each as big as my hand -- meaty English back bacon, not American streaky bacon; four sausages, containing a guaranteed ten percent or more of actual meat; two black puddings (sausage made of pork fat and beef blood); two eggs; an ocean of baked beans, fried tomatoes, fried mushrooms; a bit of hash browns; six slices of toast; and a pot of tea.
I believe staff were standing by with the engine running and a pair of jumper cables in case my heart stopped beating.
On the subject of black pudding, I have to say that I have previously in this forum maligned its deliciousness and authenticity, and been corrected by Flanner. I was wrong, extremely wrong, utterly dead wrong. Black pudding is unbelievable, and is now my favorite food, though it is unclear when I will ever be able to enjoy the one I have in the freezer, since Mrs. Fnarf objects to the smell of it being cooked, and she unaccountably has power in our household, which extends even to the cooking of foodstuffs. Seriously. If a man can't even fry a little something in his own house without being told off, just because he might "ruin my good pan" and "fill the house with stinky smoke" and "almost burn the house down again", well! Honestly!
But at least I was able to enjoy my full English at the Abergeldie. She liked the Abergeldie even more than I did, I think, even though she didn't have any meat products at all with her chaste eggs. I could seriously spend the rest of my life sitting in a cafe like that one, eating my black pud and reading about the Rugby World Cup in seven different newspapers.
Brits sure do like their newspapers. Aside from the seeming dozens of titty-full tabloids, whose articles take up less space than their headlines or their ads for weight loss and hangover cure, and the dozens of right-wing tabs that lack the naked ladies but have even tinier articles, all of which seem to be about sending the darkies back to wherever they came from, there are a variety of serious papers matched in the States as a whole but not in any single place. Even in relatively obscure places you can gather up the Times and the Independent and the Telegraph and the Gaurdian (Grauniad), and have more seriously thought-out and investigative reportage from all parts of the political spectrum, than you could get anywhere in the States unless you lived next to a specialty newsstand in a very large city. Most people in the US can't just walk into their local 7-11 and choose from the Washington Post, New York Times, Los Angeles Times, Boston Globe, or Chicago Tribune in addition to their local papers.
The "quality" papers were full of long, multipage articles about this place called "Iraq", which I remember hearing something about a few years ago but has seemingly dropped out of American news more recently. It sounds like a dreadful place. I can't imagine why anyone would want to go there.
(Forgive me, I'm an American, and thus my sarcasm muscles are atrophied; this is the best I can do).
And of course there's still hundreds of pages of Britney Spears news in the next stack over if you should need it.
One problem with a Full English Breakfast is that it can rather deaden one's resolve to get up and get moving. It can in fact make it difficult for the untrained physique to pump one's blood all the way down to the lower extremities and back up again. So the answer to the question "so, what are we doing today?" becomes "um. I, uh. The uh, we could. Is there a train? I wanted to, uh. Look, this girl is naked, right here in the newspaper."
The passage of time in this report is a little chopped and compressed, so some things will be covered on the wrong day. For the sake of the story, we got on the train and went to Blackpool.
Next: Blackpool.
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
Monday, October 8, 2007
Not Grim Up North, Part 2: Manchester Ship Canal
[Originally posted on http://www.fodors.com/forums/threadselect.jsp?fid=2&tid=35079360]
The Manchester Ship Canal
After the Liverpool and Manchester Railway opened for business in 1830, the cotton merchants of Manchester had an easy way to get the cotton to their mills from the ships that brought it from America, Egypt, and India. Before that, they had to send the loads on the long, slow canal journey up the treacherous Mersey to the Bridgewater Canal, on small narrowboats. But the railway had two problems: you had to pay the railway company, and you had to pay the docks. Liverpool's dock system was the first, and biggest, in the world, but Manchester didn't like paying them.
In 1894, they opened a solution: the Manchester Ship Canal, a wide, high-capacity direct waterway, 36 miles long, from Eastham Lock on the Wirral side of the Mersey, paralleling the dangerous, unpredictably silty Mersey, and avoiding the Liverpool docks altogether. The ocean-going vessels didn't need to be unloaded at all, until they got to Salford Quays in Greater Manchester. A whole host of industry sprang up along the canal, including petroleum refining, chemical works, and automobile shipping.
Today, the cotton business is long gone, as are most of the other industrial uses, but Mersey Ferries runs a boat up and down the canal on one of the most interesting tours I've ever been on.
We started at Salford Quays in the morning. Salford is a separate municipal body from the Manchester, but the two cities are contiguous. The only difference you notice as you approach the Quays on the tram is the sudden appearance of loads of "Kill Gill" and "Glazer Out" graffiti put up by disaffected Manchester United fans who are unhappy that their precious football club is now owned by an American, Malcolm Glazer (Gill is the club's finance director). Soon we see the frightening hulk of Old Trafford, their glitzy stadium, on the far side of the quay, and queue up next to MV Royal Daffodil, one of the famous Ferries Cross the Mersey, pressed today into special duty on the canal here at Liverpool's great commercial rival.
The crowd here is quite different than we've seen elsewhere heretofore in England. They are older, mostly in their sixties, and I am not the only one clutching a fancy camera and pile of OS maps. Some are just out for a nice day on the water, but there are quite a few trainspottery types as well, nice, intelligent, attractive folks with a keen interest in industrial heritage, like me. The cruise is so popular they've had to put on extra sailings. I'm right at home here!
The canal is almost empty today, and most days. It is wholly owned by the Manchester Ship Canal Company, and is considered in its entirety to be an extension of Manchester docks. Special permission is required for entry, so you don't get many pleasure boats the way you do on the narrow canals operated by British Waterways. While the canal is not very important for shipping anymore, modern ships having long since outgrown it, it is still a working waterway and thus difficult for pleasure boats.
Almost immediately out of Salford, we begin passing major engineering landmarks. The Centenary Lift Bridge was built in 1995. After it is the famous pair of swing bridges at Barton: the Barton Swing Bridge, carrying the road, and the incredible Barton Swing Aqueduct, which carries the Bridgewater Canal over the MSC. This is a rotating trough that swings the water of the canal around a central pivot to allow ships to pass. It replaces an earlier fixed aqueduct by James Bridley that carried the Bridgewater over this stretch of the River Irwell. You can still see the remains of the earlier aqueduct's supports. The swinging trough carries 800 tons of water. Seeing this marvel was so exciting for Mrs. Fnarf that she was moved to say "yes, dear, that's nice" over her cup of tea. For my part, I was nearly hopping out of my shoes to finally see this beautiful work of Victorian ingenuity.
There are several other swing bridges along the route. It never ceases to amaze me how such a huge lump of metal can pivot so effortlessly around.
At Barton there is also the first of several locks on the canal, which drop us down towards sea level by the time we enter the Mersey at the far end. These are significantly larger and more complicated than the hand-operated ones you see on narrowboat canals.
In addition to industrial views, much of the canal passes through pleasant green English countryside. At first you can see remnants of the old brick and stone walls of Trafford Park, the estate of the original landowner here, whose holdings long predate the canal. Commentary was provided along the route, much of which was rather amusingly vague: "on your left you can see a great deal of greenery" and "as you can see the canal is very popular with a variety of birds; several kinds of birds are visible to your right". Still, I give the woman credit for being able to talk almost nonstop for six hours; that's an iron set of pipes for sure!
All along the canal you can see remnants of Britain's industrial past: docks and piers. At one point there is a huge metal recycling facility, with a mountain of rusting steel and iron being cut up and loaded into rail cars. Other spots feature vast tank farms holding petroleum or other chemicals. Ford had an early plant here. The American company Westinghouse had a huge plant here, making turbines and generators as Metropolitan Vickers. A large flour mill still operates on the north bank.
Many of the plant sites are closed or derelict now. There isn't nearly the intensity of heavy industry here as there once was; by the 1960s, the area was in steep decline. You can see some of these vast factory sites on Google Satellite.
See for instance http://tinyurl.com/yuefjz, where the rash of red and blue dots at top center, just south of where the upper Mersey flows into the canal, is a zillion cars being shipped (zoom in to see them -- is your Nissan here?).
Or http://tinyurl.com/3yu28l, where you can make out the church built in the middle of the Runcorn industrial estate, surrounded by miles of tarmac, for the use of the dockworkers.
At Runcorn is another engineering wonder: the Runcorn Railway Bridge, across the ship canal and the Mersey, built in 1868 by William Baker for the London and North Western Railway. Its beautiful wrought-iron box girder span was once the world's longest of its type. The road bridge next to it was built in 1961 and replaces a transporter bridge -- a movable section of roadway that was carried back and forth across the canal and river by cables. Sadly it is gone, but the light green arch of the newer bridge is impossibly graceful against the sky.
Widnes was once the center of Britain's chemical industry, and while that industry is mostly gone, its poisonous legacy remains. However, remediation of some of the sites of soap works, salt mines, and United Alkali has resulted in the reclamation of a surprisingly beautiful wildlife reserve area.
The Mersey at this point and beyond is a vast tidal mud flat, almost impossible to navigate, and separated from the ship canal by a simple wall. Locks at Runcorn are disused now. The River Weaver enters, and you pass scenes of sheep grazing on the grass of the tidal flats, and then you pass the mind-boggling works of Ellesmere Port. Most prominent are Shell Oil's Stanlow refinery, of 1,900 acres, a former ICI plant, and a large Vauxhall factory, still in operation though much reduced from its peak utilization. Stanlow seen from the canal is unlike anything visible from the roadway (or anyplace else): the tanks and color-coded pipelines seemingly go on forever.
At the end of the trip, coming up towards Birkenhead, we entered the Queen Elizabeth docks, having some company for a change -- a large merchant vessel coming the other way. Watching the captain put this craft into the lock, a few bare inches to spare on either side, was very impressive, especially if you're as poor a car parker as I am.
After we pass this last lock into the open Mersey, we circled past the booming construction site formerly known as "Liverpool". The view of the Anglican Cathedral, Britain's largest, has partly been wrecked by a vast new glass arena which looks like a pair of dragonfly wings. In the center of town there is a forest of cranes, and a number of new glass boxes have sprouted up just north of the Three Graces -- the famous trio of office buildings that have signaled the commercial power of this city for the past century or so: the Dock Offices, the Cunard Building, and the Royal Liver Insurance building with its brace of liver birds surveying the scene.
Liverpool is another chapter on another day; this afternoon we only had time to walk around the commercial center and grab a quick pint at Liverpool's oldest pub, Ye Hole in Ye Wall (and please don't pronounce "ye" as "yee" -- it's pronounced "the" -- that's not really a "y", it's a thorn, an old English letter no longer used except as here).
I did get to admire again my favorite Liverpool building, Oriel Chambers, built in 1864 by Peter Ellis. It is startlingly modern, looking more like a building from the 1920s in Chicago or New York, with a facade almost entirely of glass, with gorgeous oriel windows with the thinnest frames ever seen til then, of stone dressed to look like iron. It was hated at the time for its lack of Gothic or Classical ornamentation, and Ellis only ever received one other commission, but today it is strikingly beautiful in a completely modern way.
We took the bus back to Manchester, getting a fine view of the motorway, and ate a rather bizarre Indian (actually Pakistani or Bangladeshi, as most "Indian" restaurants in Britain are) meal, at a place with a wall-sized menu but only two dishes actually available -- chicken or lamb?
Next: Full English Breakfast
The Manchester Ship Canal
After the Liverpool and Manchester Railway opened for business in 1830, the cotton merchants of Manchester had an easy way to get the cotton to their mills from the ships that brought it from America, Egypt, and India. Before that, they had to send the loads on the long, slow canal journey up the treacherous Mersey to the Bridgewater Canal, on small narrowboats. But the railway had two problems: you had to pay the railway company, and you had to pay the docks. Liverpool's dock system was the first, and biggest, in the world, but Manchester didn't like paying them.
In 1894, they opened a solution: the Manchester Ship Canal, a wide, high-capacity direct waterway, 36 miles long, from Eastham Lock on the Wirral side of the Mersey, paralleling the dangerous, unpredictably silty Mersey, and avoiding the Liverpool docks altogether. The ocean-going vessels didn't need to be unloaded at all, until they got to Salford Quays in Greater Manchester. A whole host of industry sprang up along the canal, including petroleum refining, chemical works, and automobile shipping.
Today, the cotton business is long gone, as are most of the other industrial uses, but Mersey Ferries runs a boat up and down the canal on one of the most interesting tours I've ever been on.
We started at Salford Quays in the morning. Salford is a separate municipal body from the Manchester, but the two cities are contiguous. The only difference you notice as you approach the Quays on the tram is the sudden appearance of loads of "Kill Gill" and "Glazer Out" graffiti put up by disaffected Manchester United fans who are unhappy that their precious football club is now owned by an American, Malcolm Glazer (Gill is the club's finance director). Soon we see the frightening hulk of Old Trafford, their glitzy stadium, on the far side of the quay, and queue up next to MV Royal Daffodil, one of the famous Ferries Cross the Mersey, pressed today into special duty on the canal here at Liverpool's great commercial rival.
The crowd here is quite different than we've seen elsewhere heretofore in England. They are older, mostly in their sixties, and I am not the only one clutching a fancy camera and pile of OS maps. Some are just out for a nice day on the water, but there are quite a few trainspottery types as well, nice, intelligent, attractive folks with a keen interest in industrial heritage, like me. The cruise is so popular they've had to put on extra sailings. I'm right at home here!
The canal is almost empty today, and most days. It is wholly owned by the Manchester Ship Canal Company, and is considered in its entirety to be an extension of Manchester docks. Special permission is required for entry, so you don't get many pleasure boats the way you do on the narrow canals operated by British Waterways. While the canal is not very important for shipping anymore, modern ships having long since outgrown it, it is still a working waterway and thus difficult for pleasure boats.
Almost immediately out of Salford, we begin passing major engineering landmarks. The Centenary Lift Bridge was built in 1995. After it is the famous pair of swing bridges at Barton: the Barton Swing Bridge, carrying the road, and the incredible Barton Swing Aqueduct, which carries the Bridgewater Canal over the MSC. This is a rotating trough that swings the water of the canal around a central pivot to allow ships to pass. It replaces an earlier fixed aqueduct by James Bridley that carried the Bridgewater over this stretch of the River Irwell. You can still see the remains of the earlier aqueduct's supports. The swinging trough carries 800 tons of water. Seeing this marvel was so exciting for Mrs. Fnarf that she was moved to say "yes, dear, that's nice" over her cup of tea. For my part, I was nearly hopping out of my shoes to finally see this beautiful work of Victorian ingenuity.
There are several other swing bridges along the route. It never ceases to amaze me how such a huge lump of metal can pivot so effortlessly around.
At Barton there is also the first of several locks on the canal, which drop us down towards sea level by the time we enter the Mersey at the far end. These are significantly larger and more complicated than the hand-operated ones you see on narrowboat canals.
In addition to industrial views, much of the canal passes through pleasant green English countryside. At first you can see remnants of the old brick and stone walls of Trafford Park, the estate of the original landowner here, whose holdings long predate the canal. Commentary was provided along the route, much of which was rather amusingly vague: "on your left you can see a great deal of greenery" and "as you can see the canal is very popular with a variety of birds; several kinds of birds are visible to your right". Still, I give the woman credit for being able to talk almost nonstop for six hours; that's an iron set of pipes for sure!
All along the canal you can see remnants of Britain's industrial past: docks and piers. At one point there is a huge metal recycling facility, with a mountain of rusting steel and iron being cut up and loaded into rail cars. Other spots feature vast tank farms holding petroleum or other chemicals. Ford had an early plant here. The American company Westinghouse had a huge plant here, making turbines and generators as Metropolitan Vickers. A large flour mill still operates on the north bank.
Many of the plant sites are closed or derelict now. There isn't nearly the intensity of heavy industry here as there once was; by the 1960s, the area was in steep decline. You can see some of these vast factory sites on Google Satellite.
See for instance http://tinyurl.com/yuefjz, where the rash of red and blue dots at top center, just south of where the upper Mersey flows into the canal, is a zillion cars being shipped (zoom in to see them -- is your Nissan here?).
Or http://tinyurl.com/3yu28l, where you can make out the church built in the middle of the Runcorn industrial estate, surrounded by miles of tarmac, for the use of the dockworkers.
At Runcorn is another engineering wonder: the Runcorn Railway Bridge, across the ship canal and the Mersey, built in 1868 by William Baker for the London and North Western Railway. Its beautiful wrought-iron box girder span was once the world's longest of its type. The road bridge next to it was built in 1961 and replaces a transporter bridge -- a movable section of roadway that was carried back and forth across the canal and river by cables. Sadly it is gone, but the light green arch of the newer bridge is impossibly graceful against the sky.
Widnes was once the center of Britain's chemical industry, and while that industry is mostly gone, its poisonous legacy remains. However, remediation of some of the sites of soap works, salt mines, and United Alkali has resulted in the reclamation of a surprisingly beautiful wildlife reserve area.
The Mersey at this point and beyond is a vast tidal mud flat, almost impossible to navigate, and separated from the ship canal by a simple wall. Locks at Runcorn are disused now. The River Weaver enters, and you pass scenes of sheep grazing on the grass of the tidal flats, and then you pass the mind-boggling works of Ellesmere Port. Most prominent are Shell Oil's Stanlow refinery, of 1,900 acres, a former ICI plant, and a large Vauxhall factory, still in operation though much reduced from its peak utilization. Stanlow seen from the canal is unlike anything visible from the roadway (or anyplace else): the tanks and color-coded pipelines seemingly go on forever.
At the end of the trip, coming up towards Birkenhead, we entered the Queen Elizabeth docks, having some company for a change -- a large merchant vessel coming the other way. Watching the captain put this craft into the lock, a few bare inches to spare on either side, was very impressive, especially if you're as poor a car parker as I am.
After we pass this last lock into the open Mersey, we circled past the booming construction site formerly known as "Liverpool". The view of the Anglican Cathedral, Britain's largest, has partly been wrecked by a vast new glass arena which looks like a pair of dragonfly wings. In the center of town there is a forest of cranes, and a number of new glass boxes have sprouted up just north of the Three Graces -- the famous trio of office buildings that have signaled the commercial power of this city for the past century or so: the Dock Offices, the Cunard Building, and the Royal Liver Insurance building with its brace of liver birds surveying the scene.
Liverpool is another chapter on another day; this afternoon we only had time to walk around the commercial center and grab a quick pint at Liverpool's oldest pub, Ye Hole in Ye Wall (and please don't pronounce "ye" as "yee" -- it's pronounced "the" -- that's not really a "y", it's a thorn, an old English letter no longer used except as here).
I did get to admire again my favorite Liverpool building, Oriel Chambers, built in 1864 by Peter Ellis. It is startlingly modern, looking more like a building from the 1920s in Chicago or New York, with a facade almost entirely of glass, with gorgeous oriel windows with the thinnest frames ever seen til then, of stone dressed to look like iron. It was hated at the time for its lack of Gothic or Classical ornamentation, and Ellis only ever received one other commission, but today it is strikingly beautiful in a completely modern way.
We took the bus back to Manchester, getting a fine view of the motorway, and ate a rather bizarre Indian (actually Pakistani or Bangladeshi, as most "Indian" restaurants in Britain are) meal, at a place with a wall-sized menu but only two dishes actually available -- chicken or lamb?
Next: Full English Breakfast
Not Grim Up North, Part 1: Manchester
[[Originally posted on http://www.fodors.com/forums/threadselect.jsp?fid=2&tid=35079360]
This was an odd trip, just the way we like them, and this will be an odd trip report. I will not be boring you will mundane details about how much that muffin cost in four currencies, or any of that mundane crap. I have far more mundane stories to relate, from Manchester, Blackpool, York, Scarborough, Liverpool, Belfast, and finally Dublin, Republic of Ireland (we had never been to Ireland, and we still haven't, really, what with two days in the capital, but it seemed wrong to travel all that way and not add any new countries to our life list, so Dublin it was).
I have a tragic, crippling interest in industrial heritage: trains, bridges, steam engines, brick warehouses, mills, docks, ships, oil depots and chemical works. My wife has an interest in things that aren't there any more, like shuttered shops. We both have a rare form of the Anglophilia disease; neither of us is interested in Princess Di or palaces or stately homes or gents in red coats and big black furry hats. We like caffs that haven't changed since 1963 and tacky postcards and railway station newsagents and clocks that don't tell the right time and dirty streets and rain. We both enjoy some of the saddest and unloveliest things about Britain the best. We'd rather eat fish and chips than braised medallions of artichokes in a bed of raspberry rocket or whatever. We both like the North.
First stop was Manchester, after a change in Heathrow.
One of our female BA flight attendants provided us with a classic reintroduction to Britain by delivering a blistering tearful attack on her suddenly-ex-boyfriend via cell phone mere yards from baggage claim. "You bastard, you absolute #$%^&* bastard! You're a nasty piece of work, aren't you? I want you out of my flat tonight! #$%^&*$% $%^&#$%^ $%^&!"
I have never seen a group of passengers showing a keener interest in the still motionless carousel, rapt and silent we stared, pretending we couldn't hear. "Oooh, now you're just trying to hurt me, aren't you? @#$ $%^ %^&%^&! Get out of my flat!"
The poor dear was a very attractive young woman, hardly English-looking at all, and I'm sure she will have happier romantic entanglements in the future. Perhaps future Fodor travelers will keep us posted on her progress?
Our hotel was actually an apartment, in the newly-trendy Northern Quarter, and was much larger than we had booked -- two bedrooms, two baths, and a kitchen, and in classic English fashion a total of EIGHT doors, all on springs. I staved off claustrophobia and drawing room comedy with a few improvised doorstops made out of kitchen utensils, and we set off in search of dinner. Being confused and disoriented and jet-lagged, we ended up with the classic British solution: microwaved takeaways back at the room in front of the TV, with a couple of cans of beer.
It's good to get caught up on what's happening in the world of English TV. That turned out to be ALL MADDY, ALL Of THE TIME, throughout our entire stay. Did the mother do it? Look at those guilty, guilty lips! Was the body incinerated in the pet cemetery? Is this the missing girl in this blurry photo from 1932? What is the gardener hiding under that bushel? I don't mean to make light of others' tragedy, but Britain leads the world in trash-TV (and trash newspaper) coverage of scandals and calamity.
Another example: one of the papers covered their front page with closeup photos of Amy Winehouse's enormous infected scab. The others were mostly covered with semi-naked women -- they used to be on Page Three; now they're on the cover. And if you think the pictures are bad, you should try the rabid right-wing opinions in the text! "You'll never see a nipple in the Daily Express", quoth John Cooper Clarke (1980s Mancunian, actually Salfordian, punk poet), and you'll never hear a nice word about Poles, either.
The next day was walking day. I loaded myself up with stupid amounts of camera gear, and we set out.
Manchester is a city in transition. Like most of her Northern industrial sisters, she survived hard times in the seventies and eighties as her traditional smokestack industries died out. Manchester was a city of mills, and in the heyday of the cotton trade was one of the most vigorous and vital cities in the world. But the cotton business went away, and what the Luftwaffe wasn't able to bomb the council did, and a generation of unemployed grew up in some of the grimmest tower blocks this side of Uzhbekistan. Manchester was one of the toughest cities in the world.
But a funny thing happened in the abandoned mills and rotting canalside strips filled with garbage: a bit of a cultural renaissance started in the 1980s, and by the early 1990s "Madchester" was in some ways the pop music center of Britain.
The empty warehouses were filled by famous nightclubs, including the legendary Hacienda, and after an IRA bomb cleared out a big section of the central shopping district in 1996, the city started to become fashionable again. Certainly London had nothing to compare with Manchester's pop roster -- Buzzcocks, Joy Division, New Order, The Smiths, Happy Mondays, Stone Roses, Oasis. The worst of the sixties and seventies blocks were cleared away, and the soot cleaned off the old mills, and a thriving gay community turned a stinking canalside street into a row of hip restaurants and clubs. Euro money poured in, especially after Manchester was granted the 2002 Commonwealth Games, and a bunch of new glass towers went up in the center, including museums and posh hotels.
We didn't see much of that; sorry, not interested in glass towers or posh hotels. We did go in Urbis, a big glass wedge of an avant-garde urban museum, but we were there to see the fascinating Factory Records exhibit. Factory main man, con artist, rebel genius and genuinely Great Briton Tony Wilson had just died of cancer before we got there, so the exhibit had the character of a memorial about it. I never had much use for acid house or baggy or Madchester, and the only "E" I'm interested in is on this keyboard, but the Hacienda was a pretty interesting place, and the collection (much of it from New Order bassist Peter Hook) is vast. I've always enjoyed the kind of museum that finds the sense of life in ordinary detritus like crumpled matchbooks and so on.
The Castlefield district is where several canals and railways converge, including the world's first of each (depending on how you account for such things; the Bridgewater Canal, dating from 1761, and the Liverpool and Manchester Railway, from 1830, both terminate here. The area has one of the world's highest concentrations of old red brick mills, warehouses, bridges, viaducts, boat basins and stations.
The LMR, the first railway in the world with regular freight and passenger service with locomotive traction the entire way, originally terminated here, in what is now part of the Museum of Science and Industry complex. Much of the museum is rather dated-looking "interactive" stuff designed to excite children (but usually boring them instead), but there is an impressive collection of the big textile machines that made the modern world originate here: spinning jennies, spinning mules, jacquard looms (the first programmable, stored-instruction "computers", really, dating from 1801).
In the Power Hall, a range of steam engines from early Newcomen engines built to pump water out of coal mines, through the enormous power-generating turbines, along with a number of important landmarks in railway locomotives are here. I was in heaven. Mrs. Fnarf was, however, able to contain her excitement, and spent most of the time sitting on a genuine LMC bench waiting for her husband to get tired of going "ooh! Ooh! Look at the flywheel on that one!"
Underneath the complex, you can tour one of the oddest museum experiences I've had -- traces of Manchester's original sewer system, complete with piped-in flushing water noises. Made me want to pee. Some of the exhibits were inadvertently more exhibits of ridiculous museum display techniques -- bad mannequins and so on -- than of the thing they were supposedly teaching you about. I'm sure it was cutting-edge pedagogical style a few years ago. I loved every tasteless cheesy moment of it.
Downtown, the fabulous Arndale Centre shopping mall, widely derided as the world's ugliest, and often likened to a toilet (it is or was made of millions of yellow glazed tiles), has been largely redone in the wake of the 1996 bomb, which destroyed half of it. Truly, the best revenge on the evil dreams of the IRA was when their idiotic bomb, which injured 200 people, became the impetus for a downtown revitalization. Of course, being perverse, we liked the toilet tiles better, and our favorite buildings downtown are not the new glass boxes, or the Victorian red-brick-porn of the Town Hall and its like, but the sixties aluminum-and-colored-panel towers like the stunning Manchester House, and the CIS tower.
The Hacienda nightclub was razed and rebuilt as a block of fancy apartments called The Hacienda, which is both funny and tragic. When the club was first sited there, the neighborhood was an abyss of crime and garbage, with the Rochdale Canal half-dry and filled with shopping trolleys, burnt-out cars, and the corpses of junkies. They took the space because no one else wanted it. Now, it's a fashionable district, and the canal has water and restored pleasure-cruising narrowboats in it.
In front of the posh new apartments was a makeshift tribute to the man who made the club and who made Manchester spring to life: Tony Wilson, who died days before. It was an odd tribute, in a corner that bore no traces of his time there, but it was sweet to see. Tony was a bit of a charlatan, but Factory Records was the real punk rock ideal -- there were never any contracts with the artists -- and he was a true creative risk-taker, and embodied a kind of wild Northern devil-may-care attitude that Manchester is rightly proud of.
Not far from there is Manchester's loveliest pub, Peveril of the Peaks, a glazed-tile chocolate box of a place bursting with flowerboxes, Art Nouveau swirls, and Victorian charm. Built in 1840, but obviously redesigned much later, it is surrounded now by traffic and office towers. Inside lies England's greatest treasure: real ale. Manchester, doesn't seem to have that many great pubs, unlike Liverpool, which has three spectacular pubs on every corner, each more fabulous than the last. Manchester's pubs are intimidating and seem closed off to the street; but not this one. It's the prettiest pub I've ever been in. And the beer is delicious.
I don't normally drink beer; I don't like most American beer, even the craft brews. There's something about American hops I don't like (and my favorite English beer is Mild). But in England, I drink the beer, and wish I could drink more, but when you're walking around a city, and you have a bladder that holds about a tablespoon, it's a problem. Drinking beer means keeping a toilet close by; every pint means three trips for me. And of course, the best place to find a toilet in a strange city is another pub; and it's rude to use the Gents without buying something, so now I'm sitting there with another pint, and another three trips soon to follow... this makes walking tours difficult. It also makes motor control difficult at an embarrassingly early time of day, and causes Mrs. Fnarf to make disapproving faces and noises. Trust me, this is not something you ever want to see.
There are still pockets of hulking mills complete with a few of the smokestacks that once filled the view in the paintings of L.S. Lowry and the poetry of William Blake, the places where a new Jerusalem was builded. They've been quiet for decades, and their facades cleaned, but their size and heavy repetitive brick presence still has power. The Cambridge Street Mills, just south of the city center, and the massive, stunning blocks along Redhill Street in Ancoats still testify to the industrial might of the world's first industrial society. Ancoats is a fascinating place; half-crumbling, with massive blocks of brick leading on to entire blocks of rubble, boarded-up pubs, and scary-looking housing estates.
In this district, while photographing the old fire station on Goulding Street, built in 1870 and largely destroyed by fire inside in 2002, I was approached by a rather threatening looking fellow. He turned out to be the owner, and was not happy about me taking pictures. I think he thought I was from the council, or some developer, and had some nefarious motive in mind. Once I had convinced him I was just a dumb tourist from America, he changed his tune and was very friendly and shook my hand vigorously. I get the impression that every Brit has recently been to Vancouver, BC, so they know where Seattle is. I couldn't testify to the full text of what he said to me, as Mancunian is almost impenetrable speech to me -- Mancs sound a bit like barking dogs to me, with some of the same vowels but none of the lilt of the Liverpudlians a mere thirty miles away.
Near the fire station is my favorite street in Manchester, Anita Street. This street began its life as the first council row in the world with running water and sewer in every house, as Britain's cities recoiled from the horrors of the early eighteenth-century slums, with their cholera-infested tiny back-to-back houses in closed courts with sewage running through them. Anita Street was a named Sanitary Street to mark a new era of housing, but the residents didn't care for the social laboratory implications of that name and blacked out the "S" and the "ry", and the new name stuck. It's still council housing today, some of the prettiest, if quite modest, you'll find.
That night, we met some people we knew, a charming couple of transsexuals who took us to Canal Street, in the gay area, where we drank rosé and ate delicious food in the late sunshine of the nicest night of the summer, possibly the ONLY nice night of this summer. The light on the canal, the sparkle of the wine, the sunset, the pretty people strolling arm in arm -- this was a far cry from the Manchester of the Industrial Revolution, or Morrissey, for that matter!
Afterwards, they took us to see the statue of Alan Turing, one of Britain's greatest, and saddest, heroes. Turing was the math genius who laid the foundations for the invention of the computer, and during WWII he ran the unit at Bletchley Park that cracked the Enigma code that allowed the Allies to read all of the encrypted Nazi communications. You could say he won the war for us. His reward was a criminal conviction for homosexuality, and a crude chemical castration with injections of hormones to "cure" him, which drove him to suicide. He ate a poisoned apple, and his likeness in bronze is posed in a Manchester park, seated on a bench, with an apple in his hand. A simple and moving tribute to a brilliant man, horribly abused by the country he helped save.
Next: Manchester Ship Canal
This was an odd trip, just the way we like them, and this will be an odd trip report. I will not be boring you will mundane details about how much that muffin cost in four currencies, or any of that mundane crap. I have far more mundane stories to relate, from Manchester, Blackpool, York, Scarborough, Liverpool, Belfast, and finally Dublin, Republic of Ireland (we had never been to Ireland, and we still haven't, really, what with two days in the capital, but it seemed wrong to travel all that way and not add any new countries to our life list, so Dublin it was).
I have a tragic, crippling interest in industrial heritage: trains, bridges, steam engines, brick warehouses, mills, docks, ships, oil depots and chemical works. My wife has an interest in things that aren't there any more, like shuttered shops. We both have a rare form of the Anglophilia disease; neither of us is interested in Princess Di or palaces or stately homes or gents in red coats and big black furry hats. We like caffs that haven't changed since 1963 and tacky postcards and railway station newsagents and clocks that don't tell the right time and dirty streets and rain. We both enjoy some of the saddest and unloveliest things about Britain the best. We'd rather eat fish and chips than braised medallions of artichokes in a bed of raspberry rocket or whatever. We both like the North.
First stop was Manchester, after a change in Heathrow.
One of our female BA flight attendants provided us with a classic reintroduction to Britain by delivering a blistering tearful attack on her suddenly-ex-boyfriend via cell phone mere yards from baggage claim. "You bastard, you absolute #$%^&* bastard! You're a nasty piece of work, aren't you? I want you out of my flat tonight! #$%^&*$% $%^&#$%^ $%^&!"
I have never seen a group of passengers showing a keener interest in the still motionless carousel, rapt and silent we stared, pretending we couldn't hear. "Oooh, now you're just trying to hurt me, aren't you? @#$ $%^ %^&%^&! Get out of my flat!"
The poor dear was a very attractive young woman, hardly English-looking at all, and I'm sure she will have happier romantic entanglements in the future. Perhaps future Fodor travelers will keep us posted on her progress?
Our hotel was actually an apartment, in the newly-trendy Northern Quarter, and was much larger than we had booked -- two bedrooms, two baths, and a kitchen, and in classic English fashion a total of EIGHT doors, all on springs. I staved off claustrophobia and drawing room comedy with a few improvised doorstops made out of kitchen utensils, and we set off in search of dinner. Being confused and disoriented and jet-lagged, we ended up with the classic British solution: microwaved takeaways back at the room in front of the TV, with a couple of cans of beer.
It's good to get caught up on what's happening in the world of English TV. That turned out to be ALL MADDY, ALL Of THE TIME, throughout our entire stay. Did the mother do it? Look at those guilty, guilty lips! Was the body incinerated in the pet cemetery? Is this the missing girl in this blurry photo from 1932? What is the gardener hiding under that bushel? I don't mean to make light of others' tragedy, but Britain leads the world in trash-TV (and trash newspaper) coverage of scandals and calamity.
Another example: one of the papers covered their front page with closeup photos of Amy Winehouse's enormous infected scab. The others were mostly covered with semi-naked women -- they used to be on Page Three; now they're on the cover. And if you think the pictures are bad, you should try the rabid right-wing opinions in the text! "You'll never see a nipple in the Daily Express", quoth John Cooper Clarke (1980s Mancunian, actually Salfordian, punk poet), and you'll never hear a nice word about Poles, either.
The next day was walking day. I loaded myself up with stupid amounts of camera gear, and we set out.
Manchester is a city in transition. Like most of her Northern industrial sisters, she survived hard times in the seventies and eighties as her traditional smokestack industries died out. Manchester was a city of mills, and in the heyday of the cotton trade was one of the most vigorous and vital cities in the world. But the cotton business went away, and what the Luftwaffe wasn't able to bomb the council did, and a generation of unemployed grew up in some of the grimmest tower blocks this side of Uzhbekistan. Manchester was one of the toughest cities in the world.
But a funny thing happened in the abandoned mills and rotting canalside strips filled with garbage: a bit of a cultural renaissance started in the 1980s, and by the early 1990s "Madchester" was in some ways the pop music center of Britain.
The empty warehouses were filled by famous nightclubs, including the legendary Hacienda, and after an IRA bomb cleared out a big section of the central shopping district in 1996, the city started to become fashionable again. Certainly London had nothing to compare with Manchester's pop roster -- Buzzcocks, Joy Division, New Order, The Smiths, Happy Mondays, Stone Roses, Oasis. The worst of the sixties and seventies blocks were cleared away, and the soot cleaned off the old mills, and a thriving gay community turned a stinking canalside street into a row of hip restaurants and clubs. Euro money poured in, especially after Manchester was granted the 2002 Commonwealth Games, and a bunch of new glass towers went up in the center, including museums and posh hotels.
We didn't see much of that; sorry, not interested in glass towers or posh hotels. We did go in Urbis, a big glass wedge of an avant-garde urban museum, but we were there to see the fascinating Factory Records exhibit. Factory main man, con artist, rebel genius and genuinely Great Briton Tony Wilson had just died of cancer before we got there, so the exhibit had the character of a memorial about it. I never had much use for acid house or baggy or Madchester, and the only "E" I'm interested in is on this keyboard, but the Hacienda was a pretty interesting place, and the collection (much of it from New Order bassist Peter Hook) is vast. I've always enjoyed the kind of museum that finds the sense of life in ordinary detritus like crumpled matchbooks and so on.
The Castlefield district is where several canals and railways converge, including the world's first of each (depending on how you account for such things; the Bridgewater Canal, dating from 1761, and the Liverpool and Manchester Railway, from 1830, both terminate here. The area has one of the world's highest concentrations of old red brick mills, warehouses, bridges, viaducts, boat basins and stations.
The LMR, the first railway in the world with regular freight and passenger service with locomotive traction the entire way, originally terminated here, in what is now part of the Museum of Science and Industry complex. Much of the museum is rather dated-looking "interactive" stuff designed to excite children (but usually boring them instead), but there is an impressive collection of the big textile machines that made the modern world originate here: spinning jennies, spinning mules, jacquard looms (the first programmable, stored-instruction "computers", really, dating from 1801).
In the Power Hall, a range of steam engines from early Newcomen engines built to pump water out of coal mines, through the enormous power-generating turbines, along with a number of important landmarks in railway locomotives are here. I was in heaven. Mrs. Fnarf was, however, able to contain her excitement, and spent most of the time sitting on a genuine LMC bench waiting for her husband to get tired of going "ooh! Ooh! Look at the flywheel on that one!"
Underneath the complex, you can tour one of the oddest museum experiences I've had -- traces of Manchester's original sewer system, complete with piped-in flushing water noises. Made me want to pee. Some of the exhibits were inadvertently more exhibits of ridiculous museum display techniques -- bad mannequins and so on -- than of the thing they were supposedly teaching you about. I'm sure it was cutting-edge pedagogical style a few years ago. I loved every tasteless cheesy moment of it.
Downtown, the fabulous Arndale Centre shopping mall, widely derided as the world's ugliest, and often likened to a toilet (it is or was made of millions of yellow glazed tiles), has been largely redone in the wake of the 1996 bomb, which destroyed half of it. Truly, the best revenge on the evil dreams of the IRA was when their idiotic bomb, which injured 200 people, became the impetus for a downtown revitalization. Of course, being perverse, we liked the toilet tiles better, and our favorite buildings downtown are not the new glass boxes, or the Victorian red-brick-porn of the Town Hall and its like, but the sixties aluminum-and-colored-panel towers like the stunning Manchester House, and the CIS tower.
The Hacienda nightclub was razed and rebuilt as a block of fancy apartments called The Hacienda, which is both funny and tragic. When the club was first sited there, the neighborhood was an abyss of crime and garbage, with the Rochdale Canal half-dry and filled with shopping trolleys, burnt-out cars, and the corpses of junkies. They took the space because no one else wanted it. Now, it's a fashionable district, and the canal has water and restored pleasure-cruising narrowboats in it.
In front of the posh new apartments was a makeshift tribute to the man who made the club and who made Manchester spring to life: Tony Wilson, who died days before. It was an odd tribute, in a corner that bore no traces of his time there, but it was sweet to see. Tony was a bit of a charlatan, but Factory Records was the real punk rock ideal -- there were never any contracts with the artists -- and he was a true creative risk-taker, and embodied a kind of wild Northern devil-may-care attitude that Manchester is rightly proud of.
Not far from there is Manchester's loveliest pub, Peveril of the Peaks, a glazed-tile chocolate box of a place bursting with flowerboxes, Art Nouveau swirls, and Victorian charm. Built in 1840, but obviously redesigned much later, it is surrounded now by traffic and office towers. Inside lies England's greatest treasure: real ale. Manchester, doesn't seem to have that many great pubs, unlike Liverpool, which has three spectacular pubs on every corner, each more fabulous than the last. Manchester's pubs are intimidating and seem closed off to the street; but not this one. It's the prettiest pub I've ever been in. And the beer is delicious.
I don't normally drink beer; I don't like most American beer, even the craft brews. There's something about American hops I don't like (and my favorite English beer is Mild). But in England, I drink the beer, and wish I could drink more, but when you're walking around a city, and you have a bladder that holds about a tablespoon, it's a problem. Drinking beer means keeping a toilet close by; every pint means three trips for me. And of course, the best place to find a toilet in a strange city is another pub; and it's rude to use the Gents without buying something, so now I'm sitting there with another pint, and another three trips soon to follow... this makes walking tours difficult. It also makes motor control difficult at an embarrassingly early time of day, and causes Mrs. Fnarf to make disapproving faces and noises. Trust me, this is not something you ever want to see.
There are still pockets of hulking mills complete with a few of the smokestacks that once filled the view in the paintings of L.S. Lowry and the poetry of William Blake, the places where a new Jerusalem was builded. They've been quiet for decades, and their facades cleaned, but their size and heavy repetitive brick presence still has power. The Cambridge Street Mills, just south of the city center, and the massive, stunning blocks along Redhill Street in Ancoats still testify to the industrial might of the world's first industrial society. Ancoats is a fascinating place; half-crumbling, with massive blocks of brick leading on to entire blocks of rubble, boarded-up pubs, and scary-looking housing estates.
In this district, while photographing the old fire station on Goulding Street, built in 1870 and largely destroyed by fire inside in 2002, I was approached by a rather threatening looking fellow. He turned out to be the owner, and was not happy about me taking pictures. I think he thought I was from the council, or some developer, and had some nefarious motive in mind. Once I had convinced him I was just a dumb tourist from America, he changed his tune and was very friendly and shook my hand vigorously. I get the impression that every Brit has recently been to Vancouver, BC, so they know where Seattle is. I couldn't testify to the full text of what he said to me, as Mancunian is almost impenetrable speech to me -- Mancs sound a bit like barking dogs to me, with some of the same vowels but none of the lilt of the Liverpudlians a mere thirty miles away.
Near the fire station is my favorite street in Manchester, Anita Street. This street began its life as the first council row in the world with running water and sewer in every house, as Britain's cities recoiled from the horrors of the early eighteenth-century slums, with their cholera-infested tiny back-to-back houses in closed courts with sewage running through them. Anita Street was a named Sanitary Street to mark a new era of housing, but the residents didn't care for the social laboratory implications of that name and blacked out the "S" and the "ry", and the new name stuck. It's still council housing today, some of the prettiest, if quite modest, you'll find.
That night, we met some people we knew, a charming couple of transsexuals who took us to Canal Street, in the gay area, where we drank rosé and ate delicious food in the late sunshine of the nicest night of the summer, possibly the ONLY nice night of this summer. The light on the canal, the sparkle of the wine, the sunset, the pretty people strolling arm in arm -- this was a far cry from the Manchester of the Industrial Revolution, or Morrissey, for that matter!
Afterwards, they took us to see the statue of Alan Turing, one of Britain's greatest, and saddest, heroes. Turing was the math genius who laid the foundations for the invention of the computer, and during WWII he ran the unit at Bletchley Park that cracked the Enigma code that allowed the Allies to read all of the encrypted Nazi communications. You could say he won the war for us. His reward was a criminal conviction for homosexuality, and a crude chemical castration with injections of hormones to "cure" him, which drove him to suicide. He ate a poisoned apple, and his likeness in bronze is posed in a Manchester park, seated on a bench, with an apple in his hand. A simple and moving tribute to a brilliant man, horribly abused by the country he helped save.
Next: Manchester Ship Canal
Monday, February 26, 2007
More book list:
- Brian Bracegirdle. The Industrial Archaeology of the Industrial Revolution. Rutherford, New Jersey: Fairleigh Dickinson University Press, 1973.
- Brian Bracegirdle and P.H. Miles. Thomas Telford. Newton Abbot: David and Charles, 1973.
- O. Ashmore. Industrial Architecture of Lancashire. Newton Abbot: David and Charles, 1969.
- T.S. Ashton. Iron and Steel in the Industrial Revolution. Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1924, 1963.
- Anthony Bird. Roads and Vehicles. London: Longmans, 1969.
- James Bird. The Major Seaports of the United Kingdom. London: Hutchinson, 1963.
- S.D. Chapman. The Early Factory Masters. Newton Abbot: David and Charles, 1967.
- S.D. Chapman and J.D. Chambers. The Beginnings of Industrial Britain. London: University Tutorial Press, 1970.
- John Copeland. Roads and Their Traffic 1750-1850. Newton Abbot: David and Charles, 1968.
- L.A. Edwards. The Inland Waterways of Great Britain and Ireland. London: Imray, 1962.
- W.K.V. Gale. Industrial Archaeology, Vol. 2: Iron and Steel. London: Longmans, 1969.
- C. Hadfield. The Canal Age. Newton Abbot: David and Charles, 1968.
- W.G. Hoskins. Local History in England. London: Longmans, 1959.
- W.T. Jackman. The Development of Transportation in Modern England. London: Frank Cass, 1962.
- M. Lewis. Early Wooden Railways. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1970.
- David Lloyd and Donald Insall. Railway Station Architecture. Newton Abbot: David and Charles, 1968.
- C.F. Dendy Marshall. A History of British Railways down to the Year 1830. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1971.
- B. Morgan. Railway Relics. London: Ian Allen, 1969.
- J.P.M. Pannell. An Illustrated History of Civil Engineering. London: Thames and Hudson, 1964.
- J.P.M. Pannell. The Techniques of Industrial Archaeology. Newton Abbot: David and Charles, 1966.
- J.M. Richards. The Functional Tradition in Early Industrial Buildings. London: Architectural Press, 1958.
- Michael Robbins. Points and Signals: A Railway Historian at Work. London: George Allen and Unwin, 1967.
- L.T.C. Rolt. Inland Waterways of England. London: Allen and Unwin, 1970.
- L.T.C. Rolt. Navigable Waterways. London: Longmans, 1970.
- J. Simmons. The Railways of Britain. London: Macmillan, 1968.
- J. Tann. The Development of the Factory. London: Cornmarket, 1971.
- J.N. Tarn. Working-class Housing in Nineteenth-Century Britain. London: Lund Humphries, 1971.
- T.S. Willan. River Navigation in England 1600-1750. Oxford, 1936. Reprinted London: Cass, 1964.
- Carroll L.V. Meeks. The Railroad Station. New Haven, Connecticut: Yale University Press, 1956.
- Mark Girouard. The English Town: A history of English life. New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1990.
- J. Archer. The Literature of British Domestic Architecture 1715-1842. Cambridge, Massachusetts, 1985.
- P. Borsay. The English Urban Renaissance. Oxford, 1989.
- A. Briggs. Friends of the People: a century history of Lewis's. 1956.
- Briggs. Victorian Cities.
- E. Bryson. 'Owd Yer Tight. Nottingham, 1967.
- J. Burnett. A Social History of Housing. Newton Abbot, 1978.
- D. Cannadine. Lords and Landlords: the aristocracy and the towns 1774-1967. Leicester, 1980.
- D.F. Cheshire. Music Hall in Britain. Newton Abbot, 1974.
- A. Clifton-Taylor. Six English Towns. 1978.
- J.F. Geist. Arcades: the history of a building type. trans. Cambridge, Massachusetts, 1983.
- Mark Girouard et al. The Saving of Spitalfields. 1989.
- Mark Girouard. Victorian Pubs. 1975.
- G. Kitson Clark. The Making of Victorian England. 1962.
- D. Linstrum. Historic Architecture of Leeds. Newcastle upon Tyne, 1969.
- D.W. Lloyd. The Making of English Towns. 1984.
- G.J. Mellor. The Northern Music Hall. Newcastle, 1970.
- E. Midwinter. Old Liverpool. Newton Abbot, 1952.
- S. Muthesius. The English Terraced House. New Haven and London, 1982.
- D. Olsen. The Growth of Victorian London. 1976.
- J. Picton. Memorials of Liverpool. 2 vol. 1875.
- C. Platt. The English Medieval Town. 1976.
- N. Ritchie-Noakes. Liverpool's Historic Waterfront: The world's first mercantile dock system. 1984.
- J.N.Tarn. 5% Philanthropy: An account of houses in urban areas 1840-1914. Cambridge, 1975.
- J.K. Walton. The English Seaside Resort: A social history 1750-1914. Leicester, 1984.
- T.S. Willan. The English Coasting Trade 1600-1750. Manchester, 1938.
- T.S. Willan. River Navigation in England 1600-1750. Oxford, 1936. Reprinted London: Cass, 1964.
- Satanic Mills: Industrial architecture in the Pennines. SAVE Britain's Heritage, c1979.
Tuesday, October 3, 2006
Sunday, June 4, 2006
A real entry?
Yesterday Nancy and I drove across the mountains to Ellensburg and Yakima, in search of beautiful old signs, old cameras, and thrift score action.
Alas, thrift stores even out of the cities are dead as dodos. Miles of unidentifiable broken plastic thingamabobs, hideous pilled lavender flannel, and horrible crap made out of straw. I found a decent Leontyne Price record and some Boring Postcards in a St. Vinnies in Yakima, that's about it.
We did find some cameras in an antique mall in Ellensburg. I bought a Kodak Brownie Starmite II (made from 1962-1967) with flashbulbs, box, and manual, and Nancy got a big old back of expired film, 126 from 1977 and 620 from 1965! Yee haw! We don't know what the hell we're doing but we're having fun. Sending everything of for special processing (your local shop doesn't want to hear about C-22 process film) is going to cost a fortune, but screw it.
The drive was very nice. We bombed straight up the I-90 greenway as far as Cle Elum, admiring the ski slopes where I used to crash 30 years and more ago, and you know, the greenway's pretty. It's one of the nicest stretches of interstate anywhere, even if you know the band of trees is just a screen in front of the clearcuts. At Cle Elum we got off the main highway and rolled through town, a typical mile-wide Western main street, and continued down State Route 10 through the Yakima River valley, way down in it with the river and the railroad, unlike the oblivious freeway way up on the other side. Very beautiful, with nice mostly vertical basalt columns everywhere, and an occasional outcropping of white sandstone. The river was very high, and the mayflies were hatched, and appeared to be evenly divided between the fish in the river and our windshield. A ton of drift boats and waders were out there fishing.
Ellensburg is currently riding out what looks like a slump on the far side of hope. A few years ago they spruced things up, painted some murals, did up their remaining Victorian building stock, and got ready for a cowtown tourist boomlet that never happened. Kind of sad, really; lots of empty storefronts, and some others that looked like they were open only because they couldn't find the keys. We bought a coffee from a hippie, possibly his only retail transaction of the day, and looked sadly around the antique stores. The only things even worth glancing at were "sold". We did find the cameras, which was nice, and they had a nifty linoleum rug -- a six-foot square of backed linoleum that people used to use to cover bare floors. It would look nice in our cabin study but it's not ready yet and it looked like storing it would destroy it.
The drive from Ellensburg to Yakima on Washington 821, through the Yakima Canyon, was even prettier. Here the basalt starts to jut out at crazy angles, sometimes almost horizontal. We zipped through Selah and a little town improbably named "Wenas" -- I'll let you decide how that's pronounced, and how much grief the kids at the junior high get -- and down into sunny Yakima. Yakima also didn't look like the picture of economic health. It looked like they're trying to tear down or remodel all the crappy seventies urban-renewal they did, urban-ruination more like, but it's still not thriving. Not downtown at any rate. We got lost three or four times and ended up in Union Gap, where there's a St. Vincent de Paul, Salvation Army (closed, alas, after five on Saturday), and a terrible, terrible Value Village all right in a row. Slim pickin's.
Homeward bound in the evening, we missed out on famous Yakima taquerias and headed to Mt. Rainier. US 12 to State Route 410, Chinook Pass and Cayuse Pass, over 5,000 feet and surrounded by ten feet of snow on all sides. We were looking right at Rainier but you can't see it because Barrier Peak and a dozen others are all in the way. It's a gorgeous, gorgeous drive, not too hairy unless the scenery draws your eyes off the road. The eastern approach along the Naches River, near Cliffdell, is maybe the prettiest place in the state. You've still got the eastern-slope flora, the Ponderosa pines, mixed in with more and more Doug fir, but it's wet enough to be almost as green as the west side. You drive along the raging river with a dozen cute little bridges crossing over to rows of cabins on the other side. Adorable, and it seems like part of the forest unlike the McMansions that jerks feel obligated to erect nowadays.
On the west side, the pines disappear, the red-cedar and the ferns start appearing, and then you're in King County, Enumclaw, Auburn, city lights and home.
Yesterday Nancy and I drove across the mountains to Ellensburg and Yakima, in search of beautiful old signs, old cameras, and thrift score action.
Alas, thrift stores even out of the cities are dead as dodos. Miles of unidentifiable broken plastic thingamabobs, hideous pilled lavender flannel, and horrible crap made out of straw. I found a decent Leontyne Price record and some Boring Postcards in a St. Vinnies in Yakima, that's about it.
We did find some cameras in an antique mall in Ellensburg. I bought a Kodak Brownie Starmite II (made from 1962-1967) with flashbulbs, box, and manual, and Nancy got a big old back of expired film, 126 from 1977 and 620 from 1965! Yee haw! We don't know what the hell we're doing but we're having fun. Sending everything of for special processing (your local shop doesn't want to hear about C-22 process film) is going to cost a fortune, but screw it.
The drive was very nice. We bombed straight up the I-90 greenway as far as Cle Elum, admiring the ski slopes where I used to crash 30 years and more ago, and you know, the greenway's pretty. It's one of the nicest stretches of interstate anywhere, even if you know the band of trees is just a screen in front of the clearcuts. At Cle Elum we got off the main highway and rolled through town, a typical mile-wide Western main street, and continued down State Route 10 through the Yakima River valley, way down in it with the river and the railroad, unlike the oblivious freeway way up on the other side. Very beautiful, with nice mostly vertical basalt columns everywhere, and an occasional outcropping of white sandstone. The river was very high, and the mayflies were hatched, and appeared to be evenly divided between the fish in the river and our windshield. A ton of drift boats and waders were out there fishing.
Ellensburg is currently riding out what looks like a slump on the far side of hope. A few years ago they spruced things up, painted some murals, did up their remaining Victorian building stock, and got ready for a cowtown tourist boomlet that never happened. Kind of sad, really; lots of empty storefronts, and some others that looked like they were open only because they couldn't find the keys. We bought a coffee from a hippie, possibly his only retail transaction of the day, and looked sadly around the antique stores. The only things even worth glancing at were "sold". We did find the cameras, which was nice, and they had a nifty linoleum rug -- a six-foot square of backed linoleum that people used to use to cover bare floors. It would look nice in our cabin study but it's not ready yet and it looked like storing it would destroy it.
The drive from Ellensburg to Yakima on Washington 821, through the Yakima Canyon, was even prettier. Here the basalt starts to jut out at crazy angles, sometimes almost horizontal. We zipped through Selah and a little town improbably named "Wenas" -- I'll let you decide how that's pronounced, and how much grief the kids at the junior high get -- and down into sunny Yakima. Yakima also didn't look like the picture of economic health. It looked like they're trying to tear down or remodel all the crappy seventies urban-renewal they did, urban-ruination more like, but it's still not thriving. Not downtown at any rate. We got lost three or four times and ended up in Union Gap, where there's a St. Vincent de Paul, Salvation Army (closed, alas, after five on Saturday), and a terrible, terrible Value Village all right in a row. Slim pickin's.
Homeward bound in the evening, we missed out on famous Yakima taquerias and headed to Mt. Rainier. US 12 to State Route 410, Chinook Pass and Cayuse Pass, over 5,000 feet and surrounded by ten feet of snow on all sides. We were looking right at Rainier but you can't see it because Barrier Peak and a dozen others are all in the way. It's a gorgeous, gorgeous drive, not too hairy unless the scenery draws your eyes off the road. The eastern approach along the Naches River, near Cliffdell, is maybe the prettiest place in the state. You've still got the eastern-slope flora, the Ponderosa pines, mixed in with more and more Doug fir, but it's wet enough to be almost as green as the west side. You drive along the raging river with a dozen cute little bridges crossing over to rows of cabins on the other side. Adorable, and it seems like part of the forest unlike the McMansions that jerks feel obligated to erect nowadays.
On the west side, the pines disappear, the red-cedar and the ferns start appearing, and then you're in King County, Enumclaw, Auburn, city lights and home.
Thursday, June 1, 2006
Thursday, February 24, 2005
Where I Went On Holiday - Playa Del Carmen, The End
[Originally posted on http://www.playa.info/playa-del-carmen-forum/12969-where-i-went-holiday-trip-report-4.html]
The End
======
Well, I'm running out of steam here, I can't think of any more stories, at least not interesting ones. We washed our clothes in the sink and dried them on the line, that's not too exciting. We snorkeled at Yal-Ku lagoon near Akumal, that was a load of fun, I must have seen 25 species of fish. My uncontrollable consumerism finally met its match in Cancun airport, where I successfully resisted the temptation to buy a giant black sombrero with silver stitching. We drove down the Boca Paila road into Sian Ka'an as far as the bridge, that was VERY interesting for a while as the road started to disappear out from under us, but we made it back OK. Um, let's see, they had a dog named Asha who was very sweet indeed. I peeled. Nancy peeled. A few more naked people swam in the ocean near us (unfortunately, some of them were men). The sun rose, the sun set, the lights came on, the lights went out, we laughed, we cried. Well, no, we didn't cry. I had the best time I've ever had and I've had some good ones. The thing about Mexico was that I felt, just a day or two into it, that I was really relaxing and tuning into a whole different way of thinking about time and what's important in life. [continues on in this drippy philosophical manner for several more paragraphs]. I could get used to this.
But in the end, it was about perfect. After two weeks, I wanted to stay, but I kind of wanted to go home again, too. This is a beautiful country, but it's not MY country; I'm glad it's there and I hope to see more it, and I hope the Mexicans realize what a treasure they have; all you hear about on the news is tragedy, but this was a wonderful place, even as poor as it is. I love Mexico.
And now I'm home, and I'm NOT ALLOWED to smoke cigars. Can you believe it? What is this a police state? Harrumph. It would be a lot easier to get upset if I didn't know for damn sure that I'm the luckiest man in the world. Thanks for a great trip, Nancy. Let's go back, OK?
The End
======
Well, I'm running out of steam here, I can't think of any more stories, at least not interesting ones. We washed our clothes in the sink and dried them on the line, that's not too exciting. We snorkeled at Yal-Ku lagoon near Akumal, that was a load of fun, I must have seen 25 species of fish. My uncontrollable consumerism finally met its match in Cancun airport, where I successfully resisted the temptation to buy a giant black sombrero with silver stitching. We drove down the Boca Paila road into Sian Ka'an as far as the bridge, that was VERY interesting for a while as the road started to disappear out from under us, but we made it back OK. Um, let's see, they had a dog named Asha who was very sweet indeed. I peeled. Nancy peeled. A few more naked people swam in the ocean near us (unfortunately, some of them were men). The sun rose, the sun set, the lights came on, the lights went out, we laughed, we cried. Well, no, we didn't cry. I had the best time I've ever had and I've had some good ones. The thing about Mexico was that I felt, just a day or two into it, that I was really relaxing and tuning into a whole different way of thinking about time and what's important in life. [continues on in this drippy philosophical manner for several more paragraphs]. I could get used to this.
But in the end, it was about perfect. After two weeks, I wanted to stay, but I kind of wanted to go home again, too. This is a beautiful country, but it's not MY country; I'm glad it's there and I hope to see more it, and I hope the Mexicans realize what a treasure they have; all you hear about on the news is tragedy, but this was a wonderful place, even as poor as it is. I love Mexico.
And now I'm home, and I'm NOT ALLOWED to smoke cigars. Can you believe it? What is this a police state? Harrumph. It would be a lot easier to get upset if I didn't know for damn sure that I'm the luckiest man in the world. Thanks for a great trip, Nancy. Let's go back, OK?
Where I Went On Holiday - Playa Del Carmen, Part 11
[Originally posted on http://www.playa.info/playa-del-carmen-forum/12969-where-i-went-holiday-trip-report-4.html]
I think it was Monday
================
We had booked a tour of Sian Ka'an out of the Weary Traveler -- not the Cesiak tour, but the other group -- Amigos de Sian Ka'an? Anyways, they picked us up at our hotel, which was nice, as it was well out of the way. One of the tours goes down the Boca Paila road into Sian Ka'an, and reaches the lagoons that way, but our tour went down 307 from Tulum to Muyil, for more ruins first.
Muyil is a small site, but has some great architecture -- a little of both styles, the Classical and the Peten. I'm probably scrambling this all up, because I don't have my book in front of me, but one style has rounded corners on the pyramids, almost like cones, of perfectly concentric rows of steps, while the other has sharp corners and steep sloping sides, with ranks of steps going up the middle (like Chichen Itza).
(BTW, I had a dream once where I opened up a chain of really nasty KFC-style fast-food restaurants in Mexico called "Itsa Chicken Itza", and woke up in a sweat just as I was about to be understandably murdered by Zapatistas).
At the edge of Muyil, there is a nature hike that begins here and meanders down toward the lagoon. Our guide, Pepe, took us through and showed us all the interesting plants, including the tree sap that eats away your flesh in great wounds "like a cheese pizza", and the antidote to same that is usually found nearby. We climbed an observation tower, which rippled and swayed under our weight and caused at least one girly man to blanch and clamber right back down again -- nah, I wasn't scared, I just, uh, didn't want to spoil the view for the others, yeah, that's it.
The trail comes out at the first of three lagoons; the first two fresh water and the last mixed fresh and salt, as it opens to the sea at the Boca Paila (Mouth of the Paila, I can figure, but I don't know what "paila" means). There's a Maya-built canal between the first two, over a thousand years old, cut right into the limestone bed, and a much longer natural canal between two and three. We took a boat out, stopping briefly at another temple in the Muyil complex on an island, or more properly a hummock of red mangrove, which still bore traces of the red paint it was once plastered with.
Then, in the long canal, we learned how to put our lifevests on upside down, what the Maya guides call "diaper style", which seems weird but works extremely well as a floating seat. In these we floated down about a kilometer of the canal, past red mangrove, huge bromeliads ("air plants", that grow without roots or soil in the crotches of trees, supported by them but not parasitic), and many many tiny flourescent aqua fishes, hard to see in the flourescent aqua water. An amazing journey and a remarkable place. So nice to see such a gorgeous wetlands without hundreds of jetskis and waterskiers all over it, just pristine bird and wildlife habitat. Alas, being midday the only wildlife we actually saw in the flesh were a green heron and a beautiful great egret.
The tour concluded with a snorkel in the Emerald Cenote, which, you will be shocked to hear, is green, and very lovely.
By this time, I was starting to glow. What a magical trip. That night, at Tierras del Sol, Jose, the Maya gentleman who works for Carlos, dragged a bunch of branches out of the jungle, burned them down to coals, raked them out flat, and cooked foil-wrapped whole fish on a grill laid over a couple of concrete blocks. Boquinete, or hogfish: a red fish, very bony, with delicious firm white meat. It felt like a privilege to be allowed to share this meal with our hosts, Carlos and his wife Natalie, who are originally from Argentina, and Jose and his daughter Carolina, or "Caro-LEEEENA" as one calls her if one wants to see the broadest, shyest, happiest grin in the world.
This hotel was more like a B&B than a "hotel", and whereas sometimes B&Bs kind of give me the creeps, with the lonely lady living her peculiar faux-English fantasy out in her ghostly house somewhere, desperately wanting you to come share scones and tea in her drawing room or something, but this was quite different. An international crowd, with people from Spain, Germany, Britain, Venezuela, New York, and LA passing through at one time or another (there are only four or five units in the whole place) and there really isn't any place to go after dark unless you want to drive up into the "busy" stretch of the strip, by Zamas and the convenience store, so we'd sit around and watch the pretty mobile made of thorns cast shadows of dancers on the wall.
And then we'd sit and read in bed by the dim light, and I'd have my cigar and a glass of rum on the deck, or we'd run out onto the sand and watch the stars. The first nights there there was no moon so there were a million stars -- I've seen a lot of stars up in the Cascade Mountains near home but nothing like this, with nothing to block the horizon and the stars went right down to the edge, the whole Milky Way, and the Big Dipper's in the wrong place, and Orion's belt is brighter than any of Liberace's, and the stars make the sand glow like snow. Mmm. I'm getting misty eyed just thinking about it.
After a few nights we started seeing the new moon, which was upside down -- a cup instead of a letter c -- and the sand got brighter at night, and we could see to walk up the beach to some of the other restaurants. A mixed bag, some were fancy, some were good, some were just OK. I will mention that Ana y Jose was the most beautiful; if I could swing the bucks I'd stay there next time. A lot of the really posh places suffered from the need of Europeans to have a constant disco music accompaniment, even at breakfast. I gather that some of the places get pretty hoppin' at night, but we're old and tired and are much happier with quiet nights of quiet stars, ("Corcovado", Joao Gilberto).
I think it was Monday
================
We had booked a tour of Sian Ka'an out of the Weary Traveler -- not the Cesiak tour, but the other group -- Amigos de Sian Ka'an? Anyways, they picked us up at our hotel, which was nice, as it was well out of the way. One of the tours goes down the Boca Paila road into Sian Ka'an, and reaches the lagoons that way, but our tour went down 307 from Tulum to Muyil, for more ruins first.
Muyil is a small site, but has some great architecture -- a little of both styles, the Classical and the Peten. I'm probably scrambling this all up, because I don't have my book in front of me, but one style has rounded corners on the pyramids, almost like cones, of perfectly concentric rows of steps, while the other has sharp corners and steep sloping sides, with ranks of steps going up the middle (like Chichen Itza).
(BTW, I had a dream once where I opened up a chain of really nasty KFC-style fast-food restaurants in Mexico called "Itsa Chicken Itza", and woke up in a sweat just as I was about to be understandably murdered by Zapatistas).
At the edge of Muyil, there is a nature hike that begins here and meanders down toward the lagoon. Our guide, Pepe, took us through and showed us all the interesting plants, including the tree sap that eats away your flesh in great wounds "like a cheese pizza", and the antidote to same that is usually found nearby. We climbed an observation tower, which rippled and swayed under our weight and caused at least one girly man to blanch and clamber right back down again -- nah, I wasn't scared, I just, uh, didn't want to spoil the view for the others, yeah, that's it.
The trail comes out at the first of three lagoons; the first two fresh water and the last mixed fresh and salt, as it opens to the sea at the Boca Paila (Mouth of the Paila, I can figure, but I don't know what "paila" means). There's a Maya-built canal between the first two, over a thousand years old, cut right into the limestone bed, and a much longer natural canal between two and three. We took a boat out, stopping briefly at another temple in the Muyil complex on an island, or more properly a hummock of red mangrove, which still bore traces of the red paint it was once plastered with.
Then, in the long canal, we learned how to put our lifevests on upside down, what the Maya guides call "diaper style", which seems weird but works extremely well as a floating seat. In these we floated down about a kilometer of the canal, past red mangrove, huge bromeliads ("air plants", that grow without roots or soil in the crotches of trees, supported by them but not parasitic), and many many tiny flourescent aqua fishes, hard to see in the flourescent aqua water. An amazing journey and a remarkable place. So nice to see such a gorgeous wetlands without hundreds of jetskis and waterskiers all over it, just pristine bird and wildlife habitat. Alas, being midday the only wildlife we actually saw in the flesh were a green heron and a beautiful great egret.
The tour concluded with a snorkel in the Emerald Cenote, which, you will be shocked to hear, is green, and very lovely.
By this time, I was starting to glow. What a magical trip. That night, at Tierras del Sol, Jose, the Maya gentleman who works for Carlos, dragged a bunch of branches out of the jungle, burned them down to coals, raked them out flat, and cooked foil-wrapped whole fish on a grill laid over a couple of concrete blocks. Boquinete, or hogfish: a red fish, very bony, with delicious firm white meat. It felt like a privilege to be allowed to share this meal with our hosts, Carlos and his wife Natalie, who are originally from Argentina, and Jose and his daughter Carolina, or "Caro-LEEEENA" as one calls her if one wants to see the broadest, shyest, happiest grin in the world.
This hotel was more like a B&B than a "hotel", and whereas sometimes B&Bs kind of give me the creeps, with the lonely lady living her peculiar faux-English fantasy out in her ghostly house somewhere, desperately wanting you to come share scones and tea in her drawing room or something, but this was quite different. An international crowd, with people from Spain, Germany, Britain, Venezuela, New York, and LA passing through at one time or another (there are only four or five units in the whole place) and there really isn't any place to go after dark unless you want to drive up into the "busy" stretch of the strip, by Zamas and the convenience store, so we'd sit around and watch the pretty mobile made of thorns cast shadows of dancers on the wall.
And then we'd sit and read in bed by the dim light, and I'd have my cigar and a glass of rum on the deck, or we'd run out onto the sand and watch the stars. The first nights there there was no moon so there were a million stars -- I've seen a lot of stars up in the Cascade Mountains near home but nothing like this, with nothing to block the horizon and the stars went right down to the edge, the whole Milky Way, and the Big Dipper's in the wrong place, and Orion's belt is brighter than any of Liberace's, and the stars make the sand glow like snow. Mmm. I'm getting misty eyed just thinking about it.
After a few nights we started seeing the new moon, which was upside down -- a cup instead of a letter c -- and the sand got brighter at night, and we could see to walk up the beach to some of the other restaurants. A mixed bag, some were fancy, some were good, some were just OK. I will mention that Ana y Jose was the most beautiful; if I could swing the bucks I'd stay there next time. A lot of the really posh places suffered from the need of Europeans to have a constant disco music accompaniment, even at breakfast. I gather that some of the places get pretty hoppin' at night, but we're old and tired and are much happier with quiet nights of quiet stars, ("Corcovado", Joao Gilberto).
Where I Went On Holiday - Playa Del Carmen, Part 10
[Originally posted on http://www.playa.info/playa-del-carmen-forum/12969-where-i-went-holiday-trip-report-3.html]
Day Sump-teen
============
I'm settling in. When I pick up the Miami Herald (or "a Miami" as the girl at the Stop and Go calls it) I no longer recognize what they're talking about. Bush, what's this about a bush? Pope? I dunno. Canada? Never heard of it. Buncha guys in suits shaking hands, I don't understand at all. Hockey season cancelled? There's a hockey season? I'm starting to get interested in the Copa Libertadores, and I don't even know what that IS.
We got tired of walking miles up the beach to get to a restaurant, so we rented a car at Ana y Jose. Cute little "Chevy" 1.6; not a Chevrolet, a Chevy -- I couldn't find the word Chevrolet anywhere on it. I was hoping for an Atos, which is signed "by Dodge" here but is made by Hyundai. They look like they could drive through your average doorway into your house, they're so small. And cute. Even Nancy agrees, THESE little cars can be cute. Someday maybe they'll be legal in the States. The Smart Car (saw just one of these in Playa) has passed the emissions and crash test in the US and starting to become available (actually outperformed a lot of huge cars and trucks in the crash test).
But the Chevy is cool enough, and lo and behold I DO remember how to drive a manual. And Nancy is actually IMPRESSED. My chest is puffed out so far I'm practically honking the horn here. Hmm, better pay attention to the feet, the pedals are so close together my sandal is getting hooked under the brake. Not good. Yes, there was a little swearing, but all in all we're traveling.
First destination: supermarket. We always check out the foreign supermarkets. A couple of strange things we notice: all the coffee is instant, and all the milk is, well, actually there doesn't appear to be any milk. Wait, here's some little cans. And, hey, that's a lot of different kinds of detergent, isn't it? And over here, the beer. And the Cuban rum, mmm. I've never been one for tequila, personally; don't much care for the taste, and to be perfectly honest every time I drink it I end up setting something on fire. Remember, Nancy's impressed because you can drive a stick, now don't blow it!
Next stop: downtown Tulum. Tulum is, frankly, a bit of a shithole. Kind of a truck stop, a wide place in the road. But they've fancied up the main street, with a clever kind of main strip for the highway with a parking and lurking roadway on either side. We came armed with the knowledge that if you really want to see Mexico you have to get away from the tourists on the beach, at least as far as Vallodolid, preferably Merida, but we're not going to get that far this trip. Tulum it is. I bought a hammock. We ate a nice lunch in a divey spot -- again the "crummier the restaurant the better the food" rule.
I wouldn't want to stay at the Weary Traveler hostel, but it's a great place for information. You can book Sian Ka'an tours there, which we did, and check your email for almost nothing (the linux machines are only 5 pesos per hour), or sit around and watch the hippies watch action flicks on HBO. Excellent English is spoken and everyone is very friendly. While Nancy is checking her email, I amuse myself by reading a guidebook for Playa from 1989 -- Tulum isn't even mentioned (aside from the ruins) and Playa is a sleepy little town with only the *BANNED* [the name of this establishment was redacted by Playa.info staff; I can't remember what it was, possibly Blue Parrot] recognizable amongst the establishments. No Senor Frogs! No Senor Frogs Official Stores! ¿Cómo vivieron?
Tulum is quite a bit hotter than the beach zone, due to the lack of breeze, and everyone in town is moving very slowly. We immediately recognize the wisdom of Mitch's advice -- don't walk on the sunny side of the street! If it's midday and both sides are sunny, find a hamaca and doze a while, or sit inside and watch Benicio Del Toro and Tommy Lee Jones cut each other up with machetes. Or something.
We had a panic attack in Tulum one evening. We had eaten a pizza in town, and walked around, and came back out to our car -- and someone was parked behind us! Two tiny little cars in a space for one, and we're totally boxed in! There's another car idling behind that, and a bunch of what Joe Pesci calls "yoots" hanging around looking suspicious, but no drivers to be seen. Nancy is plainly a little terrified, but, I, being the fearless male of the species, am putting up an utterly transparently bogus front of unconcern. Well, we'll just have to drive up over the curb, I say, as a guy comes over and panhandles us: "pesos, comidas" is all I can make out but it's enough. He's not happy with the few pesos I hand over, but that's all I got, man. I bend down to see just how badly driving over the curb is going to destroy this Chevy -- initial estimates say "completely" -- when a giggling girl comes skipping over and laughs and says a bunch of things in melodious Spanish and backs out of my way. Total elapsed time of crisis: twelve minutes. As we drive back to the hotel strip, it occurs to me: I love Mexico!
The next day, I think it is, we drive out to the ruins at Coba. This is a bit different, as the highway isn't a federal one but a state, which means no shoulder, and frequently no lane markings. The huge trucks and buses are just as plentiful, though, which makes passing even more of an adventure. After a while, I don't even notice the sound of the rapid intake of air coming from the passenger seat anymore. I'm a pro; I'm whizzing in and out, left turn signal blazing, fingertip control, I'm in total -- GAAAAAHH. OK, both hands. Yes, dear, you're right. Could you wipe my brow, please?
On the road to Coba you pass over 2,183 topes in the two small towns along the way, plus Coba itself. The campaign banners are flying -- this is hard-core PDR country; The PRI won the recent elections in the state but out here in the sticks the poor people vote left. "Felix" banners are scarce, while "Chacho" (I think that's his name) is everywhere.
At Coba, we hire a guide -- no organized trip this time -- who turns out to be very good. The place is absolutely mobbed, though; we got there right after five huge buses of Italians. Now, I'm a proud and fervent internationalist, and I think Italy is terrific -- but you talk about your ugly Americans, these Italians, especially the old ladies. Oh my lord. They talk continuously, at the top of their lungs. They even carry on conversations with people who have climbed to the top of the big pyramid, Nohoch Mul (the largest in Mexico, and the second-highest Maya structure anywhere). From the bottom, shouting, waving. It's unbelievable.
And then they're gone. We left our guide, and spent the rest of the day just wandering the site. Once the buses left, we practically had the place to ourselves, it was wonderful. Coba is much larger than Tulum, and was a huge thriving city, not just a little temple zone. There are amazing stelae and two awesome ball courts and traces of sac-be, and the lagoons. Wonderful. We had been warned about bugs but didn't really get any. And then I ate the best thing I ate in Mexico, the pok chuk at the joint with the red chairs. Tourist trap, but what the heck, the achiote spice is fantastic.
Day Sump-teen
============
I'm settling in. When I pick up the Miami Herald (or "a Miami" as the girl at the Stop and Go calls it) I no longer recognize what they're talking about. Bush, what's this about a bush? Pope? I dunno. Canada? Never heard of it. Buncha guys in suits shaking hands, I don't understand at all. Hockey season cancelled? There's a hockey season? I'm starting to get interested in the Copa Libertadores, and I don't even know what that IS.
We got tired of walking miles up the beach to get to a restaurant, so we rented a car at Ana y Jose. Cute little "Chevy" 1.6; not a Chevrolet, a Chevy -- I couldn't find the word Chevrolet anywhere on it. I was hoping for an Atos, which is signed "by Dodge" here but is made by Hyundai. They look like they could drive through your average doorway into your house, they're so small. And cute. Even Nancy agrees, THESE little cars can be cute. Someday maybe they'll be legal in the States. The Smart Car (saw just one of these in Playa) has passed the emissions and crash test in the US and starting to become available (actually outperformed a lot of huge cars and trucks in the crash test).
But the Chevy is cool enough, and lo and behold I DO remember how to drive a manual. And Nancy is actually IMPRESSED. My chest is puffed out so far I'm practically honking the horn here. Hmm, better pay attention to the feet, the pedals are so close together my sandal is getting hooked under the brake. Not good. Yes, there was a little swearing, but all in all we're traveling.
First destination: supermarket. We always check out the foreign supermarkets. A couple of strange things we notice: all the coffee is instant, and all the milk is, well, actually there doesn't appear to be any milk. Wait, here's some little cans. And, hey, that's a lot of different kinds of detergent, isn't it? And over here, the beer. And the Cuban rum, mmm. I've never been one for tequila, personally; don't much care for the taste, and to be perfectly honest every time I drink it I end up setting something on fire. Remember, Nancy's impressed because you can drive a stick, now don't blow it!
Next stop: downtown Tulum. Tulum is, frankly, a bit of a shithole. Kind of a truck stop, a wide place in the road. But they've fancied up the main street, with a clever kind of main strip for the highway with a parking and lurking roadway on either side. We came armed with the knowledge that if you really want to see Mexico you have to get away from the tourists on the beach, at least as far as Vallodolid, preferably Merida, but we're not going to get that far this trip. Tulum it is. I bought a hammock. We ate a nice lunch in a divey spot -- again the "crummier the restaurant the better the food" rule.
I wouldn't want to stay at the Weary Traveler hostel, but it's a great place for information. You can book Sian Ka'an tours there, which we did, and check your email for almost nothing (the linux machines are only 5 pesos per hour), or sit around and watch the hippies watch action flicks on HBO. Excellent English is spoken and everyone is very friendly. While Nancy is checking her email, I amuse myself by reading a guidebook for Playa from 1989 -- Tulum isn't even mentioned (aside from the ruins) and Playa is a sleepy little town with only the *BANNED* [the name of this establishment was redacted by Playa.info staff; I can't remember what it was, possibly Blue Parrot] recognizable amongst the establishments. No Senor Frogs! No Senor Frogs Official Stores! ¿Cómo vivieron?
Tulum is quite a bit hotter than the beach zone, due to the lack of breeze, and everyone in town is moving very slowly. We immediately recognize the wisdom of Mitch's advice -- don't walk on the sunny side of the street! If it's midday and both sides are sunny, find a hamaca and doze a while, or sit inside and watch Benicio Del Toro and Tommy Lee Jones cut each other up with machetes. Or something.
We had a panic attack in Tulum one evening. We had eaten a pizza in town, and walked around, and came back out to our car -- and someone was parked behind us! Two tiny little cars in a space for one, and we're totally boxed in! There's another car idling behind that, and a bunch of what Joe Pesci calls "yoots" hanging around looking suspicious, but no drivers to be seen. Nancy is plainly a little terrified, but, I, being the fearless male of the species, am putting up an utterly transparently bogus front of unconcern. Well, we'll just have to drive up over the curb, I say, as a guy comes over and panhandles us: "pesos, comidas" is all I can make out but it's enough. He's not happy with the few pesos I hand over, but that's all I got, man. I bend down to see just how badly driving over the curb is going to destroy this Chevy -- initial estimates say "completely" -- when a giggling girl comes skipping over and laughs and says a bunch of things in melodious Spanish and backs out of my way. Total elapsed time of crisis: twelve minutes. As we drive back to the hotel strip, it occurs to me: I love Mexico!
The next day, I think it is, we drive out to the ruins at Coba. This is a bit different, as the highway isn't a federal one but a state, which means no shoulder, and frequently no lane markings. The huge trucks and buses are just as plentiful, though, which makes passing even more of an adventure. After a while, I don't even notice the sound of the rapid intake of air coming from the passenger seat anymore. I'm a pro; I'm whizzing in and out, left turn signal blazing, fingertip control, I'm in total -- GAAAAAHH. OK, both hands. Yes, dear, you're right. Could you wipe my brow, please?
On the road to Coba you pass over 2,183 topes in the two small towns along the way, plus Coba itself. The campaign banners are flying -- this is hard-core PDR country; The PRI won the recent elections in the state but out here in the sticks the poor people vote left. "Felix" banners are scarce, while "Chacho" (I think that's his name) is everywhere.
At Coba, we hire a guide -- no organized trip this time -- who turns out to be very good. The place is absolutely mobbed, though; we got there right after five huge buses of Italians. Now, I'm a proud and fervent internationalist, and I think Italy is terrific -- but you talk about your ugly Americans, these Italians, especially the old ladies. Oh my lord. They talk continuously, at the top of their lungs. They even carry on conversations with people who have climbed to the top of the big pyramid, Nohoch Mul (the largest in Mexico, and the second-highest Maya structure anywhere). From the bottom, shouting, waving. It's unbelievable.
And then they're gone. We left our guide, and spent the rest of the day just wandering the site. Once the buses left, we practically had the place to ourselves, it was wonderful. Coba is much larger than Tulum, and was a huge thriving city, not just a little temple zone. There are amazing stelae and two awesome ball courts and traces of sac-be, and the lagoons. Wonderful. We had been warned about bugs but didn't really get any. And then I ate the best thing I ate in Mexico, the pok chuk at the joint with the red chairs. Tourist trap, but what the heck, the achiote spice is fantastic.
Where I Went On Holiday - Playa Del Carmen, Part 9
[Originally posted on http://www.playa.info/playa-del-carmen-forum/12969-where-i-went-holiday-trip-report-3.html]
I have no earthly idea what day it is
===========================
We packed about seven different kinds of hand sanitizers and sanitary wipes and toilet seat covers and anti-diarrhea pills and I don't know what all, but so far I wasn't having any problems. The famous "tourista" or Monteczuma's revenge wasn't happening. Usually when I travel, it's the opposite; especially if I don't drink enough water, the concrete just sets right up.
I was even OK after we ate lunch at this place on the beach were I had some kind of stuffed chicken breast, and when I was on my next-to-last bite, I noticed a funny texture, and looked down and realized that I had just eaten a hunk of RAW chicken. I think it was a frozen cutlet that didn't quite stay on the broiler long enough. Gasp -- shock -- horror -- we all know that undercooked chicken is INVARIABLY FATAL and even the cutting board it touches must be boiled in bleach, or something -- I don't follow "Food Nazi News" that closely -- but two days later I was still fine.
But then, more than a week into our trip, I discovered a drawback to relaxation: I wasn't biting my nails. Now, understand, I've bitten my nails all my life; I can honestly say I have NEVER trimmed them with a clipper in my life. They're bitten so far down the quick and beyond that they don't even grow within a half-inch of the ends of my fingers anymore. I've tried the nasty-tasting stuff, and I just chew right through it; hey, it grows on you a little! Nancy realized a long time ago that it didn't matter how often she grunted with disgust or slapped my hands away from my drooling mouth, I was going to continue this perverted practice until I died. But here I was in Mexico, and growing hideous talons.
Now, I wash my hands, and I was using the sanitizer glop, and being as good a boy as I know how (which isn't saying much, but I'm trying), but you know what? I think my fingernails made me sick. I was brushing my teeth with bottled water and squirting lime on everything, but when I broke down and nibbled my new claws, because they were scratching me in places I didn't like being scratched, I think I was ingesting some nasties that were hiding under there. It's just a theory, mind you. But I was sick.
If you have to be sick, though, you might as well be in paradise to do it. And you know, I didn't FEEL bad; I just had to run up to the cabana every so often with a worried look on my face. I even tried a nice cold cerveza, and I can report as a result of this research that a nice cold cerveza on a warm day on the beach is pretty damn therapeutic. As a result of my need to be near a toilet all the time, we were forced to set aside our busy plans for action-packed days of tourism, and just relax under the palapa for another day. This proved not to be a hardship, oddly enough. And once I figured out that we could buy beer and ice at the store, and put them in the big tub that was providently placed next to our deck, I barely even had to get up out of my chair all day, except when I was called to go perform the unmentionable.
And when huge pelicans are flying ten feet over your head, who cares about a little tummy upset?
I have no earthly idea what day it is
===========================
We packed about seven different kinds of hand sanitizers and sanitary wipes and toilet seat covers and anti-diarrhea pills and I don't know what all, but so far I wasn't having any problems. The famous "tourista" or Monteczuma's revenge wasn't happening. Usually when I travel, it's the opposite; especially if I don't drink enough water, the concrete just sets right up.
I was even OK after we ate lunch at this place on the beach were I had some kind of stuffed chicken breast, and when I was on my next-to-last bite, I noticed a funny texture, and looked down and realized that I had just eaten a hunk of RAW chicken. I think it was a frozen cutlet that didn't quite stay on the broiler long enough. Gasp -- shock -- horror -- we all know that undercooked chicken is INVARIABLY FATAL and even the cutting board it touches must be boiled in bleach, or something -- I don't follow "Food Nazi News" that closely -- but two days later I was still fine.
But then, more than a week into our trip, I discovered a drawback to relaxation: I wasn't biting my nails. Now, understand, I've bitten my nails all my life; I can honestly say I have NEVER trimmed them with a clipper in my life. They're bitten so far down the quick and beyond that they don't even grow within a half-inch of the ends of my fingers anymore. I've tried the nasty-tasting stuff, and I just chew right through it; hey, it grows on you a little! Nancy realized a long time ago that it didn't matter how often she grunted with disgust or slapped my hands away from my drooling mouth, I was going to continue this perverted practice until I died. But here I was in Mexico, and growing hideous talons.
Now, I wash my hands, and I was using the sanitizer glop, and being as good a boy as I know how (which isn't saying much, but I'm trying), but you know what? I think my fingernails made me sick. I was brushing my teeth with bottled water and squirting lime on everything, but when I broke down and nibbled my new claws, because they were scratching me in places I didn't like being scratched, I think I was ingesting some nasties that were hiding under there. It's just a theory, mind you. But I was sick.
If you have to be sick, though, you might as well be in paradise to do it. And you know, I didn't FEEL bad; I just had to run up to the cabana every so often with a worried look on my face. I even tried a nice cold cerveza, and I can report as a result of this research that a nice cold cerveza on a warm day on the beach is pretty damn therapeutic. As a result of my need to be near a toilet all the time, we were forced to set aside our busy plans for action-packed days of tourism, and just relax under the palapa for another day. This proved not to be a hardship, oddly enough. And once I figured out that we could buy beer and ice at the store, and put them in the big tub that was providently placed next to our deck, I barely even had to get up out of my chair all day, except when I was called to go perform the unmentionable.
And when huge pelicans are flying ten feet over your head, who cares about a little tummy upset?
Where I Went On Holiday - Playa Del Carmen, Part 8
[Originally posted on http://www.playa.info/playa-del-carmen-forum/12969-where-i-went-holiday-trip-report-3.html]
Day 6 or thereabouts
================
We woke at dawn again. If we thought it was pretty off the deck of the Freud, it was awe-inspiring off the deck of this place, coming up right out of the sea.
The first day we did a little exploring, up and down the beach, and noticed a couple of enormous falling-down buildings, with caved-in palm roofs, rotting beams, and birds swooping in and out. We discovered that they formerly belonged to Pablo Escobar, the notorious Columbian drug lord who was killed by the CIA a while back, and now belong to the government. We soon discovered that the government was protecting their investment with real live soldiers, Federales suited up for war head to toe, with automatic weapons in their arms (along with their lunches, and on at least one occasion a pretty senorita) as they walked up and down the beach.
We also saw fishermen walk past once or twice a day with their spear guns and strings of fish; we even saw a guy walk up to the surf, put on this mask and snorkel, grab his spear gun from his buddy, and head off swimming to the reef, a good 200 yards or more away. Intrepid!
I discovered that it doesn't matter how much sunscreen you use, it only matters how much you DON'T use in just one moment of forgetfulness. I was doing really well -- my fair skin burns like flash paper -- but on the 6th or 7th day I left it off for just a half hour and roasted like a pig under a broiler. (I'm still itching and peeling as I type this. My cow-orkers are enjoying the sight of me with a network cable wrapped around my back trying to scratch that ONE PLACE I can't quite reach.)
Now, on a beach with no people, one's opportunities to admire that one particularly lovely form of the beauty of nature that gets so much attention here are limited. But while I was despairing of this, and plotting a way to get back up to Mamita's (because I was as yet unaware of closer opportunities), a couple of sweethearts strode up and dragged two lounges directly into my field of view. "Wouldn't it be nice if they", and then they did. Oh, I love humanity, really I do.
WHAP. "I know what you're looking at".
"I'm not looking, honey, really I'm not; I'm just working over in my mind the design for my new patented zoom-lens sunglasses".
Speaking of sunglasses, I recently splurged on a fancy-schmantzy pair of spectacles, because I am incredibly blind and even more incredibly vain, which included a smashing set of clip-on sunglasses, made especially to fit. With a whatchamacallit, a Croakie, to hold my glasses on while swimming in the surf (I mean it, I am really blind without, about 20-500), I thought I was all set. Until I caught a big wave smack in the face (which was actually my objective at the time), and came up sans clipons. Every other thing in the bleedin' ocean washed to shore around us (the nearby beaches that were not swept clean every morning were covered in plastic flotsam, or is it jetsam?), but not my sunglasses. This trip is getting expensive!
And yet, I can't stop grinning. I have photographic proof, from Nancy's camera: I look like a complete idiot, a total subnormal -- but a happy one.
Day 6 or thereabouts
================
We woke at dawn again. If we thought it was pretty off the deck of the Freud, it was awe-inspiring off the deck of this place, coming up right out of the sea.
The first day we did a little exploring, up and down the beach, and noticed a couple of enormous falling-down buildings, with caved-in palm roofs, rotting beams, and birds swooping in and out. We discovered that they formerly belonged to Pablo Escobar, the notorious Columbian drug lord who was killed by the CIA a while back, and now belong to the government. We soon discovered that the government was protecting their investment with real live soldiers, Federales suited up for war head to toe, with automatic weapons in their arms (along with their lunches, and on at least one occasion a pretty senorita) as they walked up and down the beach.
We also saw fishermen walk past once or twice a day with their spear guns and strings of fish; we even saw a guy walk up to the surf, put on this mask and snorkel, grab his spear gun from his buddy, and head off swimming to the reef, a good 200 yards or more away. Intrepid!
I discovered that it doesn't matter how much sunscreen you use, it only matters how much you DON'T use in just one moment of forgetfulness. I was doing really well -- my fair skin burns like flash paper -- but on the 6th or 7th day I left it off for just a half hour and roasted like a pig under a broiler. (I'm still itching and peeling as I type this. My cow-orkers are enjoying the sight of me with a network cable wrapped around my back trying to scratch that ONE PLACE I can't quite reach.)
Now, on a beach with no people, one's opportunities to admire that one particularly lovely form of the beauty of nature that gets so much attention here are limited. But while I was despairing of this, and plotting a way to get back up to Mamita's (because I was as yet unaware of closer opportunities), a couple of sweethearts strode up and dragged two lounges directly into my field of view. "Wouldn't it be nice if they", and then they did. Oh, I love humanity, really I do.
WHAP. "I know what you're looking at".
"I'm not looking, honey, really I'm not; I'm just working over in my mind the design for my new patented zoom-lens sunglasses".
Speaking of sunglasses, I recently splurged on a fancy-schmantzy pair of spectacles, because I am incredibly blind and even more incredibly vain, which included a smashing set of clip-on sunglasses, made especially to fit. With a whatchamacallit, a Croakie, to hold my glasses on while swimming in the surf (I mean it, I am really blind without, about 20-500), I thought I was all set. Until I caught a big wave smack in the face (which was actually my objective at the time), and came up sans clipons. Every other thing in the bleedin' ocean washed to shore around us (the nearby beaches that were not swept clean every morning were covered in plastic flotsam, or is it jetsam?), but not my sunglasses. This trip is getting expensive!
And yet, I can't stop grinning. I have photographic proof, from Nancy's camera: I look like a complete idiot, a total subnormal -- but a happy one.
Where I Went On Holiday - Playa Del Carmen, Part 7
[Originally posted on http://www.playa.info/playa-del-carmen-forum/12969-where-i-went-holiday-trip-report-3.html]
Day 4 Continued (5? Who can tell? Where's my watch? Did I bring a watch?)
=======================================================
So, the tour was great. Winding through Playacar was a little scary, as I have a phobia for gigantic All-Inclusives (though if they are your preferred accomodation in paradise I won't begrudge you; I won't begrudge you anything as long as you're not standing on my ear while you're doing it).
We return to Playa, and check into Hotel Posada Freud. Now, I have to tell you, I thought La Tortuga was gorgeous -- I didn't even get around to describing the rooftop jacuzzi or what happens when you jacuzzi au naturelle with a big glass of rum and a bigger cigar. Hmmm, I don't think I will, actually.
But if you stay at La Tortuga, I think I would recommend forgoing the charms of the spa jets and get an interior room; their pool is beautiful, and any room that doesn't open on 10th is going to be a LOT quieter. I was awakened the morning after Stupor Bowl Sunday at 4:01 AM by a crowd of about 50 people right outside the window, howling and banging on the garbage cans. Hmm, that part I didn't like so much.
So when we saw the room at Posada Freud, which hung right over the street, and realized that the kind of annoying blooz-bar we had been trying to avoid was right underneath us, we were trepid. The room was lovely, and that worrisome balcony was huge, with a scrumptious hammock, which I immediately used to erase about two and a half hours, but would it be noisy?
It was. The bar featured a dreadful series of musicians starting with some inept Bob Dylan karaoke and working up to a grand finale of a U2 cover band, not inept but I don't like U2 much, so it was a problem. We were all set to get pissy and annoyed, when we remembered -- hey, we're in Mexico. And what do you know, but at some point -- not THAT late -- they stopped playing and we slept like babes, and in the morning we discovered -- the sunrise! We missed it at La Tortuga, as we faced the wrong direction there (shoulda slept in the jacooze).
At 5:50, Avenida Quinta is absolutely dead quiet, and the sun is just turning into an orange-red fireball, and the whole world is silent and glowing. Wow. At 5:53, a guy shows up at one of the shops in a little truck, and the street starts waking up, but it's still so peaceful and calm; no hint that there were knee-walking tequila gobblers under our window just a few hours before.
I'm starting to realize that no matter how good this gets, it's about to get better right around the corner. And if I go back to Playa, I think I'm staying at the Posada Freud again. Balcony room.
We ate, and lazed around on the balcony, and wandered around the town a little, and started thinking about our next journey. We were torn; rent a car, or take a cab? We decided on a cab, even though it's expensive as hell to get to the hotel strip on the Boca Paila, it's not as psychically expensive as driving on that highway. Eventually, but not today, my friend, not today.
I discovered a magic trick, whereby you can make a cab driver disappear instantly in thin air: go up to a group of them, and say "Tulum?", and as they all start opening doors and nodding their heads yes, yes, I will take you, no I will take you, then add "Boca Paila?". Instant ghost town. Where did everybody go? Our bags, which had already partly been loaded into one cab, were back at our feet, and were left alone with one brave soldier, the only cabbie on Calle 10 willing to haul us down the Boca Paila Road.
Our hotel there was Tierras Del Sol, which is way, way down at the end of the hotel strip in Tulum, almost to the entrance to Sian Ka'an -- kilometer 10. Our cabbie lied and said he knew where it was. I had a map from the hotel website but he wouldn't look at it, nor would he quote a price; he waved the standard rate sheet at me, which said "Tulum 435 pesos", and said something about figuring out the rest when we got there. It's very difficult for a non-Spanish speaker to explain to a non-English speaker that "km 10" means 10 km from the ruins, not 10 km from the highway junction or 10 km from the Tulum road junction with the Boca Paila road. I'm not sure I can even explain it to myself.
But off we set, and got another lesson in 307 driving. Those lane markers are just suggestions, you know. We like to think we in the USA live in the "land of the free" but you haven't tasted ANYTHING of real freedom until you've decided to pull out in the face of an oncoming overloaded semi in order to get around a destroyed 1981 Chrysler Le Baron with no doors, trunk, or hood that's going 18 MPH on the shoulder. And hoping you'll clear the old guy on the bicycle on your way back over, so the huge bus can have the center (i.e., oncoming) lane for a turn.
We made it, though, and successfully shouted and gesticulated our desire to turn down the Tulum road, and hit the Boca Paila. As the road got worse and worse, our cabbie was obviously thinking we were idiots, and lost, and his car was going to become a 22nd-century Maya ruin in the jungle. The road crew had been back, destroyed the road even more; it was now bi-level, with the southbound "lane" a good foot higher in elevation than the northbound, and was chopped up into human-head sized chunks besides. If you go slow, this isn't much of a problem, until the yahoos in their jeep convoys heading for the fishing camps or Punta Allen roar past at 40 MPH; we were more than satisfied to be making 15. And all that construction meant of course thick clouds of dust, coating every leaf. If you made the mistake of trying to clear it with the wiper-washer fluid, you made limestone mud on the windshield. That's the same stuff they mortared the Maya pyramids together with, I think -- dust and wiper fluid. Our cabbie was far too polite to swear out loud, but I think he probably had a few thoughts to confess the next time he was in church.
But then, the road got a little better, and we passed some nice-looking places that didn't seem like wilderness at all -- Ana y Jose, Las Ranitas, Amansala -- and then finally, Tierras del Sol. We paid off our cabbie with what I hope was a generous settlement, and made our way into the jungle.
At the top of the rise, a vision appeared, a god, naked but for a pair of swim trunks "Hola, Steven!" It was Carlos, our host. The naked but for etc. part was put there in the name of my wife, who seemed oddly unable to speak properly. I'm a ladies' man myself, but even I could tell that this Carlos fellow was kind of hunky, in a Enrique Eglesias kind of way. While she stood there going "huh huh, huh huh", I grabbed her hand and followed Carlos to our new digs.
The guidebook called the owners of Tierras del Sol "laid-back" which is like calling Yao Ming "fairly tall" or Bill Gates "well-off". This was not going to be like staying at the Four Seasons. Our cabana was right on the beach -- not NEAR the beach, not JUST ACROSS THE ROAD from the beach, not WITHIN VIEW of the beach, but ON the beach; you stepped off the deck onto the sand -- this is a distinction which tends to escape realtors and hotel advertisers in some places I could mention. The first thing we noticed was the door. Not only did it not lock, it didn't latch; there was a good quarter inch clearance there. Carlos says, "I need to fix, or maybe you can put something?" We wedged some cardboard in there, and it was fine. Stayed that way the whole time.
And there are people all over the world staying in places with ultra-secure doors made to ultra-high tolerances who are enjoying themselves one hell of a lot less than we did. Laid back charm. In spades.
The room was cute, and the deck, which looked out to the main strand just feet away, featured a couple of comfy deck chairs, a hammock chair, and the best hammock I've ever touched -- absolutely immense, the size of Minnesota, with a tight weave. I'm pretty sure I spent many hours in the thing but honestly my memory is weak on this point, as I tended to become unconscious just sitting down in the thing.
If that wasn't enough, we could move even closer and sit under one of the palapas provided for that purpose. Which we did, for the entirety of day, er, well, a couple of them. Didn't move the whole day, and why would you want to?
The beach was as nice as Mamita's, but deserted. The room was lovely, completely rustic, with adobe and stick walls, a busted shutter over a glassless window, the aforementioned door, and two dim low-voltage light bulbs that only worked in the evenings through morning.
The only real drawback, if you chose to see it that way, was that we were a fair distance from anything at all. That first night, we were too tired to go off in search of food, so we looked at Carlos with big sad eyes and he made us the best ham sandwiches we've ever had.
Day 4 Continued (5? Who can tell? Where's my watch? Did I bring a watch?)
=======================================================
So, the tour was great. Winding through Playacar was a little scary, as I have a phobia for gigantic All-Inclusives (though if they are your preferred accomodation in paradise I won't begrudge you; I won't begrudge you anything as long as you're not standing on my ear while you're doing it).
We return to Playa, and check into Hotel Posada Freud. Now, I have to tell you, I thought La Tortuga was gorgeous -- I didn't even get around to describing the rooftop jacuzzi or what happens when you jacuzzi au naturelle with a big glass of rum and a bigger cigar. Hmmm, I don't think I will, actually.
But if you stay at La Tortuga, I think I would recommend forgoing the charms of the spa jets and get an interior room; their pool is beautiful, and any room that doesn't open on 10th is going to be a LOT quieter. I was awakened the morning after Stupor Bowl Sunday at 4:01 AM by a crowd of about 50 people right outside the window, howling and banging on the garbage cans. Hmm, that part I didn't like so much.
So when we saw the room at Posada Freud, which hung right over the street, and realized that the kind of annoying blooz-bar we had been trying to avoid was right underneath us, we were trepid. The room was lovely, and that worrisome balcony was huge, with a scrumptious hammock, which I immediately used to erase about two and a half hours, but would it be noisy?
It was. The bar featured a dreadful series of musicians starting with some inept Bob Dylan karaoke and working up to a grand finale of a U2 cover band, not inept but I don't like U2 much, so it was a problem. We were all set to get pissy and annoyed, when we remembered -- hey, we're in Mexico. And what do you know, but at some point -- not THAT late -- they stopped playing and we slept like babes, and in the morning we discovered -- the sunrise! We missed it at La Tortuga, as we faced the wrong direction there (shoulda slept in the jacooze).
At 5:50, Avenida Quinta is absolutely dead quiet, and the sun is just turning into an orange-red fireball, and the whole world is silent and glowing. Wow. At 5:53, a guy shows up at one of the shops in a little truck, and the street starts waking up, but it's still so peaceful and calm; no hint that there were knee-walking tequila gobblers under our window just a few hours before.
I'm starting to realize that no matter how good this gets, it's about to get better right around the corner. And if I go back to Playa, I think I'm staying at the Posada Freud again. Balcony room.
We ate, and lazed around on the balcony, and wandered around the town a little, and started thinking about our next journey. We were torn; rent a car, or take a cab? We decided on a cab, even though it's expensive as hell to get to the hotel strip on the Boca Paila, it's not as psychically expensive as driving on that highway. Eventually, but not today, my friend, not today.
I discovered a magic trick, whereby you can make a cab driver disappear instantly in thin air: go up to a group of them, and say "Tulum?", and as they all start opening doors and nodding their heads yes, yes, I will take you, no I will take you, then add "Boca Paila?". Instant ghost town. Where did everybody go? Our bags, which had already partly been loaded into one cab, were back at our feet, and were left alone with one brave soldier, the only cabbie on Calle 10 willing to haul us down the Boca Paila Road.
Our hotel there was Tierras Del Sol, which is way, way down at the end of the hotel strip in Tulum, almost to the entrance to Sian Ka'an -- kilometer 10. Our cabbie lied and said he knew where it was. I had a map from the hotel website but he wouldn't look at it, nor would he quote a price; he waved the standard rate sheet at me, which said "Tulum 435 pesos", and said something about figuring out the rest when we got there. It's very difficult for a non-Spanish speaker to explain to a non-English speaker that "km 10" means 10 km from the ruins, not 10 km from the highway junction or 10 km from the Tulum road junction with the Boca Paila road. I'm not sure I can even explain it to myself.
But off we set, and got another lesson in 307 driving. Those lane markers are just suggestions, you know. We like to think we in the USA live in the "land of the free" but you haven't tasted ANYTHING of real freedom until you've decided to pull out in the face of an oncoming overloaded semi in order to get around a destroyed 1981 Chrysler Le Baron with no doors, trunk, or hood that's going 18 MPH on the shoulder. And hoping you'll clear the old guy on the bicycle on your way back over, so the huge bus can have the center (i.e., oncoming) lane for a turn.
We made it, though, and successfully shouted and gesticulated our desire to turn down the Tulum road, and hit the Boca Paila. As the road got worse and worse, our cabbie was obviously thinking we were idiots, and lost, and his car was going to become a 22nd-century Maya ruin in the jungle. The road crew had been back, destroyed the road even more; it was now bi-level, with the southbound "lane" a good foot higher in elevation than the northbound, and was chopped up into human-head sized chunks besides. If you go slow, this isn't much of a problem, until the yahoos in their jeep convoys heading for the fishing camps or Punta Allen roar past at 40 MPH; we were more than satisfied to be making 15. And all that construction meant of course thick clouds of dust, coating every leaf. If you made the mistake of trying to clear it with the wiper-washer fluid, you made limestone mud on the windshield. That's the same stuff they mortared the Maya pyramids together with, I think -- dust and wiper fluid. Our cabbie was far too polite to swear out loud, but I think he probably had a few thoughts to confess the next time he was in church.
But then, the road got a little better, and we passed some nice-looking places that didn't seem like wilderness at all -- Ana y Jose, Las Ranitas, Amansala -- and then finally, Tierras del Sol. We paid off our cabbie with what I hope was a generous settlement, and made our way into the jungle.
At the top of the rise, a vision appeared, a god, naked but for a pair of swim trunks "Hola, Steven!" It was Carlos, our host. The naked but for etc. part was put there in the name of my wife, who seemed oddly unable to speak properly. I'm a ladies' man myself, but even I could tell that this Carlos fellow was kind of hunky, in a Enrique Eglesias kind of way. While she stood there going "huh huh, huh huh", I grabbed her hand and followed Carlos to our new digs.
The guidebook called the owners of Tierras del Sol "laid-back" which is like calling Yao Ming "fairly tall" or Bill Gates "well-off". This was not going to be like staying at the Four Seasons. Our cabana was right on the beach -- not NEAR the beach, not JUST ACROSS THE ROAD from the beach, not WITHIN VIEW of the beach, but ON the beach; you stepped off the deck onto the sand -- this is a distinction which tends to escape realtors and hotel advertisers in some places I could mention. The first thing we noticed was the door. Not only did it not lock, it didn't latch; there was a good quarter inch clearance there. Carlos says, "I need to fix, or maybe you can put something?" We wedged some cardboard in there, and it was fine. Stayed that way the whole time.
And there are people all over the world staying in places with ultra-secure doors made to ultra-high tolerances who are enjoying themselves one hell of a lot less than we did. Laid back charm. In spades.
The room was cute, and the deck, which looked out to the main strand just feet away, featured a couple of comfy deck chairs, a hammock chair, and the best hammock I've ever touched -- absolutely immense, the size of Minnesota, with a tight weave. I'm pretty sure I spent many hours in the thing but honestly my memory is weak on this point, as I tended to become unconscious just sitting down in the thing.
If that wasn't enough, we could move even closer and sit under one of the palapas provided for that purpose. Which we did, for the entirety of day, er, well, a couple of them. Didn't move the whole day, and why would you want to?
The beach was as nice as Mamita's, but deserted. The room was lovely, completely rustic, with adobe and stick walls, a busted shutter over a glassless window, the aforementioned door, and two dim low-voltage light bulbs that only worked in the evenings through morning.
The only real drawback, if you chose to see it that way, was that we were a fair distance from anything at all. That first night, we were too tired to go off in search of food, so we looked at Carlos with big sad eyes and he made us the best ham sandwiches we've ever had.
Where I Went On Holiday - Playa Del Carmen, Part 6
Originally posted on http://www.playa.info/playa-del-carmen-forum/12969-where-i-went-holiday-trip-report-2.html]
Day 4? I'm losing track
=================
So, after we checked out of La Tortuga the night before -- why, you ask? Well, you see, I amb dumb, and when I made the travel arrangements, and after I checked them, and checked them, and was satisfied, I forgot about them. And then Nancy says "so, what day are we checking out of La Tortuga? I want to go on the Wednesday Tulum tour". And I say, well, here, I wrote it all out: Check out of La Tortuga on Wednesday, check into Tierras del Sol on Thursday. Why don't you trust me to do this right? Do you think I'm stupid?" This is before we left, you see, and tensions are running a little high.
She looks at the paper and is silent.
"God! You act like I can't do anything right!"
Silence.
Then, carefully, "so, uh, where are we staying Wednesday night?"
La Tortuga! Can't you read? It says right here, Wednesday night -- uh oh.
Like I said: I am dum. Dumdumdum. No hotel. La Tortuga has booked the room. And we want to take this tour that day, not wander around looking for a hotel.
I swear, we've been married almost nine years, and this thing where I turn out to be wrong is getting a LITTLE OLD. It would be much more equitable if just occasionally she would be wrong too. But no; if you really want to screw things up, you need to get the master to do it. I am that master. And she thinks that just because I screw up, and she turns out to be right after all, that when I throw a little temper tantrum as a result that's poor sportsmanship. Women. I tell ya.
On the other hand, if it wasn't for her, I'd be sleeping on a bench. Yes, dear.
Good luck: Hotel Posada Freud has a room, La Tortuga will be happy to hold our bags, and we can take the tour after all.
Our tour director that morning is Mitch, from playa.info. Mitch looks suspiciously like a California surf bum, but turns out to be a French-Canadian dive bum instead, a totally different species. There are no surf bums here; no surf. But Mitch is a wealth of knowledge about the area, not just tour-guide stuff but the general ways of Playa. Deceptively laid-back, he is actually pretty sharp, and funny, and as good a guide as I could possibly have hoped for. Miguel was our driver, and we had a motley collection of playa.infoers along with -- I'm terrible with names, but they were from Indiana, Michigan, Chicago, Rhode Island, and the UK (London and Glasgow).
On the way to Tulum, Mitch provided an invaluable lesson on Mexican highway driving, with Miguel expertly demonstrating the techniques. I have to say that for a first timer, renting a car and navigating highway 307 as a virgin would be a terrible, possibly fatal mistake; it was much better to have a skilled demonstration before tackling it ourselves.
After a stop to acquire beer (for LATER, what do you think we're all alcoholics?), we got the Tulum tour with a brilliant guide named Hernan. I liked him because he knew all the stories, but didn't try to pass them off as gospel truth. There are a lot of rumors around Tulum, and the Maya culture, that are not necessarily supported by the facts. For instance, the popular story that lights behind two windows in El Castillo guided Maya canoes home through the only opening in the reef -- if you can see one light, you're off target but if you can see both, you're right there; this story is cast into doubt by two facts: the Maya canoes were light enough to pass over the reef in most cases, and also no soot from lights was ever found on the ceiling of the rooms in question. I don't know if you get that kind of analysis from every guide. Hernan "call me Ernie" was great.
After Tulum, which we timed perfectly -- a zillion buses showed up when we were almost finished -- we went to Gran Cenote, and enjoyed a snorkel. A bit crowded for my tastes; I actually saw more fat ladies' butts than I did fish. But the caves were wonderful. Nancy would not concur, as she gets creeped out in any kind of cave, above or under water, but I am a claustrophiliac and love small spaces. However, Mitch's detailed explanation of deep cave diving, delivered next to the big map of the underground river system all across Quintana Roo that is posted up at Gran Cenote, made me realize the limitations of that feeling. Those people are CRAZY -- five air tanks, more than a mile of string, through spaces so tight you have to push your tanks through ahead of you? I'd rather walk on the moon in my jammies.
Then we went down the Boca Paila road, where we would be later staying, finding it even rougher than the guidebook said -- a team of Mexican highway workers were grading it, basically grinding it up into dust, which didn't seem like a good idea, but if I've learned anything in my life on earth it's "don't argue with road machinery". The private beach we ended up at was beautiful, even pretty than Mamita's, and with NO PEOPLE. There were a couple of hippies in the woods (including a rainbow-painted van with long-expired Washington plates) but otherwise pretty much deserted. Lunch was served -- some famous Playa-style barbecued chicken. Previous comments about disappointing food do not apply here; this was a great homestyle treat, with buttery mashed potatoes and rice and beans and fruit and hey, are those beers cold? Mmm.
Then another cenote, Cenote Azul, which was even prettier, and deserted, and I was starting to actually listen to some of the real-estate talk the others were throwing about. Hang on, I think I just forgot where I work! Nancy, where do we live?
So, if you're looking for a recommendation, take Mitch's playa.info tour, it rocks. It was tons of fun, very interesting and educational, and a great introduction to some of the places we would be returning to shortly. Which means that tomorrow's tale will not be about getting lost, or about getting into a horrible car crash on 307.
Next: Boca Paila Paradise
Day 4? I'm losing track
=================
So, after we checked out of La Tortuga the night before -- why, you ask? Well, you see, I amb dumb, and when I made the travel arrangements, and after I checked them, and checked them, and was satisfied, I forgot about them. And then Nancy says "so, what day are we checking out of La Tortuga? I want to go on the Wednesday Tulum tour". And I say, well, here, I wrote it all out: Check out of La Tortuga on Wednesday, check into Tierras del Sol on Thursday. Why don't you trust me to do this right? Do you think I'm stupid?" This is before we left, you see, and tensions are running a little high.
She looks at the paper and is silent.
"God! You act like I can't do anything right!"
Silence.
Then, carefully, "so, uh, where are we staying Wednesday night?"
La Tortuga! Can't you read? It says right here, Wednesday night -- uh oh.
Like I said: I am dum. Dumdumdum. No hotel. La Tortuga has booked the room. And we want to take this tour that day, not wander around looking for a hotel.
I swear, we've been married almost nine years, and this thing where I turn out to be wrong is getting a LITTLE OLD. It would be much more equitable if just occasionally she would be wrong too. But no; if you really want to screw things up, you need to get the master to do it. I am that master. And she thinks that just because I screw up, and she turns out to be right after all, that when I throw a little temper tantrum as a result that's poor sportsmanship. Women. I tell ya.
On the other hand, if it wasn't for her, I'd be sleeping on a bench. Yes, dear.
Good luck: Hotel Posada Freud has a room, La Tortuga will be happy to hold our bags, and we can take the tour after all.
Our tour director that morning is Mitch, from playa.info. Mitch looks suspiciously like a California surf bum, but turns out to be a French-Canadian dive bum instead, a totally different species. There are no surf bums here; no surf. But Mitch is a wealth of knowledge about the area, not just tour-guide stuff but the general ways of Playa. Deceptively laid-back, he is actually pretty sharp, and funny, and as good a guide as I could possibly have hoped for. Miguel was our driver, and we had a motley collection of playa.infoers along with -- I'm terrible with names, but they were from Indiana, Michigan, Chicago, Rhode Island, and the UK (London and Glasgow).
On the way to Tulum, Mitch provided an invaluable lesson on Mexican highway driving, with Miguel expertly demonstrating the techniques. I have to say that for a first timer, renting a car and navigating highway 307 as a virgin would be a terrible, possibly fatal mistake; it was much better to have a skilled demonstration before tackling it ourselves.
After a stop to acquire beer (for LATER, what do you think we're all alcoholics?), we got the Tulum tour with a brilliant guide named Hernan. I liked him because he knew all the stories, but didn't try to pass them off as gospel truth. There are a lot of rumors around Tulum, and the Maya culture, that are not necessarily supported by the facts. For instance, the popular story that lights behind two windows in El Castillo guided Maya canoes home through the only opening in the reef -- if you can see one light, you're off target but if you can see both, you're right there; this story is cast into doubt by two facts: the Maya canoes were light enough to pass over the reef in most cases, and also no soot from lights was ever found on the ceiling of the rooms in question. I don't know if you get that kind of analysis from every guide. Hernan "call me Ernie" was great.
After Tulum, which we timed perfectly -- a zillion buses showed up when we were almost finished -- we went to Gran Cenote, and enjoyed a snorkel. A bit crowded for my tastes; I actually saw more fat ladies' butts than I did fish. But the caves were wonderful. Nancy would not concur, as she gets creeped out in any kind of cave, above or under water, but I am a claustrophiliac and love small spaces. However, Mitch's detailed explanation of deep cave diving, delivered next to the big map of the underground river system all across Quintana Roo that is posted up at Gran Cenote, made me realize the limitations of that feeling. Those people are CRAZY -- five air tanks, more than a mile of string, through spaces so tight you have to push your tanks through ahead of you? I'd rather walk on the moon in my jammies.
Then we went down the Boca Paila road, where we would be later staying, finding it even rougher than the guidebook said -- a team of Mexican highway workers were grading it, basically grinding it up into dust, which didn't seem like a good idea, but if I've learned anything in my life on earth it's "don't argue with road machinery". The private beach we ended up at was beautiful, even pretty than Mamita's, and with NO PEOPLE. There were a couple of hippies in the woods (including a rainbow-painted van with long-expired Washington plates) but otherwise pretty much deserted. Lunch was served -- some famous Playa-style barbecued chicken. Previous comments about disappointing food do not apply here; this was a great homestyle treat, with buttery mashed potatoes and rice and beans and fruit and hey, are those beers cold? Mmm.
Then another cenote, Cenote Azul, which was even prettier, and deserted, and I was starting to actually listen to some of the real-estate talk the others were throwing about. Hang on, I think I just forgot where I work! Nancy, where do we live?
So, if you're looking for a recommendation, take Mitch's playa.info tour, it rocks. It was tons of fun, very interesting and educational, and a great introduction to some of the places we would be returning to shortly. Which means that tomorrow's tale will not be about getting lost, or about getting into a horrible car crash on 307.
Next: Boca Paila Paradise
Where I Went On Holiday - Playa Del Carmen, Part 5
[Originally posted on http://www.playa.info/playa-del-carmen-forum/12969-where-i-went-holiday-trip-report-2.html in response to some comments there]
ThrushJockey asks about pics. Well, that's another story. Remember, this is the trip where everything went wrong, right?
I have one of these really cool micro-cameras, a Minolta Dimage Xt. About the size of a credit card, but has optical zoom and decent rez and takes really good pictures. it cost a fortune, well, by my standards. I like it so much I went and spent another fortune on the special marine housing so I could take lots of great snorkeling shots instead of using those crappy disposables that I can never get to take decent shots. I was all set; I was geared up.
Then I put my shirt down on the sand and a bunch got in the pocket and I put it back on and put the camera in my pocket too and it broke.
Am I allowed to say "****" on this forum?
There went about $600 worth of fun. I am a digital dork because I really do have to throw away 90% of the pictures I take to get a few good ones. I know I said earlier I couldn't get in a huff over anything, but I came close there. Damn. So I went into a camera shop, several of them actually, and confirmed my suspicions -- if I wanted a digital camera I was not going to find any bargains here. Double damn. I ended up springing for the cheapest thing I could find, a "Venta" or "Vela" or some damn thing, for about $160 USD, that would at least take the same kind of SD chips I was loaded with and allow me to shoot some pictures.
Three days later I broke that one too.
By that time, I was in such a glow that I don't think I even swore, causing Nancy to get all suspicious and ask me a bunch of personal questions to prove that it was really me. The beard I was sporting by then had her wondering.
So I do have some pictures, but not as many as I had hoped, and I haven't gone through them yet, because I have to hook my camera up to my computer to upload them and my CAMERA. IS. BROKEN.
So why am I so happy?
ThrushJockey asks about pics. Well, that's another story. Remember, this is the trip where everything went wrong, right?
I have one of these really cool micro-cameras, a Minolta Dimage Xt. About the size of a credit card, but has optical zoom and decent rez and takes really good pictures. it cost a fortune, well, by my standards. I like it so much I went and spent another fortune on the special marine housing so I could take lots of great snorkeling shots instead of using those crappy disposables that I can never get to take decent shots. I was all set; I was geared up.
Then I put my shirt down on the sand and a bunch got in the pocket and I put it back on and put the camera in my pocket too and it broke.
Am I allowed to say "****" on this forum?
There went about $600 worth of fun. I am a digital dork because I really do have to throw away 90% of the pictures I take to get a few good ones. I know I said earlier I couldn't get in a huff over anything, but I came close there. Damn. So I went into a camera shop, several of them actually, and confirmed my suspicions -- if I wanted a digital camera I was not going to find any bargains here. Double damn. I ended up springing for the cheapest thing I could find, a "Venta" or "Vela" or some damn thing, for about $160 USD, that would at least take the same kind of SD chips I was loaded with and allow me to shoot some pictures.
Three days later I broke that one too.
By that time, I was in such a glow that I don't think I even swore, causing Nancy to get all suspicious and ask me a bunch of personal questions to prove that it was really me. The beard I was sporting by then had her wondering.
So I do have some pictures, but not as many as I had hoped, and I haven't gone through them yet, because I have to hook my camera up to my computer to upload them and my CAMERA. IS. BROKEN.
So why am I so happy?
Where I Went On Holiday - Playa Del Carmen, Part 4
[Originally posted on http://www.playa.info/playa-del-carmen-forum/12969-where-i-went-holiday-trip-report.html#post128621]
Days 2-3
=======
That night, we had a proper dinner where I was fully aware of my surroundings. It's not my intention here to criticize, so I won't name names, but in general I have to say that the fancier the restaurant, the worse the food. We spent a lot of money at some well-recommended joints, only to receive very bland chicken cutlets or fish or whatever, floating in dull cream sauces with the same boring tongues of carrot and zucchini everywhere. I know everything doesn't have to be aflame with chilis, but really, we ate some incredibly boring meals in Playa.
On the other hand, every time we ventured into a taqueria, even the grimiest beat-down plastic chair place, we had absolutely wonderful food. The best thing I ate in Mexico might have been the pok chuc in the tourist-trap joint (the one with the red chairs) at Coba. In Playa, Los Almendros on 10th at Calle 6 had some terrific tacos -- I had one that was pork fat, which sounds gross but was awesome, and the chorizo is with mashed potato, and if you haven't had a mashed-potato & chorizo taco yet you're missing out.
The other best thing I ate was the famous shrimp taco at El Oasis. The rest of my meal was good, but that shrimp taco was like a trumpet blast and a ten-minute fiesta in my mouth. And that was only the second or third best thing at El Oasis; you've read about the tamarindo sauce, but for me the green sauce is the one I wanted to take home. I had heard stories of even Mexicans laying on some of this devil's milk and being shocked, but it was still a surprise. One drop -- POW. Two drops -- WOW. OK, we'll go to five drops on a chip -- oh lordie, the tears were running down my face. There is NOTHING on this earth as wonderful as the smoky sweet taste of habanero pepper, and when you taste it coming on you know that the blowtorch is about to touch the flame. WHOOSH. I sorta regretted it the next day, but I scarfed up a whole thing of chips with this magic sauce, never getting further than six drops at a time. When the guy who looked like the boss walked by, I flagged him down and raved incoherently for a few minutes, and when he told me I could drop by with an empty water bottle and cart some of the stuff away for 50 pesos, I cried some more. It's in my fridge right now.
If you're wondering, I discovered a few temporary cures for head colds here: one is a big snortful of salt water (decongests for a half hour), and the other is a repeated mild overdose of El Oasis's green sauce.
Thank you, habanero peppers.
Day 3
====
Repeat day 2, with a little more shopping.
A few fun experiences: I tried to buy a bottle of water in a drugstore on 10th with a 50 peso bill (getting small notes and coins was a constant problem). The girls there couldn't make change; I looked, and they had fewer than 10 pesos in the till. No English, no Spanish. For fifteen minutes I tried different combinations of more water, sunscreen, gum, toothpaste, different notes, taking things in and putting them back in, until I finally hit a combo that worked, which included some gum I didn't want. I think that unless you at some point acquire some gum you don't really want you haven't been to Mexico. While this was going in, another fancily-dressed American lady stopped in and had the same luck, only she swore and stomped out in a huff.
I have to say that in my whole two weeks in Mexico my desire to get into a huff over ANYTHING was at a historical low. By the end of the trip, you could have run over my foot in a car and I would have waved and smiled a little "te nada".
At some point I found myself trying to explain to Nancy where all these cigars came from. I have no idea, look, there's not that many, well, OK, I guess that's kind of a lot, but I'm on vacation, honey? The woman is capable by now of rolling her eyes without even moving a muscle. I endured a little scorn, possibly edged with a bit of contempt, but, well, I got to enjoy my cigars. I am very grateful to the person on this forum who recommended the Santa Claras, hecho en Mexico, as they were fresh and excellent, mild but a terrific head-filling smoke. Mmm. The Te Amos were also good, though not as good for me, the Torrents a bit less so, and I managed to save my money and not buy any Habanas -- though I did several times see the kid selling the glass-lid fakes I'd been warned about. Peso for value, I think the Santa Clara was about as good as I'm capable of appreciating. The cheap rolled-on-the-spot ones were also fun -- super moist and fresh, obviously not as prime a tobacco but pretty damn good for half the money, at least for the first few inches.
Days 2-3
=======
That night, we had a proper dinner where I was fully aware of my surroundings. It's not my intention here to criticize, so I won't name names, but in general I have to say that the fancier the restaurant, the worse the food. We spent a lot of money at some well-recommended joints, only to receive very bland chicken cutlets or fish or whatever, floating in dull cream sauces with the same boring tongues of carrot and zucchini everywhere. I know everything doesn't have to be aflame with chilis, but really, we ate some incredibly boring meals in Playa.
On the other hand, every time we ventured into a taqueria, even the grimiest beat-down plastic chair place, we had absolutely wonderful food. The best thing I ate in Mexico might have been the pok chuc in the tourist-trap joint (the one with the red chairs) at Coba. In Playa, Los Almendros on 10th at Calle 6 had some terrific tacos -- I had one that was pork fat, which sounds gross but was awesome, and the chorizo is with mashed potato, and if you haven't had a mashed-potato & chorizo taco yet you're missing out.
The other best thing I ate was the famous shrimp taco at El Oasis. The rest of my meal was good, but that shrimp taco was like a trumpet blast and a ten-minute fiesta in my mouth. And that was only the second or third best thing at El Oasis; you've read about the tamarindo sauce, but for me the green sauce is the one I wanted to take home. I had heard stories of even Mexicans laying on some of this devil's milk and being shocked, but it was still a surprise. One drop -- POW. Two drops -- WOW. OK, we'll go to five drops on a chip -- oh lordie, the tears were running down my face. There is NOTHING on this earth as wonderful as the smoky sweet taste of habanero pepper, and when you taste it coming on you know that the blowtorch is about to touch the flame. WHOOSH. I sorta regretted it the next day, but I scarfed up a whole thing of chips with this magic sauce, never getting further than six drops at a time. When the guy who looked like the boss walked by, I flagged him down and raved incoherently for a few minutes, and when he told me I could drop by with an empty water bottle and cart some of the stuff away for 50 pesos, I cried some more. It's in my fridge right now.
If you're wondering, I discovered a few temporary cures for head colds here: one is a big snortful of salt water (decongests for a half hour), and the other is a repeated mild overdose of El Oasis's green sauce.
Thank you, habanero peppers.
Day 3
====
Repeat day 2, with a little more shopping.
A few fun experiences: I tried to buy a bottle of water in a drugstore on 10th with a 50 peso bill (getting small notes and coins was a constant problem). The girls there couldn't make change; I looked, and they had fewer than 10 pesos in the till. No English, no Spanish. For fifteen minutes I tried different combinations of more water, sunscreen, gum, toothpaste, different notes, taking things in and putting them back in, until I finally hit a combo that worked, which included some gum I didn't want. I think that unless you at some point acquire some gum you don't really want you haven't been to Mexico. While this was going in, another fancily-dressed American lady stopped in and had the same luck, only she swore and stomped out in a huff.
I have to say that in my whole two weeks in Mexico my desire to get into a huff over ANYTHING was at a historical low. By the end of the trip, you could have run over my foot in a car and I would have waved and smiled a little "te nada".
At some point I found myself trying to explain to Nancy where all these cigars came from. I have no idea, look, there's not that many, well, OK, I guess that's kind of a lot, but I'm on vacation, honey? The woman is capable by now of rolling her eyes without even moving a muscle. I endured a little scorn, possibly edged with a bit of contempt, but, well, I got to enjoy my cigars. I am very grateful to the person on this forum who recommended the Santa Claras, hecho en Mexico, as they were fresh and excellent, mild but a terrific head-filling smoke. Mmm. The Te Amos were also good, though not as good for me, the Torrents a bit less so, and I managed to save my money and not buy any Habanas -- though I did several times see the kid selling the glass-lid fakes I'd been warned about. Peso for value, I think the Santa Clara was about as good as I'm capable of appreciating. The cheap rolled-on-the-spot ones were also fun -- super moist and fresh, obviously not as prime a tobacco but pretty damn good for half the money, at least for the first few inches.
Where I Went On Holiday - Playa Del Carmen, Part 3
[Originally posted on http://www.playa.info/playa-del-carmen-forum/12969-where-i-went-holiday-trip-report.html#post128621]
Day 2
====
OK, then. THIS is more like it. Nancy is awakened, fully refreshed, by the sound of me sneezing like a bomb going off sixteen times in a row. I think there's pieces of brain mixed in there by now. More pills.
Lying there in bed waiting for my skull to stop richocheting, I can't help but notice that it's a beautiful day outside. HEN-ry! had demonstrated the functioning of the impossibly complex A/C remote-control the night before, but he was operating under the mistaken impression that because I was standing in front of him, nodding and saying "yes, OK" that was absorbing even a tiny fraction of the information. I was not. But you know what? We didn't need A/C. I wanted to hear the birds outside, and it wasn't that hot; just very pleasant.
I couldn't really hear the birds all the well, though, because one drawback to the "junior suite with rooftop jacuzzi" at Hotel La Tortuga is that it backs onto 10th Avenue. I had been terrified booking the room that the noise from 5th would keep us awake -- but the noise from 10th was of a whole 'nuther caliber. Trucks, scooters, cars, banging cans, people yelling, whistles, honks, all kinds of things. It was a lovely day, all right, but a loud one. However, I was actually kind of glad, because I'm a terrible late sleeper and I HATE wasting the beautiful days on vacation gurgling up slowly out of sleep. Let's get out and have a look!
So we went to breakfast downstairs. Hotel restaurant, quite pleasant. A great deal of papaya was consumed by us both, in both solid and liquid form, as we both crave the stuff and the ones we get at home are three bucks and have been only partially ripened, apparently by exposure to nuclear waste. Not the same. These were yummy. The Agora restaurant attached to La Tortuga does a very nice breakfast if you're looking for something simple in a lovely garden setting.
Then: the beach. I read somewhere that there's a beach around here, and I meant to find it. We got our towels and membership paper for Mamita's at the desk, and strolled up through the town. Avenida Quinta (see, my Spanish is improving rapidly) even at this hour is a riot of color and sounds. Very pleasant. Mamita's is quite far, up beyond where the good street peters out, and Nancy is as usual convinced that I am leading her in the wrong direction into some kind of abandoned worksite, probably with a huge pit of chemicals to fall into, but I drag her onward and we find instead a bit of nice beach.
Nice, did I say nice? We've been to Hawai'i a few times, and we have fantastic beaches here in Washington (as long as you keep a sharp eye out for huge SUVs barrelling across them at 50 MPH), but not like this. What is this, this, STUFF on the ground? It can't be sand -- it's light and fluffy like powdered sugar, and it's cool to the touch, and when you snuggle your toes down in it, it's even cooler. Amazing. I've never seen sand like it. I'm starting to like this place. ATCHOO.
The bandana is gone; I think it was carted away by the hazardous waste people at the airport. But Nancy, being a woman, has secreted about her person at least a dozen little packets of tissues. Being a man, I of course habitually make fun of this ladylike behavior; I don't need no steenking tissues! Except of course I do. Once again I am forced to grovel and admit that I am a base creature and wrong as always, and get my own supply. ATCHOO.
The scenery is so beautiful; luscious glistening mounds of -- er, OK, I'm not supposed to be staring at the Italian women. Right. Seven shades of blue in the sea, four more in the sky, a few puffy clouds scudding across in the light breeze; and what's this? Oh hello. Why, yes, I WOULD like a nice cold cerveza, por favor.
We spend the entire day just lying there on our lounges. I got up a couple of times to shift mine a few inches to keep up with the moving shade, and at the previously arranged hour we did stroll up to the webcam and pose for our friends. But other than that, it was just pure decompression time. I could get used to this. I AM used to this already.
Ah yes, she turned over. Thank you, benevolent universe. It's a good thing Nancy can't see where my eyes are pointing through these new sunglass -- OW! What'd you hit me for?
Day 2
====
OK, then. THIS is more like it. Nancy is awakened, fully refreshed, by the sound of me sneezing like a bomb going off sixteen times in a row. I think there's pieces of brain mixed in there by now. More pills.
Lying there in bed waiting for my skull to stop richocheting, I can't help but notice that it's a beautiful day outside. HEN-ry! had demonstrated the functioning of the impossibly complex A/C remote-control the night before, but he was operating under the mistaken impression that because I was standing in front of him, nodding and saying "yes, OK" that was absorbing even a tiny fraction of the information. I was not. But you know what? We didn't need A/C. I wanted to hear the birds outside, and it wasn't that hot; just very pleasant.
I couldn't really hear the birds all the well, though, because one drawback to the "junior suite with rooftop jacuzzi" at Hotel La Tortuga is that it backs onto 10th Avenue. I had been terrified booking the room that the noise from 5th would keep us awake -- but the noise from 10th was of a whole 'nuther caliber. Trucks, scooters, cars, banging cans, people yelling, whistles, honks, all kinds of things. It was a lovely day, all right, but a loud one. However, I was actually kind of glad, because I'm a terrible late sleeper and I HATE wasting the beautiful days on vacation gurgling up slowly out of sleep. Let's get out and have a look!
So we went to breakfast downstairs. Hotel restaurant, quite pleasant. A great deal of papaya was consumed by us both, in both solid and liquid form, as we both crave the stuff and the ones we get at home are three bucks and have been only partially ripened, apparently by exposure to nuclear waste. Not the same. These were yummy. The Agora restaurant attached to La Tortuga does a very nice breakfast if you're looking for something simple in a lovely garden setting.
Then: the beach. I read somewhere that there's a beach around here, and I meant to find it. We got our towels and membership paper for Mamita's at the desk, and strolled up through the town. Avenida Quinta (see, my Spanish is improving rapidly) even at this hour is a riot of color and sounds. Very pleasant. Mamita's is quite far, up beyond where the good street peters out, and Nancy is as usual convinced that I am leading her in the wrong direction into some kind of abandoned worksite, probably with a huge pit of chemicals to fall into, but I drag her onward and we find instead a bit of nice beach.
Nice, did I say nice? We've been to Hawai'i a few times, and we have fantastic beaches here in Washington (as long as you keep a sharp eye out for huge SUVs barrelling across them at 50 MPH), but not like this. What is this, this, STUFF on the ground? It can't be sand -- it's light and fluffy like powdered sugar, and it's cool to the touch, and when you snuggle your toes down in it, it's even cooler. Amazing. I've never seen sand like it. I'm starting to like this place. ATCHOO.
The bandana is gone; I think it was carted away by the hazardous waste people at the airport. But Nancy, being a woman, has secreted about her person at least a dozen little packets of tissues. Being a man, I of course habitually make fun of this ladylike behavior; I don't need no steenking tissues! Except of course I do. Once again I am forced to grovel and admit that I am a base creature and wrong as always, and get my own supply. ATCHOO.
The scenery is so beautiful; luscious glistening mounds of -- er, OK, I'm not supposed to be staring at the Italian women. Right. Seven shades of blue in the sea, four more in the sky, a few puffy clouds scudding across in the light breeze; and what's this? Oh hello. Why, yes, I WOULD like a nice cold cerveza, por favor.
We spend the entire day just lying there on our lounges. I got up a couple of times to shift mine a few inches to keep up with the moving shade, and at the previously arranged hour we did stroll up to the webcam and pose for our friends. But other than that, it was just pure decompression time. I could get used to this. I AM used to this already.
Ah yes, she turned over. Thank you, benevolent universe. It's a good thing Nancy can't see where my eyes are pointing through these new sunglass -- OW! What'd you hit me for?
Where I Went On Holiday - Playa Del Carmen, Part 2
[Originally posted on http://www.playa.info/playa-del-carmen-forum/12969-where-i-went-holiday-trip-report.html#post128621]
Still Day 1
========
When we arrived in Cancun, the sun was starting to set. The only thing I notice as we come across the Yucatan is how thick the jungle looks and how insubstantial the bits that have been hacked out of it appear. It looks like if they closed Cancun Airport for a week, they'd never find it again. I'm starting to understand how the Maya cities could disappear for so long.
At the airport, we stand blurred by fatigue and confusion for a while until we realize that the ten thousand people standing in front of us are actually in a line. Our line. We have no idea where it goes, but it is clear that we need to get in it. If we had dashed straight for it off the plane without a second's hesitation, and gotten to the end of it just five minutes faster, we would have saved ourselves about an hour, as we would have got in ahead of the, oh jeez, now it's THIRTY thousand Italians. But we didn't.
So we slowly shuffle across the floor, eventually figuring out that we were headed towards those stairs over there. "Ah", I said, it's just down those stairs over there". Nancy was still mysteriously silent; there are times when my incredibly clever yet thoughtful running commentary wears a little thin, I'm told. At least she wasn't punching my arm. Yet.
When we reach the stairs, we realize that we still have fourteen hairpin turns left -- I counted -- before, well, I couldn't see what happened after that. Turns out that's where the giant roomful free-for-all was, where everyone tried to shove their way into one of the Immigration lines. So we shuffled some more. Shuffle, shuffle. Hey, I'm still a little high from the pills. The bandana was a serious bio-hazard by this time, though; if Nancy had had a big plastic bag with her she would have placed that over my head.
But then, the crowds parted like magic and we were standing there pretending we could understand what the nice man was telling us, which turns out to be "you're done here, please go over there now", which we did, got our bags, pushed the button, which was set to "everybody gets green", thankfully, as there were still forty thousand people there, and a mere two hours after we disembarked our plane, we were free to go.
I won't complain about Cancun because I've returned from international flights to far more unpleasant situations, like JFK in New York, where you are herded for miles down low-ceilinged, narrow slaughter chutes and end up in a room where you can see the people waiting for you on the other side of the glass but don't get to touch them for four more hours; or Sea-Tac, where you have to reclaim your bags THREE TIMES and go back through security twice -- coming IN. Urgh. In contrast, when we went to Copenhagen last year, we had a 100-yard walk through soothingly lit wood -paneled terminal, past immigration, into baggage claim where our bags were already waiting (after 15 minutes!), and were seated on a train into the city center 20 minutes after touchdown. This isn't that, but it's OK.
Immediately after clearing Customs, we are surrounded by literally dozens of uniformed people telling us to go to Xcaret. Right this minute. They all have "maps" of the area that show the Cancun airport, the highway, Xcaret and Xel-Ha, and nothing else. They appear to work for the government. I haven't been bum-rushed like this since I last landed in Newark, where all the nice gentlemen want to "help" you find a cab -- a useful service seeing as how all the cabs are fifteen feet away, lined up. We manage to extricate ourselves from the eager beavers and make our way past the five hundred sign-wavers outside to the one fellow holding up "Steve Dean" which is my first and middle names only, but it's the right name and hotel, so I figure we're good. It turns out his name is not Lamore; that's the van company. He's Miguel, and as soon as he shakes his hand he disappears again, to get the actual vehicle (which oddly enough is not parked here on the walkway).
The van arrives, much animated conversation ensues, and we head off to Hotel La Tortuga in Playa Del Carmen. It's fully dark by now, of course, so all we see of the mega-resorts along the coast is their giant illuminated signs -- when we can tear our eyes away from the dodge-em ballet taking place on the highway, that is. Um, we don't drive like this in Seattle. We're passive-agressive; these folks are just flat out regular agressive, and -- JESUS CHRIST THAT HUGE TRUCK IS COMING RIGHT --- ah. I think I'll close my eyes now.
Being dark, and being really tired, and still a little pill-crazed, I don't recollect much of our arrival except lights and colors and sounds. We manage to check in, and Henry, or HEN-ry! as he calls himself, takes us up to our room. Mexico is finally starting to happen here; the Hotel La Tortuga is absolutely beautiful, all dramatically-lit white adobe walls with beautiful plants cascading over everything, and tiles.
I'm pretty sure we ate dinner, but I never got to my cigar; I was out like a light before I got it lit.
Next: Playa
Still Day 1
========
When we arrived in Cancun, the sun was starting to set. The only thing I notice as we come across the Yucatan is how thick the jungle looks and how insubstantial the bits that have been hacked out of it appear. It looks like if they closed Cancun Airport for a week, they'd never find it again. I'm starting to understand how the Maya cities could disappear for so long.
At the airport, we stand blurred by fatigue and confusion for a while until we realize that the ten thousand people standing in front of us are actually in a line. Our line. We have no idea where it goes, but it is clear that we need to get in it. If we had dashed straight for it off the plane without a second's hesitation, and gotten to the end of it just five minutes faster, we would have saved ourselves about an hour, as we would have got in ahead of the, oh jeez, now it's THIRTY thousand Italians. But we didn't.
So we slowly shuffle across the floor, eventually figuring out that we were headed towards those stairs over there. "Ah", I said, it's just down those stairs over there". Nancy was still mysteriously silent; there are times when my incredibly clever yet thoughtful running commentary wears a little thin, I'm told. At least she wasn't punching my arm. Yet.
When we reach the stairs, we realize that we still have fourteen hairpin turns left -- I counted -- before, well, I couldn't see what happened after that. Turns out that's where the giant roomful free-for-all was, where everyone tried to shove their way into one of the Immigration lines. So we shuffled some more. Shuffle, shuffle. Hey, I'm still a little high from the pills. The bandana was a serious bio-hazard by this time, though; if Nancy had had a big plastic bag with her she would have placed that over my head.
But then, the crowds parted like magic and we were standing there pretending we could understand what the nice man was telling us, which turns out to be "you're done here, please go over there now", which we did, got our bags, pushed the button, which was set to "everybody gets green", thankfully, as there were still forty thousand people there, and a mere two hours after we disembarked our plane, we were free to go.
I won't complain about Cancun because I've returned from international flights to far more unpleasant situations, like JFK in New York, where you are herded for miles down low-ceilinged, narrow slaughter chutes and end up in a room where you can see the people waiting for you on the other side of the glass but don't get to touch them for four more hours; or Sea-Tac, where you have to reclaim your bags THREE TIMES and go back through security twice -- coming IN. Urgh. In contrast, when we went to Copenhagen last year, we had a 100-yard walk through soothingly lit wood -paneled terminal, past immigration, into baggage claim where our bags were already waiting (after 15 minutes!), and were seated on a train into the city center 20 minutes after touchdown. This isn't that, but it's OK.
Immediately after clearing Customs, we are surrounded by literally dozens of uniformed people telling us to go to Xcaret. Right this minute. They all have "maps" of the area that show the Cancun airport, the highway, Xcaret and Xel-Ha, and nothing else. They appear to work for the government. I haven't been bum-rushed like this since I last landed in Newark, where all the nice gentlemen want to "help" you find a cab -- a useful service seeing as how all the cabs are fifteen feet away, lined up. We manage to extricate ourselves from the eager beavers and make our way past the five hundred sign-wavers outside to the one fellow holding up "Steve Dean" which is my first and middle names only, but it's the right name and hotel, so I figure we're good. It turns out his name is not Lamore; that's the van company. He's Miguel, and as soon as he shakes his hand he disappears again, to get the actual vehicle (which oddly enough is not parked here on the walkway).
The van arrives, much animated conversation ensues, and we head off to Hotel La Tortuga in Playa Del Carmen. It's fully dark by now, of course, so all we see of the mega-resorts along the coast is their giant illuminated signs -- when we can tear our eyes away from the dodge-em ballet taking place on the highway, that is. Um, we don't drive like this in Seattle. We're passive-agressive; these folks are just flat out regular agressive, and -- JESUS CHRIST THAT HUGE TRUCK IS COMING RIGHT --- ah. I think I'll close my eyes now.
Being dark, and being really tired, and still a little pill-crazed, I don't recollect much of our arrival except lights and colors and sounds. We manage to check in, and Henry, or HEN-ry! as he calls himself, takes us up to our room. Mexico is finally starting to happen here; the Hotel La Tortuga is absolutely beautiful, all dramatically-lit white adobe walls with beautiful plants cascading over everything, and tiles.
I'm pretty sure we ate dinner, but I never got to my cigar; I was out like a light before I got it lit.
Next: Playa
Where I Went On Holiday - Playa Del Carmen, QR, Mexico
[Originally posted on http://www.playa.info/playa-del-carmen-forum/12969-where-i-went-holiday-trip-report.html]
This is going to be long and boring. Don't say I didn't warn you. The theme is probably "how can so many things go wrong and still be perfect?"
Day -2
=====
I'm sitting in front of playa.info trying to find some firm data on BOTB, if you know what I mean, when I sneeze. A minute later, I sneeze again. And then four in a row. You know how when you turn Furby upside down he says "worrrrried...."? That's me. I will NOT get effing sick the day before my trip, I will NOT.
Day -1
=====
But of course, I do. Full-blown cold, still getting worse by the second. I absolutely hate cold medicine of all kinds, I hate the stoned feeling more than the symptoms that they mostly don't take care of. But this is important; I'm going to be on an airplane. Damn it! Damn it! Plenty of fluids, echinacea, sacrifice a chicken in the back yard, I've tried everything, and now there's nothing to it but hard drugs. Rush to drugstore and stock up.
Day 1 (there's a zero in Maya numbers but not here)
====
Our flight is at 6:00 am, so here I am loading my bag into a cab at 3:30 AM, freezing in my vacation clothes. The bags have been obsessively packed and repacked approximately 400 times as several kinds of pointless anxiety sets in: should we bring the blender? Do they have towels in Mexico? Honey, I don't think the kitchen sink is going to fit in here, can it go in your carry-on? Nancy (my lovely and very patient wife) is having her own internal travel panic, which unlike mine is a deeply internal one; she appears to be in a standing coma.
One advantage of early morning travel for me is that I'm used to moving around in an unconscious state. Plus there's the Tylenol Cold pumping through my veins -- I think I took both "AM" and "PM" just in case. I have no recollection of arriving at Sea-Tac or getting on the plane.
I hope this doesn't offend anyone here, but it seems like people from remote areas have less of a conception of how to behave in crowded circumstances. The Alaskan woman sitting next to me appears to be full-on insane. She doesn't want to sit in the middle seat, so she stakes out an aisle seat up ahead that's not hers and glares bitterly as we load at anyone who thinks they have a ticket for it. She's also offering a loud running commentary of all the things she doesn't like about flying to her poor husband six rows back. She shifts several times before slinking back to her proper seat, where she puts her feet in my foot-cubbie and sprawls over my armrest. I'm so wired by this time I just sit there staring straight ahead.
I gather from the ticket stub that we stopped in LA, but all I can remember is having to get up to pee about eight times. I'm bad that way, but this was ridiculous. I blame the Tylenol, or maybe it was the Sudafed I topped it off with. The medicine wasn't really working all that well; if you were on that flight and got sick, I apologize. I what was rapidly becoming the world's most repulsive bandana wrapped around my exploding face most of the time, at least, so the by-spray was at a minimum.
Next: Cancun
This is going to be long and boring. Don't say I didn't warn you. The theme is probably "how can so many things go wrong and still be perfect?"
Day -2
=====
I'm sitting in front of playa.info trying to find some firm data on BOTB, if you know what I mean, when I sneeze. A minute later, I sneeze again. And then four in a row. You know how when you turn Furby upside down he says "worrrrried...."? That's me. I will NOT get effing sick the day before my trip, I will NOT.
Day -1
=====
But of course, I do. Full-blown cold, still getting worse by the second. I absolutely hate cold medicine of all kinds, I hate the stoned feeling more than the symptoms that they mostly don't take care of. But this is important; I'm going to be on an airplane. Damn it! Damn it! Plenty of fluids, echinacea, sacrifice a chicken in the back yard, I've tried everything, and now there's nothing to it but hard drugs. Rush to drugstore and stock up.
Day 1 (there's a zero in Maya numbers but not here)
====
Our flight is at 6:00 am, so here I am loading my bag into a cab at 3:30 AM, freezing in my vacation clothes. The bags have been obsessively packed and repacked approximately 400 times as several kinds of pointless anxiety sets in: should we bring the blender? Do they have towels in Mexico? Honey, I don't think the kitchen sink is going to fit in here, can it go in your carry-on? Nancy (my lovely and very patient wife) is having her own internal travel panic, which unlike mine is a deeply internal one; she appears to be in a standing coma.
One advantage of early morning travel for me is that I'm used to moving around in an unconscious state. Plus there's the Tylenol Cold pumping through my veins -- I think I took both "AM" and "PM" just in case. I have no recollection of arriving at Sea-Tac or getting on the plane.
I hope this doesn't offend anyone here, but it seems like people from remote areas have less of a conception of how to behave in crowded circumstances. The Alaskan woman sitting next to me appears to be full-on insane. She doesn't want to sit in the middle seat, so she stakes out an aisle seat up ahead that's not hers and glares bitterly as we load at anyone who thinks they have a ticket for it. She's also offering a loud running commentary of all the things she doesn't like about flying to her poor husband six rows back. She shifts several times before slinking back to her proper seat, where she puts her feet in my foot-cubbie and sprawls over my armrest. I'm so wired by this time I just sit there staring straight ahead.
I gather from the ticket stub that we stopped in LA, but all I can remember is having to get up to pee about eight times. I'm bad that way, but this was ridiculous. I blame the Tylenol, or maybe it was the Sudafed I topped it off with. The medicine wasn't really working all that well; if you were on that flight and got sick, I apologize. I what was rapidly becoming the world's most repulsive bandana wrapped around my exploding face most of the time, at least, so the by-spray was at a minimum.
Next: Cancun
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