Sleeping under the stars

I fell on to the plane after the long and exhausting days of moving house. I do wonder whether moving house is sort of like having a baby; well I hope so, cause I have to do it all again. In the middle you just want to give up, toward the end you think – I just wanna get this over and done with even if I die in the process, and then when it is all over, the memory just comes back in little bursts of panic until it fades, and you can’t remember, so you go back for more.

The flight was easy really. I couldn’t complain at all because I had the loveliest 90-year-old sitting beside me and she flew the whole way without one complaint. She looked about 70 and was a retired physics professor from Cambridge – a bit awe inspiring isn’t it to be a female physicist who started work 65 years before. The journey through Heathrow was all pretty simple and arrived into Glasgow about 5.30pm. Waited patiently for a couple of hours for Carol to pick me up. She said she would be there by 5.45 but by 7.30 I gave up and caught the bus. Arrived into the predictably comfortable Premier Inn on Buchanan with VDS strolling down the street. We went out for a very nice fish pie. Had knocked and knocked on Carol’s door but assumed she was passed out cold. Eighteen odd hours later Carol appeared in search of restorative tea.

VDS and Carol had the car tucked away in the car park over the road and we piled enough suitcases to stay here for a year into the back of a wagon and turned the mighty hearse toward Fort William. This time my trip was with Virginia, Carol and Victoria from Uni Melb, who tagged along for the adventure. Victoria is totally addicted to selfies so all of the way up the road it was .. quick stop .. Selpie O’Castle !! The drive up through the Great Glen was as beautiful as ever with the soaring mountains of the Highlands still covered in snow. Every time I drive up that road I am in awe of the most spectacular scenery but also spooked by the ghosts of the Valley of the Weeping. Mort Ghlinne Comhann, or the massacre of Glencoe always stirs up something in me. Hard to explain when it happened in 1692 but to me there is something about that road. Hey Tom, I have been reading about the massacre and hadn’t processed that the “The Rains of Castamere” is based on it. When we get to where we are going I plan to eat nothing, bolt the doors and cover my head with a wee blanket to keep out the ghosties.

The very gorgeous Jill, my fantastic circus performing PhD student who lives in NYC, bought tickets to Gloria Steinem for us to have the quintessential New York book reading experience. We caught the train to Brooklyn as we were meeting Jill at BAM’s Harvey theatre. It was the steepest and scariest theatre to sit in, but we left feeling empowered to rule the world.

It was a bit interesting to be part of the Hilary chanting New York set, but also slightly sobering, when we had to walk to the theatre through the massive protests about a 16-year-old African American kid that had been shot and killed on the street the night before at 6pm, in exactly the spot where we were standing. In many ways NYC feels just so safe and the people in the streets are much friendlier than anywhere else I have been – every time you stop, someone is asking you whether you need help, the teenagers at the ticket machines, the older people when you are standing with a map. It is, however, slightly disconcerting that in the friendliest city in the world you can only buy low alcohol wine in the supermarket, but you can buy a gun.

I couldn’t help asking Gloria whether Hilary’s run to the White House will be triumphantly brought down like other world female leaders. She thinks Hilary will make it the house on Pennsylvania Avenue but then the fight will begin.  I guess we will see. NYC please just reassure us that Trump will only get as far as signing books.

I have decided that I really hate mice but rats are sort of like little squirrels. I have been watching the ones that have survived the NYC poison squad, sitting up like squirrels, eating nuts in the subway. I must admit there is the security of me on the platform, and the rats on the rails, but they were rather cute.

The weather here has been totally glorious. Bright sunshine and never cold – I think it must be the humidity. The young dude on the Staten Island Ferry did quiz me about whether I was totally normal given my t-shirt wearing ways. Virginia has been easy to find – I can spot her a km a way as her t-shirts are all striped. We have had a number of where’s Wally moments – sitting beside each other desperately trying to find each other (even without the mules).

We paid homage to the lady of enlightenment and then back to the centre of power – homage to the New York Stock Exchange. A rub of the bull’s face (we weren’t having a bar of rubbing him anywhere else, although the giggling Japanese girls were well into it), a moment of serenity at the 911 memorial and then walked miles to play homage at the multinational temple of coffee – mules have been competing with spiced pumpkin latte.

I have become totally addicted (well in a boring, one a day sort of way) to Moscow Mules. They were apparently invented in Manhattan in the 40s so it is sort of fitting that gals in Manhattan would drink them while visiting. I realise it should be a cosmopolitan, but I rather like the thought of tin mug, 1940s, anti sobriety types slugging back Vodka with a good hit of ginger.

After hiking 30km on foot around Williamsburg, Brooklyn and Manhattan on our sturdy two feet, we needed a damn mule to carry us back to the 32^nd Street abode. Well the mule occurred on the border between Chinatown and Little Italy, parked up on a street bench, outside a very groovy restaurant. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the four legged, carry two stuffed women type, but the one in a glass, adorned with lime. There is something easy drinking about them there mules and by the time we stood up (only after one) there was a moment of confusion about whether we were in NYC or downtown China in the 40s.

We headed off in the morning on the L train to Williamsburg, a totally cool neighbourhood in Brooklyn. If I wanted to have the cool and hip New York experience of living here it would be Williamsburg for me. Breakfast at EGG – and then a short ride to DUMBO – yes Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass. I must be awfully slow, but it wasn’t until this trip that I understood the acronyms. I thought SOHO was just SOHO – no South of Houston street – makes sense really when you think about how much they love to number and letter streets – makes it exceptionally easy for tourists.

A wander around the gorgeous Danish designer shops in DUMBO and then across the Brooklyn Bridge to walk off the eggs. A stroll through the financial district, up through China Town to the Mule and then right across Central Park. We danced along a bit to the dudes in central park (the non shirt wearing, young, gorgeous ones) and then visited the completely stoned ones who were skating in their high glam. Roller skating minions are pretty cool.

Mickey on my wrist told me we had walked 30kms and the feet felt like it – but how fabulous to do NYC in a day.

Back along the cobblestones for a wander through the wine and cheese market. Had a lovely lunch beside the market with another talented busker playing Bohemian Rhapsody. It is so quiet down here along the river. The majority of tourists are funny creatures that never leave the tourist streets. They don’t seem to process that just one street over there is a far more pleasant world.

It would be really easy to fall asleep in the sun. The locals are snoozing in the sun and there are lots of dogs and well behaved small people. The weather is gorgeous, but after my great lunch of cheese and rose, I guess I should walk. Tempting though to spend the whole afternoon, sipping wine, with the strains of Queen in my ears, and dogs bounding around this oh so pleasant park. But, I need a history lesson.

I wandered through the Jewish Quarter, and the old Jewish cemetery. Caught between two synagogues, the graves are stacked on top of each other, sometimes twelve deep. The stories in the Prague Jewish Museum and the synagogues are hard to hear. The massive collection of artifacts, ironically, was collected by the Nazis, who wanted to create a museum of a destroyed race. The buildings have gone up around the many synagogues, but the whole area feels so important, in what has been a long and difficult history. Amidst the beauty of Prague, there are some signs of a complex history and current tension. As I wandered back through the major square, there were some peaceful protests that reminds one of the current challenges right across this region.

Had a great meandering day through the laneways of Prague. The buskers were out in force, so had a lovely time listening to a talented young singer/guitarist at the Lennon Wall in Velkopřevorské náměstí  in the Malá Strana, or Little Quarter.

The Gothic, Charles Bridge, gets so crowded, but I like the small streets that run down beside it. I was off wandering, not taking very much notice, and found myself in the middle of a film set. Of course I was lost in my own little world, so didn’t really process what was going on until a very gruff man roared at me in some foreign language. When I did look around, it was an odd site. There were women in period costume strolling the streets, and men in tights asleep in wagons and carriages. I have absolutely no idea what they were filming, just slightly bemused that I didn’t even notice the movie filming signs everywhere and the massive cameras.

I had been warned that food here was stodgy meat and dumplings, but not true, and I have found some lovely cafes. I had fantastic prawn Pad Thai and then a stroll back to put on something slightly more respectable than my oh so travel worn clothes.

I was very excited as I wandered the cobblestone streets back to the very lovely Church of Our Lady before Týn. I had bought tickets to the Royal Czech Orchestra concert. It was wonderful. Of course the acoustics in the Church were fantastic and I became totally spell bound listening as Vivaldi, Pachelbel and Bach rang out from talented violinists.