Crisp. But in the meantime, right, a quick side-note, about a side-project.
Check out the image and location.
See what I mean?
Laeti edimus qui nos subigant!
Two Meat Tuesday (the book)
(cure for the common horoscope)
Pink Cake A commonplace book.
Bexar County Line
The Yeoman Warder giving the Tower Tour asked, “Any Americans here?” Show of hands, maybe half the crowd.
“Just think,” he nodded at us, “all this history could be yours, if you’d just paid your taxes.”
Waterloo & City:
Odd trivia I tend to favors, sometimes really quite useless and only, at best mildly entertaining. But like playing “Mornington Crescent,” there’s another strange little fact I came up with. I didn’t come up with it, maybe I more uncovered it.
The shortest Underground (London Underground, the original subway, oh whatever, the Tube) is the Waterloo & City Line. Goes from Waterloo Station to Bank. That’s it. Went to Waterloo, hopped on the line, rode to the next stop. Got off the train, looked around, got back on the same car, and rode back. Just to say “I done it.” And get a picture.
I figured it really deserved to be featured in a horoscope some time, but I doubt I could work that in. I just figured the ultimate job? The driver on the “Waterloo & City” Underground Line.
Back at Work:
Somebody’s got to mind the store.
Mind the Gap:
Willie Nelson: Rain or Shine.
What’s a trip with an audio track?
From the big “record” store (in the UK):
Beach Boutique II
LCD Sound System on French Music Channel
(frivolous purchase) Bassomatic
It’s always the ones with dubious judgement, like Bassomatic, that turn out to be surprisingly good. If you like Drum and Bass. I liked the title.
Bottled Water:
In two part harmony? Amusing to me, in that the French bottled water, perhaps the original source for Evian and Perrier? The French bottled water tasted just like Dallas tap water. Or Houston tap water. Maybe not Austin tap water, but still, pretty awful tasting. Maybe not awful, but hardly worth the 2, or more likely, four dollars paid.
Flip that around, and in the London restaurants, I gladly paid a couple of quid for a bottle of still water to go with the meal. Not always cheaper than wine, but with with calamitous effects, to be sure, and the London tap water? Think about it. I saw a sign: “We’re replacing old piping.” Roman pipes, still in place, and still used, in places. Roman pipes were lead pipes.
Might still be in use.
Single Use:
Please
It is forbidden to hang and to dry your clothes
Inside or outside the room. Every damage does
To this act will be your own responsiblities.
If you hang something outside you will have
Tickets from the police.
For hygienic reason
It is forbidden to eat
In the room
Thank you
Direction
Can’t make this stuff up.
Vegas Style:
It was cheaper, and easier, to use free tickets to get to the Virgin connections rather than fly their connections. Virgin still is high on my list to avoid. The seat back said “Recaro,” and back in the day, Recaro seats were the seat maker of choice for kings and race cars. Still was too small for my frame, and it wasn’t that cheap. Two inches of legroom was all I required. Two more inches.
The weekly video was shot in Paris. The funny part was, although I was in the Tour-Eiffel district, 7th Ward, the actual Eiffel Tower was not visible outside the window. Or from any window. Maybe the roof, I’m not sure. I was on the second or third, maybe fourth, floor.
The point of amusement, though, the way the tickets worked out, I had an extra night in Vegas. Cheap hotel. Lost no money. Out the hotel’s window, from the lofty level of the comp-penthouse suite? I could see the Eiffel Tower (Paris Casino, Las Vegas).
High Tea:
High Tea, done right, is a peculiar British affectation. To be sure, I’ve been served “high tea” in a couple of places outside the British Isles, but I don’t think it was near as good. San Francisco may have its charms, but I’m not sure that proper high tea was one of them. Although, there is a place a little south of downtown San Antonio that boasts of high tea. Still, I doubt it can compare with proper British overkill-opulence.
It’s the little sandwiches, and I’ll confide, as a child, not that I’m an adult now, but as a wee lad, I always wanted sandwiches with the crust cut off. That’s what is served at high tea. Then there are the biscuits and clotted cream. And jam. Or jelly, I would be hard-pressed to tell - however - it was marketed, at least once, as “preserves.” Good stuff. On a raisin biscuit (scone).
A hot tip from the girl working the top floor of Foyles Bookstore, I asked for a tea tip. She suggested The Wallace Collection. Good tip. Excellent choice. About two blocks from the Bond Street tube stop, about half a world away from reality as I know it.
Think about it, as I checked my phone, I looked around, the courtyard was glassed over, like a greenhouse, and that’s where the restaurant was, the garden room. High tea was cheaper, by half, than most of the other places I’ve had it recently. I looked at the WiFi connection on the phone. Dead spot. I looked around. Numerous continentals were having high tea - or late lunch - 2 girls from America, by baggage and accents, had their cell phones out, checking messages.
If the Wallace Collection was in the States, there would be WiFi advertised and available, and everyone would be chatting on a phone, or pecking away at a laptop. In London, on a sunny summer afternoon? Yeah, not so much.
Virgin Atlantic:
I tried it. The flight over, while timely and efficient, the seating sucked, the service was barely adequate, and if I’m going to be treated like cattle, I’d like it to be a lot cheaper. The deal is, family has raved, absolutely raved about how nice Virgin is.
Maybe if I wasn’t flying “cheapest available” it is nice. But the cheap seats suck. Pure and simple. Ask me about providing service to hundreds of people - it can be done. By sign if not by name. Yeah, for Virgin? Unless you don’t mind ungodly high prices, then yeah, the tourist section of the plane sucks.
When I fly, I know I have a choice. I think I’ll skip Virgin Atlantic - next time. If there is a next time, travel is so uncertain these days.
Spurs:
Basketball is over, but the central Texas favorites, the Spurs? I’ve got a new hat, says “Spurs” on the back, like it should. The front? Tottenham Hotspurs. New way to say, “Go Spurs Go.” Yee _something_ ha!
Six Wives:
American girls, I suppose, they would collect, I suppose, Barbie Dolls. In the basement of one church, in the gift shop? I can’t make this stuff up:
Henry VIII’s wives. Plus one. Mistress, maybe? Or that bottom, does she have her head in her hands?
On to books and covers:
Not to be confused with the currently reading list, but I was confused for a moment, I thought Britain was claiming a mythical Jack-O-lope.
The weekly audio file is available - updated for free.
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close to the edit:
I can’t go back, since I’m no longer in Paris (France), and re-shoot the weekly video, but I will point out, contrary to popular mythology, it is not possible to see the friggin’ Eiffel Tower from every hotel room.
It’s a peculiar habit, to observe and listen, to draw conclusions from the airiest of figments, but then, I do okay.
On the Paris Metro, I watched as a young lady pulled a cell phone sock out of her handbag. She emptied out the phone, read a text message, typed a short answer and clutched at the phone. A cell phone rang. She calmly reached into her bag, withdrew another phone sock and slipped out a phone, and punched the answer button, ‘Alors, non,” something something something. In French.
As an American, I have a cell phone holster. Ready at the draw. Typical. Most of the French? They seemed to favor socks for phones. Like an iPod sock, only, for a phone.
“Two cells phones?”
“Sure, one for texting a boyfriend, and one for work.”
Coffee Shop:
The Coffee Shop, it’s one of possibly hundreds, but one of only a handful that aren’t a dreaded - branded - trademarked - incorporated - global - chain. It’s tucked away in a tiny corner down a side street in Soho, but then, all things considered, Soho really isn’t very large, either. I’ve got clients with larger tracts of land, just for the weekend place. But culture is culture, and one that I’m an expert on? Coffee shops.
That place was the real deal. Made me think about a truck stop in West Texas. Same worn formica tops. Same deal.
French Roast:
Kept hitting really, really good coffee in Paris. Asked. The secret ingredient? French Roast Coffee From Richard’s. Not “Poor Richard’s,” either. Only bought one souvenir coffee mug the whole trip, an espresso cup from “Ree-SHARDs.”
This is it: coffee porn.
In other news:
MB going green? Saw some “smart” MB cars in Paris. Didn’t Toyota claim that it would be all Hybrid by 2012? Are they on target?
—footer—
Laeti edimus qui nos subigant!
(click to visit)
Copyright 2008 by Kramer Wetzel for astrofish.net. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed without prior written consent from the author.
“It was at Oxford, however, that (Christopher) Wren first encountered his sole vice - coffee. One of the first coffee houses, John’s, was set up in Oxford in the 1650s, and here Wren would develop a taste for the Turkish liquor that would last a lifetime.” The Phoenix page 37.
Wren was the architect of the great St. Paul’s Cathedral. Central London landmark.
However, for my money, nothing beats the noon communion at Westminster Abbey. I like that particular god. A lot. I took communion and the heavens weren’t rent asunder. Received absolution for my sins, all of my sins, of which there are so few, and I even got to tease one of the priestly dudes, “Any rules? No chewing tobacco, no gum, no swearing?”
Paris: in pieces:
Eurostar (Rail Europe) is the way to go. Now, there is a matter of money, currency varies, and there is the matter of language, and then, there is the tourist factor.
Texas border patois crashes into college French. It can only get uglier.
Such a lovely town, hated to leave, had the expected language problems, too. “Low sin gaz,” I smoothly ordered. “L’eau,” or l’eaux, would be water in French. “Sin” would be “without” in Spanish, and “gaz” would be implied carbonation, again in French, but the vernacular.
In line to get to the top of the Tour Eiffel, and one can easily bet I did that, the line snaked around, and there was a large group of adolescent, mostly male, Spanish-speaking youths. I’d guess from Spain, not from Mexico, based on my appraisal of the accent.
What was odd about the scene of those youths? To the letter, each and everyone of them wore an American-themed T-shirt. California Surfing, Arizona Jeans, Levi-Strauss, Jack’s Burger Joint, and for a country that gets ripped for our style choices? Seems like a lot of young people all want to dress like us. I’d suggest, the predominate style among young people, on the streets in Paris? America. Odd when many of them don’t speak English as a native tongue.
Never claimed I understood it.
Something really stood out about Paris, too, and the people who live there, love there, and eat there, not that there is much difference. I watched as a young alpha male was posturing, smoking a cigarette, chatting on a cell phone, cradling a helmet, sitting astride his mighty, manly ride.
Where else can 50 cc moped be truly macho?
I should leave that alone. But I can’t. My usual Starbucks order is larger than that, and probably has more kick. Not as much style, though, that kid was cool. Certainly cooler than me, and I’m pretty cool. Still, a moped?
I never saw a Starbucks. Not that I was disappointed, but after a week in London with a Starbucks on every blessed corner, to go a few short miles and have there be no branded logo, anywhere?
There’s a good reason why there isn’t a Bucky’s on every corner because there is a Bistro or Cafe, or something, where wine, tiny shots of exquisite espresso, artful crafted, hand-pulled, properly served. It’s a wonderful thing. Not that poorly roasted, urine-infected swill from Bucks.
The Hotel? Hotel Prince, got some kind of an internet deal that was good. A little strange by American standards, but by American standards, Starbucks is good. The room itself was about the size of large walk-in closet. The bathroom gets the vote for the smallest bathroom I’ve ever used. I could lean forward, on the toilet seat, and rest my head against the closed door. Or turn on the shower. As a point of reference, most (American) travel trailers, I’m thinking of a small Airstream, have larger bathrooms.
Complaining? Oh, hardly. It’s a cheap - by Paris standards - motel. With the Metro less than a half a block away, and, of course, right on the edge of the plain for the Champ du Mars (Eiffel Tower park), doesn’t get much better.
Continental Breakfast was included. I had a small pot of coffee that had the foam just like espresso. That, in and of itself, was worth the price of admission. But on top of that? To have a warm, buttery croissant, right out of the oven?
Two different Americans came down at breakfast, and then, there was a French couple. The French couple, he showed up first, she came down moments later, she was greeted with the kiss on each cheek, and a lingering breakfast that out lasted me. The other Americans? Dine and dash, quick cup of coffee and out the door. That French couple was still there, discussing politics and plans for the day.
Then, at night? With the front window, or door, open to the Paris night? Cigarette smoke mingled with wine and coffee, the sound of glasses tinkling in the Paris twilight, conversation, laughter of an older woman, varied vehicle traffic from the 50 cc moped to trucks, and flatulent autos, it all tinged the air. Just another summer’s eve in Paris.
In Soho, the real Soho, the Soho that is for real? Not an artificial name made up by some real estate group trading on name and image?
Anyway, Ronnie Scott’s club, with its storied history. Famous for?
Bexar County Line