by Roz
After Layla had finished blogging, I’d finished my beer(s) and we had soaked up enough of the ambience of the lovely main square, we went off in search of dinner. We contemplated a number of options, all of which looked good – but exceptionally quiet. Having been informed by the guidebooks that Salvadorians eat early, we couldn’t quite work out whether this was due to Christmas holidays or a faux pas in terms of our timing. We therefore decided to mooch back through the lovely cobbled streets to our very fancy hotel for even fancier cocktails and food. And once we’d consumed our first two mohitos in a little courtyard with lots of fairy lights and a couple of water features, we were clear we’d made the right call. We were, however, less certain when a group of musicians appeared; Layla and I are not what one would describe as musical at the best of times. But, in fact, the musicians were very good and all in all it was very jolly. The food was good too – even if not especially Salvadorian.
Alas even the combination of food, cocktails and music couldn’t keep us up late – jet lag called us to bed at an unfashionably early hour. But as we went to bed, we consoled ourselves we were making the right decision, since we would need our strength for hiking the next day. And the next day, even after a very good night’s sleep, the fear of what was to come was certainly the reason why we consumed a number of delicious fluffy pancakes for breakfast…
We then rolled out onto the street to be collected by our guide (the American ex pat we met yesterday) – and his Salvadorean wife - in a pick-up truck. We were off for a hike in Cinquera Park, an aspiring national park which is currently run by a collective of enthusiasts lobbying for national park status. The 40-minute journey passed very pleasantly with me asking nerdy questions about the Government, the justice system, taxes and so forth. We also established during the ride that our hike could take one of two routes – and that which route we took would depend on our levels of fitness and enthusiasm. Since one involved getting to a look-out point at the top of the park (and, being uphill, was harder), I naturally resolved that this would be the option we would follow and, when we got there, set off at a determined pace. Amusingly the hike turned out to be really quite undaunting, and we kept up easily with the local guide from the park. Our ex-pat guide and his wife had a little more trouble and Layla and I had to work hard not to look back at them smugly as we strode forth. The route turned out to be very pretty and the view from the top was very pleasing – great vistas over volcanoes and the lake. The park itself was interesting both from the perspective of nature and history – since it had been used as a base during the civil war in the 1980s. (We were told a long tale about the naming of a base there, which was mainly pleasing / funny because the American ex-pat guide tried (not very successfully) to lesbianise the anecdote for our benefit.) Our route down had the really rather wonderful added benefit of a waterfall and pool, which we bathed in.
By the time we got to the bottom, lunch was all I could think of. The plan to drive to the nearby hostel / restaurant seemed to be foiled by an inconveniently parked car blocking our truck’s exit. Layla and I settled ourselves on a wall and watched whilst the local guides / ex-pat guide / random others debated how to solve the issue. With impressive resolve and enthusiasm, a solution was identified: to lift the parked car and move it out of the way. Ingenious. And, unlikely though it seemed at the time, successful. This accomplished, we drove off to the restaurant where we consumed a pleasing meal of eggs, rice and beans, washed down with beers and an explanation of how the civil war began (more nerdiness on my part).
Lunch over, we pottered around the town, and saw numerous bits of war memorabilia. I have to say that I’m not quite sure how I’d feel about my town having the remnants of a helicopter on a plinth outside the local church (the latter sporting a mural about their murdered archbishop)… but it was certainly interesting. Our guide then said that he’d heard that a butterfly farm had just opened in the town. It was clear that this was something exciting and so Layla and I therefore made excited and enthusiastic faces. We headed towards the farm, only to see the people in charge of the farm clearly on their way home for the day. Our guide persuaded them to open up for us, and Layla and I prepared ourselves to look impressed / interested at appropriate moments. In fact, it did turn out to be an interesting – and very sweet - place. They also kept iguanas, which I found fascinating (not least because I had, to Layla’s great amusement, always assumed that iguanas were furry mammals). The butterflies were good too, and Layla bobbed round trying to take photos, whilst my focus was rather more prosaic – avoiding the faux pas of stepping on a butterfly. That rather jolly tour at an end, we started off home.
Our journey home was not without excitement mind you. We stopped off at a dry waterfall – apparently made out of hexagonal pieces of basalt from a volcanic eruption, which is exciting because there are only five in the world, or some such. We climbed down a reasonably mild cliff and admired the really rather remarkable natural phenomenon. From there we climbed back on to flat land…to find that if we looked one way we could see the dry waterfall, and if we looked the other, there was a superb view of the large and beautiful lake which we saw a tiny bit of yesterday. Pleasing.
Very happy with our day’s activities we drove back to Suchitito. And I entirely deny any stiffness or tiredness now, as I sit in the hotel bar with a beer and type. To acknowledge stiffness would suggest that we were challenged by the hike. And of course that’s not admissible…
Thursday 30 December 2010
Tuesday 28 December 2010
In which Layla and Roz embark on an adventure to El Salvador, face down a nocturnal predator, and indulge in many drinks
by Layla
Deciding where to go on holiday for us often involves flicking through our Lonely Planet coffeetable book of every country in the world, and making a selection based on the recommended months to visit, and whether it sounds cool. When Roz came up with El Salvador, I was unconvinced, but the months were right, the war was over, and its claim of being the least visited country in Central America was just too tempting. We booked the flights and ordered the one guidebook that's available for the country. And decided to fly into El Salvador and out of neighbouring Nicaragua, for no particular reason except that we could and it sounded fun. And is the second least visited country in Central America.
With snow closing Heathrow Airport days before our flight, we thought we might be doomed, so it was with glee that we boarded the plane and zoomed across the planet to the delights of Central America.
We arrived last night in trepidation; I had heard too many tales of the complicated nature of San Salvador airport and had braced myself for an hour of customs and passport horrors. In fact there was a short queue, nothing to pay, a quick stamp in our passports, and we were sent on our way. I felt cheated of my stress! We stepped out into the arrivals hall only to find that our hotel transfer was not there (probably because our flight had been revoltingly delayed by one and a half hours). As we stood looking confusedly around, a taxi tout appeared. He asked us if we wanted a taxi; we explained we were waiting for a driver whom we could not find. Said man then called the hotel for us, established the driver ought to be here but was not, and he found us a comfortable big taxi at a fair cost. He was very sweet and I felt fairly confident that if our driver had been there, the tout would have led us to him, rather than trying to poach our business. Soon we were speeding efficiently towards our first destination: Suchitoto.
It was quite a long drive: over an hour in the dark, through the capital and into the hills. Finally, having been travelling now for about 21 hours, we staggered exhaustedly out of the taxi to be greeted by Pascal, former French ambassador, designer, and owner of El Salvador's poshest boutique hotel, Los Almendros de San Lorenzo. After the delights of the posh hotel in Beirut, we have forged a new tradition of spending the first few nights of our holiday somewhere glamorous, and when Pascal greeted us with 'Welcome to Paradise', we knew we had chosen well. We were shown across a courtyard and past a swimming pool to our room... or should I say apartment. It's over two floors, with beautiful, contemporary design, high ceilings, private veranda overlooking Lake Suchitlan, and absolutely fit the bill for 'somewhere glamorous'. We dropped our bags and returned to the bar to sip excellent mohitos before retiring exhaustedly to bed.
I fell straight asleep, but Roz was not so lucky. I was awoken an hour later by a trembling voice. "Layla... I think there's someone in the room... or a rat..." I rubbed my eyes, rather disbelievingly. Like a brave girl I got out of bed and shouted "hello?", ran down the stairs, put on all the lights. "Nope, nobody here!" I shouted reassuringly. In response, a shriek. I leapt back up the stairs, only to see something flying straight towards my head. A bat! I'm afraid my response was to shriek too, dive into bed, and put the covers over my head, where Roz was already cowering. Hmmm a predicament. I really had no idea what to do with a bat, so it was clear that external assistance was required. In terror I got out of bed and tried to call reception, but the phone didn't work. Then Roz, like a hero, got out of bed and went to find some hotel staff. The reception was deserted. But then she spotted a man wandering around the grounds who seemed to be staff, and decided he would have to rescue us. Which he duly did. My description of 'una rata... negro...' and flapping my arms descriptively made him fear for what he was about to encounter. Fortunately, the bat made another appearance, flapping wildly. Roz and I shrieked on cue and shot downstairs, abandoning the man to his fate. Fortunately he rather efficiently disposed of the beast, and we returned to bed, adrenaline pulsing. We really aren't as intrepid as we like to believe!
Up too early this morning with jetlag, we indulged in a glorious breakfast at the hotel, including fresh orange juice, fresh fruit salad, banana pancakes, tea and coffee, eaten in a pretty outside courtyard. And then we ventured out into the quaint cobbled streets of Suchitoto. It is a very sweet little town of art galleries, cafes, a market, and a central square with a big church. We wandered around a little, then headed off on the 1.5km walk downhill to Lake Suchitlan, pausing for a drink at a cafe overlooking the lake. Which was our first introduction to liguados, delicious fruit drinks that I suspect will become a staple. We walked past lots of pretty little houses, most with stencils on their outside walls stating that there was no violence towards women in that house - presumably a campaign, and rather a nice one. Onwards we walked til we reached the lake, and hired a boat and boatman to take us round the lake - very picturesque and serene. Afterwards I topped up my liguado habit, and Roz sampled the local beer, Pilsener. We vaguely thought of walking back up the steep and untempting hill to Suchitoto, but the delightful appearance of a local bus tempted me too much. Grabbing a reluctant Roz, we hopped aboard and were back in Suchitoto ten minutes later, along with a large number of the local population.
Lunchtime! We proceeded to a recommended restaurant owned by 'Gringo' Robert, a US expat, who gave us the local delicacy, pupusas (delicious), two chimichangas, some nachos, some beer... and lots of advice. He also runs a tour company and we arranged a tour tomorrow, which seems to involve climbing up a very mountain and learning about the civil war. My legs hurt at the thought of it...
After lunch we returned to our room for a nap, then had planned to go for a swim. Roz was brave but the water was icy and I just couldn't manage it. After I had bee pathetic for a while, hovering by the water, she emerged and we both got dressed and returned to the main square where we have settled ourselves with beer and liguado in Artex Cafe, complete with Wifi, to watch the world go by and indulge in a little preprandial blogging.
We haven't seen another British person yet, and couldn't be happier!
Deciding where to go on holiday for us often involves flicking through our Lonely Planet coffeetable book of every country in the world, and making a selection based on the recommended months to visit, and whether it sounds cool. When Roz came up with El Salvador, I was unconvinced, but the months were right, the war was over, and its claim of being the least visited country in Central America was just too tempting. We booked the flights and ordered the one guidebook that's available for the country. And decided to fly into El Salvador and out of neighbouring Nicaragua, for no particular reason except that we could and it sounded fun. And is the second least visited country in Central America.
With snow closing Heathrow Airport days before our flight, we thought we might be doomed, so it was with glee that we boarded the plane and zoomed across the planet to the delights of Central America.
We arrived last night in trepidation; I had heard too many tales of the complicated nature of San Salvador airport and had braced myself for an hour of customs and passport horrors. In fact there was a short queue, nothing to pay, a quick stamp in our passports, and we were sent on our way. I felt cheated of my stress! We stepped out into the arrivals hall only to find that our hotel transfer was not there (probably because our flight had been revoltingly delayed by one and a half hours). As we stood looking confusedly around, a taxi tout appeared. He asked us if we wanted a taxi; we explained we were waiting for a driver whom we could not find. Said man then called the hotel for us, established the driver ought to be here but was not, and he found us a comfortable big taxi at a fair cost. He was very sweet and I felt fairly confident that if our driver had been there, the tout would have led us to him, rather than trying to poach our business. Soon we were speeding efficiently towards our first destination: Suchitoto.
It was quite a long drive: over an hour in the dark, through the capital and into the hills. Finally, having been travelling now for about 21 hours, we staggered exhaustedly out of the taxi to be greeted by Pascal, former French ambassador, designer, and owner of El Salvador's poshest boutique hotel, Los Almendros de San Lorenzo. After the delights of the posh hotel in Beirut, we have forged a new tradition of spending the first few nights of our holiday somewhere glamorous, and when Pascal greeted us with 'Welcome to Paradise', we knew we had chosen well. We were shown across a courtyard and past a swimming pool to our room... or should I say apartment. It's over two floors, with beautiful, contemporary design, high ceilings, private veranda overlooking Lake Suchitlan, and absolutely fit the bill for 'somewhere glamorous'. We dropped our bags and returned to the bar to sip excellent mohitos before retiring exhaustedly to bed.
I fell straight asleep, but Roz was not so lucky. I was awoken an hour later by a trembling voice. "Layla... I think there's someone in the room... or a rat..." I rubbed my eyes, rather disbelievingly. Like a brave girl I got out of bed and shouted "hello?", ran down the stairs, put on all the lights. "Nope, nobody here!" I shouted reassuringly. In response, a shriek. I leapt back up the stairs, only to see something flying straight towards my head. A bat! I'm afraid my response was to shriek too, dive into bed, and put the covers over my head, where Roz was already cowering. Hmmm a predicament. I really had no idea what to do with a bat, so it was clear that external assistance was required. In terror I got out of bed and tried to call reception, but the phone didn't work. Then Roz, like a hero, got out of bed and went to find some hotel staff. The reception was deserted. But then she spotted a man wandering around the grounds who seemed to be staff, and decided he would have to rescue us. Which he duly did. My description of 'una rata... negro...' and flapping my arms descriptively made him fear for what he was about to encounter. Fortunately, the bat made another appearance, flapping wildly. Roz and I shrieked on cue and shot downstairs, abandoning the man to his fate. Fortunately he rather efficiently disposed of the beast, and we returned to bed, adrenaline pulsing. We really aren't as intrepid as we like to believe!
Up too early this morning with jetlag, we indulged in a glorious breakfast at the hotel, including fresh orange juice, fresh fruit salad, banana pancakes, tea and coffee, eaten in a pretty outside courtyard. And then we ventured out into the quaint cobbled streets of Suchitoto. It is a very sweet little town of art galleries, cafes, a market, and a central square with a big church. We wandered around a little, then headed off on the 1.5km walk downhill to Lake Suchitlan, pausing for a drink at a cafe overlooking the lake. Which was our first introduction to liguados, delicious fruit drinks that I suspect will become a staple. We walked past lots of pretty little houses, most with stencils on their outside walls stating that there was no violence towards women in that house - presumably a campaign, and rather a nice one. Onwards we walked til we reached the lake, and hired a boat and boatman to take us round the lake - very picturesque and serene. Afterwards I topped up my liguado habit, and Roz sampled the local beer, Pilsener. We vaguely thought of walking back up the steep and untempting hill to Suchitoto, but the delightful appearance of a local bus tempted me too much. Grabbing a reluctant Roz, we hopped aboard and were back in Suchitoto ten minutes later, along with a large number of the local population.
Lunchtime! We proceeded to a recommended restaurant owned by 'Gringo' Robert, a US expat, who gave us the local delicacy, pupusas (delicious), two chimichangas, some nachos, some beer... and lots of advice. He also runs a tour company and we arranged a tour tomorrow, which seems to involve climbing up a very mountain and learning about the civil war. My legs hurt at the thought of it...
After lunch we returned to our room for a nap, then had planned to go for a swim. Roz was brave but the water was icy and I just couldn't manage it. After I had bee pathetic for a while, hovering by the water, she emerged and we both got dressed and returned to the main square where we have settled ourselves with beer and liguado in Artex Cafe, complete with Wifi, to watch the world go by and indulge in a little preprandial blogging.
We haven't seen another British person yet, and couldn't be happier!
Wednesday 10 November 2010
An anniversary in Copenhagen
By Layla
As Roz always takes control of our getting-together anniversaries, with surprise trips and little notebooks to tell me what we’re doing each step of the way, I foolishly agreed to take responsibility for our first wedding anniversary. By the time of our departure, I had already accidentally revealed to Roz that we were going to Copenhagen, got into an indecisive tizz, and ended up with her booking the hotel. I had already failed on the surprise front. I had to make things special – but how?
The trip started salubriously after work on Friday, when we headed to Stansted Airport to get an Easyjet flight to Copehnhagen. As we soared Denmark-wards, we tucked into Pret a Manger vegetarian bento boxes and by the time we landed, already felt rather festive. An eye wateringly expensive taxi conveyed us to our hotel, with the taxi driver sweetly giving us a guided tour of Copenhagen (and warning us how expensive it was compared to London).
We arrived at the Admiral Hotel, on the waterfront in a cool old wharf building, and with much relief I found that the hotel had followed my instructions to have champagne cooling in our bedroom. The first time I’ve ever ordered this before – and I was most pleased to see that it came complete with some very delicious chocolate on a stylish slate. Curious that it was pink and tasted a bit like juice... We drank and munched with glee, before deciding we still felt rather perky, so we headed out into the chilly Copenhagen night.
It had been my vague plan to find a nice bar in the stretch of restaurants lining Nyhavn, the old harbour. This was very picturesque, with colourful buildings and water lapping, but the bars were not very tempting. Not even the Scottish gastropub.. I resolved to take Roz to one of the world’s best bars, Ruby, that had been recommended to me. Alas I couldn’t remember exactly where it was, but after a 15 minute walk through the Friday night streets of central Copenhagen, including along a street full of wedding dresses, we found it. Mainly alerted by the long queue outside, seemingly to the Georgian Embassy, that made us rather sad at 11:30pm but we decided to persist, and by midnight we were mounting the steps to the bar (intriguingly in the building’s hallway, Ruby on the right, Georgian Embassy straight ahead). The top floor was unpleasantly mobbed, but we fought our way to the bar and ordered a couple of superlative cocktails (Roz had French 75, I had Halo) and retired to a more sedate lower floor to bag a couple of seats and sip appreciatively. My seat was next to a man who started to chat me up, much to my smugness and Roz’s indignation! After we polished off these cocktails, we retrieved the menu, to find it was a different one – we were now in the room of ‘forgotten cocktails’. We embarked on a cocktail exploration of Colonial days, and had a very pleasant evening, til the tiredness overtook us and we walked home to our hotel, through pretty Copenhagen streets.
On Saturday we exhaustedly slept very late, and by the time we eventually woke up, it was almost lunchtime. Which I didn’t really notice or think about, and when Roz announced a desire for breakfast, all I could think of was how to find some for her, rather than the far more appropriate thought that she should save her appetite. I hadn’t managed much in the way of surprises, but I had a really good one up my sleeve... The best restaurant in the world, Noma, is located in Copenhagen. In fact this was the inspiration for me booking the tickets. Alas when I’d tried to book I’d found out how silly I was to imagine that was all it took – it was almost impossible to get a table at Noma! There were absolutely no tables for months into the future. The reservations person pretty much laughed out loud at my request. Frustratedly, I had put my name on a waiting list and contacted them obsessively, in the unlikely hope of a mad person cancelling. After all, who would cancel lunch at Noma?
I’d given up all hope by Friday afternoon when I got the phone call. ‘Would you still be interested in a table at Noma for lunch?’ I practically did a jig in the street. And had somehow managed to conceal the excitement from Roz. So much so that we were halfway through ordering a large breakfast when with horror I realised my error. The eggs we’d ordered came with non-vegetarian accompaniment and I sent it back, refusing a new plate. Roz was somewhat bemused until I produced my version of her cool surprise notebook and bade her turn the page. When she read that we were going to Noma, she practically exploded with excitement. And I felt very smug indeed.
Noma is located at the deserted end of an island in Christianhavn, in an old wharf building. We walked there from Nyhavn, along the water, and then – embarrassingly early – we practically pressed our noses up against the windows until the hour approached, and we stepped over the threshold of the best restaurant in the world.
There is always the fear, when going somewhere with such a reputation, that disappointment is nigh. I am delighted to report that Noma fulfilled all our foodie dreams. We were shown to our table, overlooking the harbour and brightly coloured buildings of Nyhavn across the water, in a very cool, contemporary, fancy, warehousey building with exposed wood and brick, a contemporary vibe, and a full room of very happy-looking diners. We accepted the suggestion of champagne, and then a waiter marched up to us to confirm our food requirements Yes, we were vegetarians. No, we had no other allergies. He then marched off without any suggestion of a menu, and we realised: at Noma you don’t choose what sounds good. The chef knowa what you want to eat!
And so began a series of seven ‘snacks’, each one more beautiful, quirky, elaborate and intriguingly delicious than the last. Deep fried lichen on a bed of moss. Some bright red seaweed with pickled rose petals that tasted of penny sweets. Some creamed broadbeans on impossibly thin rye toast. Two tiny marinated quail eggs with liquid yolk, served on a bed of straw inside a large ceramic egg, from which inexplicable steam billowed. Deep fried leek bulbs. Wafer-thin ciabatta with nine herb topping. And most impressively, a plantpot with plants growing from it – you pulled the plants out to find they were beautifully prepared vegetables buried in edible soil (smoked hazelnut and beer). With each course came a waiter who described it in depth.
We had rather assumed that these dishes were the meal, so when the last one came, and the waiter explained that this was the end of the snacks, and thus of the service of his part of the kitchen, we were intrigued. Soon a new waiter appeared and advised us of our one choice: we could choose seven courses or twelve. He warned us that twelve courses would have to be eaten rather speedily as they closed at 4. Roz and I looked at each other. Twelve courses sounded mighty decadent… on the other hand, how could we live with missing out on five glorious courses at the best restaurant in the world? We took a deep breath and asked for twelve. Which Roz accompanied with matching wine flights.
And so the dishes commenced. I can’t remember them all. There was a glorious mushroom dish. A bizarre and delicious cucumber dish with frozen cucumber balls wrapped in burnt cucumber skin. One of onion and tapioca. A special egg dish that one fried oneself at the table (alone of all the diners, I failed to break the egg properly, then burned myself with the oil, much to the distress/disgust of the waiter who clearly thought my priorities were deeply wrong when I chose running my hand under cold water over eating the glorious food at the moment it tasted best), a cabbage plate… hazelnuts… oh goodness, I couldn’t possibly do the dishes justice with my descriptions. Each was intriguing, innovative, amazing… and mostly delicious. There were three desserts. The poached pear with raw pear sliced on top was delicious, but its accompanying freeze-dried pear soufflé was absolutely astounding. The artichoke icecream was fascinating. Malt and compressed apple discs. Freezedried beetroot crumbs surrounding caramelised brown cheese. As we retired to the coffee table to eat our chocolate treats at the end, we realised I had eaten 21 courses (Roz had eaten 19 – I had pilfered some of hers!) When the bill came I had to clutch the table to keep from fainting, but my goodness – if a meal was ever priceless, it was Noma. What an amazing, intriguing, innovative, and altogether spectacular experience. We staggered out of the restaurant and literally rolled back to the hotel. And had a nap.
We woke up to the alarming realisation that I had booked a fancy dinner at a very cool, brand new, up-and-coming restaurant tipped to be in the Top 50 next year, Relae. We couldn’t possibly eat another morsel… could we? On the other hand, it sounded intriguing. It would be such a shame to miss it… before we knew what had happened, we were in a taxi. When we asked the driver to take us to Relae, he was hesitant: ‘Are you sure? That’s the most dangerous street in Denmark! Drug dealers, shootings…’ Luckily I’d already read that this was indeed the case, so told him to go right ahead. Of course the street didn’t seem a patch on Camberwell, and the restaurant looked very cool. Not as glamorous as Relae, but a sophisticated crowd and clearly a cool place to be. We had the four course vegetarian menu. We particularly enjoyed the course which was clearly a reinterpretation of Noma’s onion and tapioca. I was convinced Noma’s was better; Roz favoured Relae’s… we had baby broccoli. We had spirals of squashed strips of beetroot. And a frozen apple crumb dessert with fennel. Intriguing. As I gasped down my 25th course of the day, I wondered whether I might have been a trifle greedy… All in all, Relae wasn’t amazing. We doubted it would indeed get into the top 50. But it was pretty good!
We got a taxi and zoomed on to the Danish Film Institute, home to the Copenhagen 25th Lesbian and Gay Film Festival. Which didn’t seem very popular, but the venue was cool, and we settled down, along with a small crowd of gays, to watch Spork, a brilliant, quirky American movie about a hermaphrodite teenager and her struggle to fit in. Sweet, funny, touching, fantastic. We left the cinema with tears and grins, and walked through the Saturday night streets to bed.
We had set our alarm clock to wake up early on Sunday morning, so that we could march 30 minutes through the streets to Mike’s Bikes, for a 3 hour bike tour round Copenhagen. We ended up running late and dashing along til we got there in the nick of time to be told by Mike – rather smugly – that he had decided to cancel the cycle that day. We were furious: we’d really been looking forward to it, and his attitude was infuriating. We marched out with wrath and couldn’t quite decide what to do next… We wandered back to Kongens Have park where we wandered amongst the pretty autumn trees to check out my proposed lunch venue, Orangeriet. Alas we soon realised (a) they had no vegetarian options, and (b) we were still a bit full from yesterday. So we returned to MJ Coffee to have some overpriced coffee/smoothie and mull over our options…
I was supposed to be the girl with the plans, but Roz soon took control of a deteriorating suggestion and suggested following the Time Out guidebook guided walk around the city. Genius! We set off, through pretty squares and shopping streets, to the museum of post and telecommunications. Which was hi-tech and brilliant, albeit a tad niche… After playing with the various communication devices and admiring postal uniforms of old, we had a nice lunch of goat cheese sandwiches in their rooftop café.
Onwards, through the centre of town, and we came to Tivoli, Copenhagen’s famed amusement park. I’d read everywhere it was closed, and it looked closed, so we didn’t go (I was rather bitter when a taxi driver later that day told me it was open – I’m still doubtful). We stopped off at the Danish Design Center for a quick design browse and a very large pot of tea, before continuing over the bridge to the island where the parliament sits, and then over another bridge to Christianshavn, and on to Christiania, a strange little hippy enclave which for various historical reasons is not subject to the laws of Copenhagen and sits as a its own little tie-dyed, cannabis-smoking republic. Odd but interesting.
We walked back to Nyhavn and settled in McJoy’s gastropub, in fact a nice little pub on the port, and sipped drinks and watched the boats over beer til it was time to reluctantly return to the hotel, pick up our bags, jump in a taxi and… yes, have more food! The destination was Famo, a lovely little Italian restaurant where we gorged on delicious food. Again, there were multiple courses. This is an excellent feature of Copenhagen. We washed it down with prosecco, toasted our anniversary, and grabbed a taxi to the airport. Just in time to find out our plane was delayed. We finally staggered into our own flat just after 1am, cursing Easyjet, but having had a very nice anniversary trip indeed.
As Roz always takes control of our getting-together anniversaries, with surprise trips and little notebooks to tell me what we’re doing each step of the way, I foolishly agreed to take responsibility for our first wedding anniversary. By the time of our departure, I had already accidentally revealed to Roz that we were going to Copenhagen, got into an indecisive tizz, and ended up with her booking the hotel. I had already failed on the surprise front. I had to make things special – but how?
The trip started salubriously after work on Friday, when we headed to Stansted Airport to get an Easyjet flight to Copehnhagen. As we soared Denmark-wards, we tucked into Pret a Manger vegetarian bento boxes and by the time we landed, already felt rather festive. An eye wateringly expensive taxi conveyed us to our hotel, with the taxi driver sweetly giving us a guided tour of Copenhagen (and warning us how expensive it was compared to London).
We arrived at the Admiral Hotel, on the waterfront in a cool old wharf building, and with much relief I found that the hotel had followed my instructions to have champagne cooling in our bedroom. The first time I’ve ever ordered this before – and I was most pleased to see that it came complete with some very delicious chocolate on a stylish slate. Curious that it was pink and tasted a bit like juice... We drank and munched with glee, before deciding we still felt rather perky, so we headed out into the chilly Copenhagen night.
It had been my vague plan to find a nice bar in the stretch of restaurants lining Nyhavn, the old harbour. This was very picturesque, with colourful buildings and water lapping, but the bars were not very tempting. Not even the Scottish gastropub.. I resolved to take Roz to one of the world’s best bars, Ruby, that had been recommended to me. Alas I couldn’t remember exactly where it was, but after a 15 minute walk through the Friday night streets of central Copenhagen, including along a street full of wedding dresses, we found it. Mainly alerted by the long queue outside, seemingly to the Georgian Embassy, that made us rather sad at 11:30pm but we decided to persist, and by midnight we were mounting the steps to the bar (intriguingly in the building’s hallway, Ruby on the right, Georgian Embassy straight ahead). The top floor was unpleasantly mobbed, but we fought our way to the bar and ordered a couple of superlative cocktails (Roz had French 75, I had Halo) and retired to a more sedate lower floor to bag a couple of seats and sip appreciatively. My seat was next to a man who started to chat me up, much to my smugness and Roz’s indignation! After we polished off these cocktails, we retrieved the menu, to find it was a different one – we were now in the room of ‘forgotten cocktails’. We embarked on a cocktail exploration of Colonial days, and had a very pleasant evening, til the tiredness overtook us and we walked home to our hotel, through pretty Copenhagen streets.
On Saturday we exhaustedly slept very late, and by the time we eventually woke up, it was almost lunchtime. Which I didn’t really notice or think about, and when Roz announced a desire for breakfast, all I could think of was how to find some for her, rather than the far more appropriate thought that she should save her appetite. I hadn’t managed much in the way of surprises, but I had a really good one up my sleeve... The best restaurant in the world, Noma, is located in Copenhagen. In fact this was the inspiration for me booking the tickets. Alas when I’d tried to book I’d found out how silly I was to imagine that was all it took – it was almost impossible to get a table at Noma! There were absolutely no tables for months into the future. The reservations person pretty much laughed out loud at my request. Frustratedly, I had put my name on a waiting list and contacted them obsessively, in the unlikely hope of a mad person cancelling. After all, who would cancel lunch at Noma?
I’d given up all hope by Friday afternoon when I got the phone call. ‘Would you still be interested in a table at Noma for lunch?’ I practically did a jig in the street. And had somehow managed to conceal the excitement from Roz. So much so that we were halfway through ordering a large breakfast when with horror I realised my error. The eggs we’d ordered came with non-vegetarian accompaniment and I sent it back, refusing a new plate. Roz was somewhat bemused until I produced my version of her cool surprise notebook and bade her turn the page. When she read that we were going to Noma, she practically exploded with excitement. And I felt very smug indeed.
Noma is located at the deserted end of an island in Christianhavn, in an old wharf building. We walked there from Nyhavn, along the water, and then – embarrassingly early – we practically pressed our noses up against the windows until the hour approached, and we stepped over the threshold of the best restaurant in the world.
There is always the fear, when going somewhere with such a reputation, that disappointment is nigh. I am delighted to report that Noma fulfilled all our foodie dreams. We were shown to our table, overlooking the harbour and brightly coloured buildings of Nyhavn across the water, in a very cool, contemporary, fancy, warehousey building with exposed wood and brick, a contemporary vibe, and a full room of very happy-looking diners. We accepted the suggestion of champagne, and then a waiter marched up to us to confirm our food requirements Yes, we were vegetarians. No, we had no other allergies. He then marched off without any suggestion of a menu, and we realised: at Noma you don’t choose what sounds good. The chef knowa what you want to eat!
And so began a series of seven ‘snacks’, each one more beautiful, quirky, elaborate and intriguingly delicious than the last. Deep fried lichen on a bed of moss. Some bright red seaweed with pickled rose petals that tasted of penny sweets. Some creamed broadbeans on impossibly thin rye toast. Two tiny marinated quail eggs with liquid yolk, served on a bed of straw inside a large ceramic egg, from which inexplicable steam billowed. Deep fried leek bulbs. Wafer-thin ciabatta with nine herb topping. And most impressively, a plantpot with plants growing from it – you pulled the plants out to find they were beautifully prepared vegetables buried in edible soil (smoked hazelnut and beer). With each course came a waiter who described it in depth.
We had rather assumed that these dishes were the meal, so when the last one came, and the waiter explained that this was the end of the snacks, and thus of the service of his part of the kitchen, we were intrigued. Soon a new waiter appeared and advised us of our one choice: we could choose seven courses or twelve. He warned us that twelve courses would have to be eaten rather speedily as they closed at 4. Roz and I looked at each other. Twelve courses sounded mighty decadent… on the other hand, how could we live with missing out on five glorious courses at the best restaurant in the world? We took a deep breath and asked for twelve. Which Roz accompanied with matching wine flights.
And so the dishes commenced. I can’t remember them all. There was a glorious mushroom dish. A bizarre and delicious cucumber dish with frozen cucumber balls wrapped in burnt cucumber skin. One of onion and tapioca. A special egg dish that one fried oneself at the table (alone of all the diners, I failed to break the egg properly, then burned myself with the oil, much to the distress/disgust of the waiter who clearly thought my priorities were deeply wrong when I chose running my hand under cold water over eating the glorious food at the moment it tasted best), a cabbage plate… hazelnuts… oh goodness, I couldn’t possibly do the dishes justice with my descriptions. Each was intriguing, innovative, amazing… and mostly delicious. There were three desserts. The poached pear with raw pear sliced on top was delicious, but its accompanying freeze-dried pear soufflé was absolutely astounding. The artichoke icecream was fascinating. Malt and compressed apple discs. Freezedried beetroot crumbs surrounding caramelised brown cheese. As we retired to the coffee table to eat our chocolate treats at the end, we realised I had eaten 21 courses (Roz had eaten 19 – I had pilfered some of hers!) When the bill came I had to clutch the table to keep from fainting, but my goodness – if a meal was ever priceless, it was Noma. What an amazing, intriguing, innovative, and altogether spectacular experience. We staggered out of the restaurant and literally rolled back to the hotel. And had a nap.
We woke up to the alarming realisation that I had booked a fancy dinner at a very cool, brand new, up-and-coming restaurant tipped to be in the Top 50 next year, Relae. We couldn’t possibly eat another morsel… could we? On the other hand, it sounded intriguing. It would be such a shame to miss it… before we knew what had happened, we were in a taxi. When we asked the driver to take us to Relae, he was hesitant: ‘Are you sure? That’s the most dangerous street in Denmark! Drug dealers, shootings…’ Luckily I’d already read that this was indeed the case, so told him to go right ahead. Of course the street didn’t seem a patch on Camberwell, and the restaurant looked very cool. Not as glamorous as Relae, but a sophisticated crowd and clearly a cool place to be. We had the four course vegetarian menu. We particularly enjoyed the course which was clearly a reinterpretation of Noma’s onion and tapioca. I was convinced Noma’s was better; Roz favoured Relae’s… we had baby broccoli. We had spirals of squashed strips of beetroot. And a frozen apple crumb dessert with fennel. Intriguing. As I gasped down my 25th course of the day, I wondered whether I might have been a trifle greedy… All in all, Relae wasn’t amazing. We doubted it would indeed get into the top 50. But it was pretty good!
We got a taxi and zoomed on to the Danish Film Institute, home to the Copenhagen 25th Lesbian and Gay Film Festival. Which didn’t seem very popular, but the venue was cool, and we settled down, along with a small crowd of gays, to watch Spork, a brilliant, quirky American movie about a hermaphrodite teenager and her struggle to fit in. Sweet, funny, touching, fantastic. We left the cinema with tears and grins, and walked through the Saturday night streets to bed.
We had set our alarm clock to wake up early on Sunday morning, so that we could march 30 minutes through the streets to Mike’s Bikes, for a 3 hour bike tour round Copenhagen. We ended up running late and dashing along til we got there in the nick of time to be told by Mike – rather smugly – that he had decided to cancel the cycle that day. We were furious: we’d really been looking forward to it, and his attitude was infuriating. We marched out with wrath and couldn’t quite decide what to do next… We wandered back to Kongens Have park where we wandered amongst the pretty autumn trees to check out my proposed lunch venue, Orangeriet. Alas we soon realised (a) they had no vegetarian options, and (b) we were still a bit full from yesterday. So we returned to MJ Coffee to have some overpriced coffee/smoothie and mull over our options…
I was supposed to be the girl with the plans, but Roz soon took control of a deteriorating suggestion and suggested following the Time Out guidebook guided walk around the city. Genius! We set off, through pretty squares and shopping streets, to the museum of post and telecommunications. Which was hi-tech and brilliant, albeit a tad niche… After playing with the various communication devices and admiring postal uniforms of old, we had a nice lunch of goat cheese sandwiches in their rooftop café.
Onwards, through the centre of town, and we came to Tivoli, Copenhagen’s famed amusement park. I’d read everywhere it was closed, and it looked closed, so we didn’t go (I was rather bitter when a taxi driver later that day told me it was open – I’m still doubtful). We stopped off at the Danish Design Center for a quick design browse and a very large pot of tea, before continuing over the bridge to the island where the parliament sits, and then over another bridge to Christianshavn, and on to Christiania, a strange little hippy enclave which for various historical reasons is not subject to the laws of Copenhagen and sits as a its own little tie-dyed, cannabis-smoking republic. Odd but interesting.
We walked back to Nyhavn and settled in McJoy’s gastropub, in fact a nice little pub on the port, and sipped drinks and watched the boats over beer til it was time to reluctantly return to the hotel, pick up our bags, jump in a taxi and… yes, have more food! The destination was Famo, a lovely little Italian restaurant where we gorged on delicious food. Again, there were multiple courses. This is an excellent feature of Copenhagen. We washed it down with prosecco, toasted our anniversary, and grabbed a taxi to the airport. Just in time to find out our plane was delayed. We finally staggered into our own flat just after 1am, cursing Easyjet, but having had a very nice anniversary trip indeed.
Wednesday 27 October 2010
In which Layla and Roz ice skate, eat, and get pedicures
by Layla
I awoke with delight after my 10 course meal and a long sleep to find myself not ill any more. I leapt from bed and found that we had returned to business as usual - I was sent to the corner shop for the last time to buy Roz a morning coffee. The usual woman, who always remembered my order and said a cheery, local hello, was off, and I knew it was a sign: time to go home.
We packed up, and went down to the gay men's flat below to print out our boarding passes. Going home preparation activities complete, we proceeded out into the sunny Saturday morning to pretend going home was not on the horizon. First stop: the Rockefeller Center. It is always my dream to go ice skating (and since last year I'd been taking lessons). I'd had to accept that we had come too early: the rinks weren't open. But then, like a miracle, a tiny notice: the Rockefeller Center ice rink was opening that very day! I was joyous. We arrived at an ice-cleaning time (yes, I'd misread the schedule) so wandered around Saks Fifth Avenue and suchlike fancy places where Roz wanted to buy a wallet but I had to throw myself in her path due to the terrifying price tags. And then it was time. Delightfully, news that the rink was open had clearly not spread. There were only about 20 people on the ice. Surrounded of course by about 1000 spectating tourists who had been passing. I was bitter to find that a few months without lessons had left me almost as rubbish as previously, but I gained confidence and even managed a very little spin. Hooray.
After ice skating we tried to get the metro, it was closed, and ended up getting a cab through Times Square to our lovely little brunch establishment, East of Eighth. We were bitter to find the sunny day had prompted them to close the usual pretty restaurant and decamp to a little patio, but a couple of mimosas and some delicious Eggs Benedict (with guacamole) later, we were quite happy.
After lunch, we wandered down the street feeling aimless and sad about the impending flight. And then we walked past a beautician type establishment where a line of ladies sat in special chairs having pedicures. We had never partaken in such things before, but suddenly, randomly dashed inside on a whim. Great idea - before long we were seated in side-by-side pedicure chairs, our feet in baths of bubbly milk and lavender. After the pedicure, we moved, with shiny toenails, to massage chairs and had shoulder massages. Ah, life's not so bad...
Two beauty treatments later and we walked down towards Greenwich Village towards our dinner - very early due to the flight time. We'd walked all the way to the restaurant before deciding we didn't fancy it, wandered back, established ourselves in Cornelia St Cafe, didn't really fancy the food, and felt sad and irritable and not-wanting-to-go-home-ish. And then I popped next door to a glamorous yet friendly feeling little restaurant called Po. They were fully booked but squeezed us into the bar area, where a great gay boy waiter tended to our every need and we started to feel very cheery indeed as we tucked into delicious food and wine (well,Roz had wine. I was still nervous about my stomach...). The pumpkin ravioli was a delight that I will dream about for years to come.
Bad moods banished, it was disappointing to realise we had to leave (though a relief to the waiter, I'm sure, as the place was packed). We walked back to the flat, grabbed our cases, and with great reluctance headed to JFK, lamenting the stupid idea of getting a night flight. Sure enough we did not sleep a single wink. Which allowed us to appreciate the hysterical screaming child. But luckily the horrors did not cancel out the loveliness of a fantastic New York holiday. More next year, please!
I awoke with delight after my 10 course meal and a long sleep to find myself not ill any more. I leapt from bed and found that we had returned to business as usual - I was sent to the corner shop for the last time to buy Roz a morning coffee. The usual woman, who always remembered my order and said a cheery, local hello, was off, and I knew it was a sign: time to go home.
We packed up, and went down to the gay men's flat below to print out our boarding passes. Going home preparation activities complete, we proceeded out into the sunny Saturday morning to pretend going home was not on the horizon. First stop: the Rockefeller Center. It is always my dream to go ice skating (and since last year I'd been taking lessons). I'd had to accept that we had come too early: the rinks weren't open. But then, like a miracle, a tiny notice: the Rockefeller Center ice rink was opening that very day! I was joyous. We arrived at an ice-cleaning time (yes, I'd misread the schedule) so wandered around Saks Fifth Avenue and suchlike fancy places where Roz wanted to buy a wallet but I had to throw myself in her path due to the terrifying price tags. And then it was time. Delightfully, news that the rink was open had clearly not spread. There were only about 20 people on the ice. Surrounded of course by about 1000 spectating tourists who had been passing. I was bitter to find that a few months without lessons had left me almost as rubbish as previously, but I gained confidence and even managed a very little spin. Hooray.
After ice skating we tried to get the metro, it was closed, and ended up getting a cab through Times Square to our lovely little brunch establishment, East of Eighth. We were bitter to find the sunny day had prompted them to close the usual pretty restaurant and decamp to a little patio, but a couple of mimosas and some delicious Eggs Benedict (with guacamole) later, we were quite happy.
After lunch, we wandered down the street feeling aimless and sad about the impending flight. And then we walked past a beautician type establishment where a line of ladies sat in special chairs having pedicures. We had never partaken in such things before, but suddenly, randomly dashed inside on a whim. Great idea - before long we were seated in side-by-side pedicure chairs, our feet in baths of bubbly milk and lavender. After the pedicure, we moved, with shiny toenails, to massage chairs and had shoulder massages. Ah, life's not so bad...
Two beauty treatments later and we walked down towards Greenwich Village towards our dinner - very early due to the flight time. We'd walked all the way to the restaurant before deciding we didn't fancy it, wandered back, established ourselves in Cornelia St Cafe, didn't really fancy the food, and felt sad and irritable and not-wanting-to-go-home-ish. And then I popped next door to a glamorous yet friendly feeling little restaurant called Po. They were fully booked but squeezed us into the bar area, where a great gay boy waiter tended to our every need and we started to feel very cheery indeed as we tucked into delicious food and wine (well,Roz had wine. I was still nervous about my stomach...). The pumpkin ravioli was a delight that I will dream about for years to come.
Bad moods banished, it was disappointing to realise we had to leave (though a relief to the waiter, I'm sure, as the place was packed). We walked back to the flat, grabbed our cases, and with great reluctance headed to JFK, lamenting the stupid idea of getting a night flight. Sure enough we did not sleep a single wink. Which allowed us to appreciate the hysterical screaming child. But luckily the horrors did not cancel out the loveliness of a fantastic New York holiday. More next year, please!
In which Layla is sick, Roz listens to clever podcasts, and they both eat a very large meal
by Roz
I woke up to the sound of Layla being rather ill, vigorously and loudly and realised with sorrow that we would probably have to abandon our plan to go to the Queens Hall of Science and adjacent minature golf course in favour of a day of vomiting. A fine plan for Layla, but I had to wonder what I should do. Stay at home and look sympathetic or go and do something fun by myself? But first, a task that normally falls to Layla to do for me: the quest for medication. I trawled a variety of Greenwich Village pharmacies in search of anti-vomiting and anti-stomach pain medication to no avail. After quite a large number of shops (and a disappointing cup of tea from Le Pain Quotidien), I was obliged to return home with a very large bottle of what was essentially sugar syrup. The pharmacist assured me it would work. A couple of gulps of the syrup and Layla demonstrated that Scottish illness is made of stronger stuff than the American variety. It was not chased away by sugar and she returned speedily to her place by the toilet bowl. I decided that this was the moment for me to make a speedy exit.
After attempting coffee followed by food at Tea and Sympathy, and being told I had to commit to eating a certain amount or I wasn't welcome, I retired to the more friendly S'Nice for a leisurely brunch. I then wandered to the Highline Park and built upon my fantastic experience at the Natural History Museum by sitting in beautiful sunshine, listening to some podcasts of previous events. I listened to a lecture about electronics but it was too hard, so instead I listened to one about genetic engineering which I understood, mainly as it had a large number of film references. I may not know much about science but I do know my films. It made me all the more bitter that such a great event doesn't happen in London. As I was listening to it, Layla texted to report that she was definitely well enough to come and meet me. Twenty minutes later an ashen Layla limped towards me, a vision of invalid. In fact she was so weak she couldn't even make it to my bench without a rest. She assured me she felt great. And collapsed across my lap. I couldn't decide whether it was rude to continue with my podcast. She soon proved to be poor company, so I tuned back in...
When my educational hour was over, Layla looked no better and even she had to admit she may not be able to participate in any afternoon fun. So I escorted her home to bed and tried to download City Island for her on the laptop. I failed, but she was happy to sit huddled under a blanket in a darkened room while I fled to the sunny joys of Central Park with my book, City Boy by Edmund Whyte. I first went to the Boathouse and had a cocktail and a decadent plate of cheese so large that I desperately tried to look as though I was not alone, while listening to podcasts and gazing at the water sparkling in the sun. I then went and sat on a nearby bit of grass overlooking a lake and read my book, which I had bought only the day before, in Barnes and Noble. I particularly enjoyed that he had lived in Horatio Street, the NYC street in which we were currently living. I got myself a suntan and started messaging Layla to assess whether she might be able to do anything that evening. She was adamant that we kept our reservation at the Gramercy Tavern, a very fancy restaurant where a vegetarian tasting menu awaited us. Having been unable to keep down a sip of water all day, this seemed foolhardy, but she was insistent, so I came home to change. She still looked green. She insisted she was fine. Further probing revealed she couldn't think of anything else to do that evening, and felt guilt-ridden about this. This did not seem the best reason to go to one of NYC's most expensive restaurants, but I did see the logic. And so we took a cab to the Gramercy. Outside I asked Layla one final time whether it was a good idea.
And so, with an affirmative answer, we embarked on a 10 course extravaganza (mine accompanied by matching wine flights in generous glasses) and a complimentary glass of champagne to celebrate our first anniversary. Delicious. All sorts of tasty courses. Corn soup. Watermelon salad. Lentils. Spaghetti. Glorious cheese. And more. Layla did look a bit green, and I spotted her casting her eyes in the direction of the 'restrooms' more than once... but she struggled manfully on and, having hoovered up her dessert, which was decorated by a 'happy anniversary' message in chocolate, smiled proudly and assured me she had enjoyed herself. There were no adverse repercussions. I have a new respect for her gluttony.
And after a long and delightful meal, it was home to bed.
I woke up to the sound of Layla being rather ill, vigorously and loudly and realised with sorrow that we would probably have to abandon our plan to go to the Queens Hall of Science and adjacent minature golf course in favour of a day of vomiting. A fine plan for Layla, but I had to wonder what I should do. Stay at home and look sympathetic or go and do something fun by myself? But first, a task that normally falls to Layla to do for me: the quest for medication. I trawled a variety of Greenwich Village pharmacies in search of anti-vomiting and anti-stomach pain medication to no avail. After quite a large number of shops (and a disappointing cup of tea from Le Pain Quotidien), I was obliged to return home with a very large bottle of what was essentially sugar syrup. The pharmacist assured me it would work. A couple of gulps of the syrup and Layla demonstrated that Scottish illness is made of stronger stuff than the American variety. It was not chased away by sugar and she returned speedily to her place by the toilet bowl. I decided that this was the moment for me to make a speedy exit.
After attempting coffee followed by food at Tea and Sympathy, and being told I had to commit to eating a certain amount or I wasn't welcome, I retired to the more friendly S'Nice for a leisurely brunch. I then wandered to the Highline Park and built upon my fantastic experience at the Natural History Museum by sitting in beautiful sunshine, listening to some podcasts of previous events. I listened to a lecture about electronics but it was too hard, so instead I listened to one about genetic engineering which I understood, mainly as it had a large number of film references. I may not know much about science but I do know my films. It made me all the more bitter that such a great event doesn't happen in London. As I was listening to it, Layla texted to report that she was definitely well enough to come and meet me. Twenty minutes later an ashen Layla limped towards me, a vision of invalid. In fact she was so weak she couldn't even make it to my bench without a rest. She assured me she felt great. And collapsed across my lap. I couldn't decide whether it was rude to continue with my podcast. She soon proved to be poor company, so I tuned back in...
When my educational hour was over, Layla looked no better and even she had to admit she may not be able to participate in any afternoon fun. So I escorted her home to bed and tried to download City Island for her on the laptop. I failed, but she was happy to sit huddled under a blanket in a darkened room while I fled to the sunny joys of Central Park with my book, City Boy by Edmund Whyte. I first went to the Boathouse and had a cocktail and a decadent plate of cheese so large that I desperately tried to look as though I was not alone, while listening to podcasts and gazing at the water sparkling in the sun. I then went and sat on a nearby bit of grass overlooking a lake and read my book, which I had bought only the day before, in Barnes and Noble. I particularly enjoyed that he had lived in Horatio Street, the NYC street in which we were currently living. I got myself a suntan and started messaging Layla to assess whether she might be able to do anything that evening. She was adamant that we kept our reservation at the Gramercy Tavern, a very fancy restaurant where a vegetarian tasting menu awaited us. Having been unable to keep down a sip of water all day, this seemed foolhardy, but she was insistent, so I came home to change. She still looked green. She insisted she was fine. Further probing revealed she couldn't think of anything else to do that evening, and felt guilt-ridden about this. This did not seem the best reason to go to one of NYC's most expensive restaurants, but I did see the logic. And so we took a cab to the Gramercy. Outside I asked Layla one final time whether it was a good idea.
And so, with an affirmative answer, we embarked on a 10 course extravaganza (mine accompanied by matching wine flights in generous glasses) and a complimentary glass of champagne to celebrate our first anniversary. Delicious. All sorts of tasty courses. Corn soup. Watermelon salad. Lentils. Spaghetti. Glorious cheese. And more. Layla did look a bit green, and I spotted her casting her eyes in the direction of the 'restrooms' more than once... but she struggled manfully on and, having hoovered up her dessert, which was decorated by a 'happy anniversary' message in chocolate, smiled proudly and assured me she had enjoyed herself. There were no adverse repercussions. I have a new respect for her gluttony.
And after a long and delightful meal, it was home to bed.
Friday 8 October 2010
In which Layla and Roz visit City Island, drink cocktails, go rowing and attend a book event.
by Layla
Yesterday started off as usual with my regular trip to the corner shop. I was greeted with "Good morning. A large coffee with milk, and a bagel with cream cheese?" which was either pleasing or embarrassing. We skipped the bagel as we wanted to get up and out. After a tasty bowl of granola in lovely Jane Street coffeeshop Grounded, we walked to Union Square to catch the number 6 subway to its very end. I have a particular penchant for doing this anyway, but yesterday we had a specific purpose: a journey to City Island. Said island is at the furthest reaches of the Bronx and resembles a New England fishing village, and Roz has had a random dream to visit since she saw the film by the same name, depicting a very sweet little sleepy fishing community that contrasted massively with nearby Manhattan. So, at the end of the line (Pelham Parkway), we hopped on an X29 bus and found ourselves sitting with a very different type of New Yorker. There were no high heels or designer outfits in sight. Somewhat akin to our bus companions in Staten Island last year, but a tad more blustery. And everyone seemed to know everyone else.
Soon we zipped over the bridge and the sign stood out: Welcome to City Island. Hooray! The island consists of one main street that runs the length of the island (1.5miles), with little residential streets branching off (the island is half a mile wide). We settled down in the City Island Diner, bustling and apparently right out of a 1950s film. I had a strawberry milkshake and a veggieburger and chips; Roz had a more abstemious Greek salad wrap. Sated, we proceeded to wander around the island, going down sleepy residential streets that all led to the sea, sparkling in the sun, and with the New York skyline visible far away through mist. We loved looking at the film-perfect houses with white picket fences and verandas and massive American flags hanging from each door (try that in Britain and people would assume you belonged to the BNP). We also came across a special bin painted with American symbols for the specific purpose of 'retiring old flags - giving them a dignified disposal'. Onwards we walked, appreciating a house with a massive Halloween display in the form of an inflatable lifesized carriage driven by a headless horseman and carrying a Dracula who bobbed up and down. It was quite a sight!
We walked back to the bridge to the island and sat by the water, awaiting our bus back to the subway and back to Manhattan. We decided to stop off at the Central Park boathouse for cocktails by the water. It was much more serene than the weekend chaos. We sipped Boathouse Pink Lemonade cocktails, munched a giant cookie, and then took to the water, rowing around the picture-perfect lake in the sun for an hour. Beautiful.
When we had finished we took the subway to Soho, and to the Pegu Club, a cool, casual and attractive cocktail bar on West Houston Street. It takes its inspiration the Colonial era (the original Pegu Club having been in Burma). I had a strawberry daiquiri, Roz had the Pegu Club house cocktail (already a classic in 1930), and we people-watched with much enjoyment until it was time to move on, to the McNally Jackson bookstore, where there was to be a reading by Joseph O'Neill, author of Netherland which we loved, promoting his book Blood Dark Track. Fantastic venue and interesting guy. He spoke for an hour, and afterwards we walked around the corner to our restaurant for the night, me discussing how unpleasant I had found his very posh, clipped English accent, and Roz pointing out with some bitterness that she had the same accent as him! Oops.
We were slightly too early for our restaurant reservation so tried to go to a bar called Latina Oficina, only to be told it was not open (though had people in it!) and settled down with a glass of Sancerre next door til 9pm came and we returned to the restaurant. Peasant is possibly one of the coolest restaurants I know. All high ceilings, exposed brick, open kitchen, very chic, and packed with fashionable people. Which is unusual - usually in NYC we find ourselves in comparatively fancy venues with people wearing jeans and jumpers. We feared we were underdressed... Roz had told them when booking that this was our anniversary trip so they gave us a free glass of pink sparkle on arrival, which was a lovely touch. The service remained impeccable, the food was amazing and the prosecco delightful. A superb meal.
Yesterday started off as usual with my regular trip to the corner shop. I was greeted with "Good morning. A large coffee with milk, and a bagel with cream cheese?" which was either pleasing or embarrassing. We skipped the bagel as we wanted to get up and out. After a tasty bowl of granola in lovely Jane Street coffeeshop Grounded, we walked to Union Square to catch the number 6 subway to its very end. I have a particular penchant for doing this anyway, but yesterday we had a specific purpose: a journey to City Island. Said island is at the furthest reaches of the Bronx and resembles a New England fishing village, and Roz has had a random dream to visit since she saw the film by the same name, depicting a very sweet little sleepy fishing community that contrasted massively with nearby Manhattan. So, at the end of the line (Pelham Parkway), we hopped on an X29 bus and found ourselves sitting with a very different type of New Yorker. There were no high heels or designer outfits in sight. Somewhat akin to our bus companions in Staten Island last year, but a tad more blustery. And everyone seemed to know everyone else.
Soon we zipped over the bridge and the sign stood out: Welcome to City Island. Hooray! The island consists of one main street that runs the length of the island (1.5miles), with little residential streets branching off (the island is half a mile wide). We settled down in the City Island Diner, bustling and apparently right out of a 1950s film. I had a strawberry milkshake and a veggieburger and chips; Roz had a more abstemious Greek salad wrap. Sated, we proceeded to wander around the island, going down sleepy residential streets that all led to the sea, sparkling in the sun, and with the New York skyline visible far away through mist. We loved looking at the film-perfect houses with white picket fences and verandas and massive American flags hanging from each door (try that in Britain and people would assume you belonged to the BNP). We also came across a special bin painted with American symbols for the specific purpose of 'retiring old flags - giving them a dignified disposal'. Onwards we walked, appreciating a house with a massive Halloween display in the form of an inflatable lifesized carriage driven by a headless horseman and carrying a Dracula who bobbed up and down. It was quite a sight!
We walked back to the bridge to the island and sat by the water, awaiting our bus back to the subway and back to Manhattan. We decided to stop off at the Central Park boathouse for cocktails by the water. It was much more serene than the weekend chaos. We sipped Boathouse Pink Lemonade cocktails, munched a giant cookie, and then took to the water, rowing around the picture-perfect lake in the sun for an hour. Beautiful.
When we had finished we took the subway to Soho, and to the Pegu Club, a cool, casual and attractive cocktail bar on West Houston Street. It takes its inspiration the Colonial era (the original Pegu Club having been in Burma). I had a strawberry daiquiri, Roz had the Pegu Club house cocktail (already a classic in 1930), and we people-watched with much enjoyment until it was time to move on, to the McNally Jackson bookstore, where there was to be a reading by Joseph O'Neill, author of Netherland which we loved, promoting his book Blood Dark Track. Fantastic venue and interesting guy. He spoke for an hour, and afterwards we walked around the corner to our restaurant for the night, me discussing how unpleasant I had found his very posh, clipped English accent, and Roz pointing out with some bitterness that she had the same accent as him! Oops.
We were slightly too early for our restaurant reservation so tried to go to a bar called Latina Oficina, only to be told it was not open (though had people in it!) and settled down with a glass of Sancerre next door til 9pm came and we returned to the restaurant. Peasant is possibly one of the coolest restaurants I know. All high ceilings, exposed brick, open kitchen, very chic, and packed with fashionable people. Which is unusual - usually in NYC we find ourselves in comparatively fancy venues with people wearing jeans and jumpers. We feared we were underdressed... Roz had told them when booking that this was our anniversary trip so they gave us a free glass of pink sparkle on arrival, which was a lovely touch. The service remained impeccable, the food was amazing and the prosecco delightful. A superb meal.
Thursday 7 October 2010
In which Roz and Layla go to two lectures, have a Brooklyn almost-shopping-spree, Roz contemplates a change of career and both are ID'd at a bar
by Roz.
It was deeply pleasing to have a yoga studio so close to the flat, and even more so to find that yogic virtue meant that Layla blogged in my stead (she's a quicker writer than I am). On the way back to the flat, I picked up a coffee and an orange juice, only to overhear one of the customers complimenting the waitress for getting into shape. Oddly, instead of boxing him round the ears, she smiled sweetly and said that she'd got a show coming up soon, and had been doing a lot of dancing. Strange that such a comment is permissible - even welcome - here.
Back at the flat, I looked stern until Layla got out of bed and showered, and we were then up and ready for the day. Or at least for breakfast. We went back to S'Nice for some granola (for me) and a bagel (for Layla - she's a creature of habit) and had a quick look at the NY Times and planned our day. We then wandered down to Barnes and Noble in the Village where I looked hopefully for a copy of Amistead Maupin's new book - alas it turns out that it comes out in the US simultaneously with its publication in the UK. I did, however, pick up a copy of Edmund White's City Boy - not only has it been longlisted for the Green Carnation Prize but I keep seeing it listed as a classic NY book (which is not bad going, given its recent publication). Layla bought American Pastoral by Philip Roth, and I promised to carry the bag with them in for the rest of the day (a promise which, I'm not that ashamed to admit, I didn't keep).
From there we wandered through Washington Square, which was looking very pretty in the sunshine, and over to NYU, for Layla had a great enthusiasm to go to a lecture on the Theory of Mind, which we'd seen mentioned in a blog about free events. We entered the building and saw signs everywhere saying that we needed to show our student ID. We briefly conferred and then decided that probably nobody would ask for it (on this we were proved right). Then up to the 8th floor, with faltering resolution. We then gazed at the room. It was small. It has an oblong table in it. It had biscuits. It did not look like the venue for a public lecture. We ran away (briefly) and found someone vaguely official looking to enquire whether it was a public event. This was confirmed with much vigour. We returned to the room to find that the 2 seats nearest the door (which I'd hoped to occupy for a quick escape) had already been colonised. We therefore installed ourselves in the next closest seats. Sadly these were at one of the ends of the oblong table, which rather implied we were about to chair the discussion. But they were close to the biscuits (and, later, crisps) which I found a consolation throughout the next hour and a half. In fact, it turned out not too badly. No-one asked who we were or sought our views. It was a seminar by an associate professor, on sabbatical at NYU - Dr. William Fabricius. Since there was a great focus in the seminar on smarties, I managed to keep up ok. I did think that the subject matter under discussion was really a matter of semantics rather than something to devote 15 years of one's life to (as the speaker had). But I put this down to my ignorance. Particularly as around me others were gently nodding and muttering "cool, very cool" - kind of background noise - throughout. More surprising was that Layla was amongst the head nodders - though, being Scottish and decisive, her head nodding was vigorous and authoritative. After an hour or so, the seminar was going strong, but I'd eaten the majority of the crisps and it was definitely lunchtime, so Layla and I unsubtly left. On our exit, Layla then proceeded to explain with vigour why she had been unimpressed by the speaker - I never did manage to get to the bottom of the head nodding though - apparently this is what she always does at lectures...
From there we hopped on the subway and went to Park Slope - returning to Al Di La. We'd been last year and it had been one of our best meals and we just couldn't fit in a dinner there this time. We both had a delightful Farro Salad, with grains, and winter vegetables, and goat's cheese and walnuts and sherry. Layla then had a mushroom polenta (hoping to relive our wedding meal) and I had ricotta and lemon ravioli - both of which turned out to be a bit ambitious for a lunchtime. Feeling full, we rolled down Park Slope, looking in all the shops and contemplating pretty things. I was in two minds about whether to buy some shoes; made by Fly London it seemed ridiculous to buy them here. However a subsequently online search reveals that they are only available in the UK in bright patent red (the ones in Brooklyn were a sober unshiney blue). The jury is still out about whether I will return for them.
After we'd had our Brooklyn fill, we headed back to the flat for a rest prior to the evening's excitements. In fact, it was one of the things I was most looking forward to - SciCafe at the American Museum of Natural History, where the future of space travel was to be discussed. We got the subway uptown (in fact we went too far, which led to Layla periodically berating herself for the rest of the evening, even though I told her this was unnecessary). The museum was pretty deserted when we got there, and I started to wonder whether the event really was going to be as fab as I'd hoped. Having finally found an entrance to the museum, we walked through deserted corridors and then suddenly turned a corner to find ourselves in a huge room, with rocks and pretty pictures, and a glamorous collection of people all sipping drinks and looking excited. And rightly so: the speaker Mike Shara, was amazing. He talked - without notes - enthusiastically and imaginatively. And within five minutes, had made me want to be an astronomer with all my heart. Such interesting ideas and all explained so clearly and well. He predicted the Chinese would be the next on the moon, that our energy problems would be solved by mining H3 on the moon and returning it to Earth on an elevator, that they would build a giant telescope on the moon, there would be a permanent colony on the moon in 25 years, and in a couple of centuries we'd be colonising the whole solar system.
After this glorious event (which also had free hummous for grazing on), we for once didn't feel in need of dinner. Instead, we headed down to the Village, in the hopes of going to a cool sounding cocktail bar. Alas we were foiled from executing that plan for an unexpected reason: neither of us had any ID on us. It's been years since I've even contemplated such a thing being needed. I'd like to hope that it was because Layla and I look so youthful, but I can't really believe that can be true in my heart of hearts... So instead, we went to the lovely Cornelia Street Cafe, where we managed to find room for a couple of snacks and drank sparkling wine flights, and discussed the future of space travel. And the theory of mind. A very good day indeed.
It was deeply pleasing to have a yoga studio so close to the flat, and even more so to find that yogic virtue meant that Layla blogged in my stead (she's a quicker writer than I am). On the way back to the flat, I picked up a coffee and an orange juice, only to overhear one of the customers complimenting the waitress for getting into shape. Oddly, instead of boxing him round the ears, she smiled sweetly and said that she'd got a show coming up soon, and had been doing a lot of dancing. Strange that such a comment is permissible - even welcome - here.
Back at the flat, I looked stern until Layla got out of bed and showered, and we were then up and ready for the day. Or at least for breakfast. We went back to S'Nice for some granola (for me) and a bagel (for Layla - she's a creature of habit) and had a quick look at the NY Times and planned our day. We then wandered down to Barnes and Noble in the Village where I looked hopefully for a copy of Amistead Maupin's new book - alas it turns out that it comes out in the US simultaneously with its publication in the UK. I did, however, pick up a copy of Edmund White's City Boy - not only has it been longlisted for the Green Carnation Prize but I keep seeing it listed as a classic NY book (which is not bad going, given its recent publication). Layla bought American Pastoral by Philip Roth, and I promised to carry the bag with them in for the rest of the day (a promise which, I'm not that ashamed to admit, I didn't keep).
From there we wandered through Washington Square, which was looking very pretty in the sunshine, and over to NYU, for Layla had a great enthusiasm to go to a lecture on the Theory of Mind, which we'd seen mentioned in a blog about free events. We entered the building and saw signs everywhere saying that we needed to show our student ID. We briefly conferred and then decided that probably nobody would ask for it (on this we were proved right). Then up to the 8th floor, with faltering resolution. We then gazed at the room. It was small. It has an oblong table in it. It had biscuits. It did not look like the venue for a public lecture. We ran away (briefly) and found someone vaguely official looking to enquire whether it was a public event. This was confirmed with much vigour. We returned to the room to find that the 2 seats nearest the door (which I'd hoped to occupy for a quick escape) had already been colonised. We therefore installed ourselves in the next closest seats. Sadly these were at one of the ends of the oblong table, which rather implied we were about to chair the discussion. But they were close to the biscuits (and, later, crisps) which I found a consolation throughout the next hour and a half. In fact, it turned out not too badly. No-one asked who we were or sought our views. It was a seminar by an associate professor, on sabbatical at NYU - Dr. William Fabricius. Since there was a great focus in the seminar on smarties, I managed to keep up ok. I did think that the subject matter under discussion was really a matter of semantics rather than something to devote 15 years of one's life to (as the speaker had). But I put this down to my ignorance. Particularly as around me others were gently nodding and muttering "cool, very cool" - kind of background noise - throughout. More surprising was that Layla was amongst the head nodders - though, being Scottish and decisive, her head nodding was vigorous and authoritative. After an hour or so, the seminar was going strong, but I'd eaten the majority of the crisps and it was definitely lunchtime, so Layla and I unsubtly left. On our exit, Layla then proceeded to explain with vigour why she had been unimpressed by the speaker - I never did manage to get to the bottom of the head nodding though - apparently this is what she always does at lectures...
From there we hopped on the subway and went to Park Slope - returning to Al Di La. We'd been last year and it had been one of our best meals and we just couldn't fit in a dinner there this time. We both had a delightful Farro Salad, with grains, and winter vegetables, and goat's cheese and walnuts and sherry. Layla then had a mushroom polenta (hoping to relive our wedding meal) and I had ricotta and lemon ravioli - both of which turned out to be a bit ambitious for a lunchtime. Feeling full, we rolled down Park Slope, looking in all the shops and contemplating pretty things. I was in two minds about whether to buy some shoes; made by Fly London it seemed ridiculous to buy them here. However a subsequently online search reveals that they are only available in the UK in bright patent red (the ones in Brooklyn were a sober unshiney blue). The jury is still out about whether I will return for them.
After we'd had our Brooklyn fill, we headed back to the flat for a rest prior to the evening's excitements. In fact, it was one of the things I was most looking forward to - SciCafe at the American Museum of Natural History, where the future of space travel was to be discussed. We got the subway uptown (in fact we went too far, which led to Layla periodically berating herself for the rest of the evening, even though I told her this was unnecessary). The museum was pretty deserted when we got there, and I started to wonder whether the event really was going to be as fab as I'd hoped. Having finally found an entrance to the museum, we walked through deserted corridors and then suddenly turned a corner to find ourselves in a huge room, with rocks and pretty pictures, and a glamorous collection of people all sipping drinks and looking excited. And rightly so: the speaker Mike Shara, was amazing. He talked - without notes - enthusiastically and imaginatively. And within five minutes, had made me want to be an astronomer with all my heart. Such interesting ideas and all explained so clearly and well. He predicted the Chinese would be the next on the moon, that our energy problems would be solved by mining H3 on the moon and returning it to Earth on an elevator, that they would build a giant telescope on the moon, there would be a permanent colony on the moon in 25 years, and in a couple of centuries we'd be colonising the whole solar system.
After this glorious event (which also had free hummous for grazing on), we for once didn't feel in need of dinner. Instead, we headed down to the Village, in the hopes of going to a cool sounding cocktail bar. Alas we were foiled from executing that plan for an unexpected reason: neither of us had any ID on us. It's been years since I've even contemplated such a thing being needed. I'd like to hope that it was because Layla and I look so youthful, but I can't really believe that can be true in my heart of hearts... So instead, we went to the lovely Cornelia Street Cafe, where we managed to find room for a couple of snacks and drank sparkling wine flights, and discussed the future of space travel. And the theory of mind. A very good day indeed.
Wednesday 6 October 2010
In which Layla and Roz play Scrabble, enjoy fashion, attend another restaurant preview and become the unfortunate focus of comedy
by Layla
I shall take the opportunity of Roz having leapt out of bed at 7am to go to a local yoga class to write another update. Yesterday we woke up late and were then flummoxed and indecisive about what to do. Eventually we went out to a local vegetarian cafe called 'Snice, which was indeed rather nice. A bit like a vegetarian Grey Dog, again with people sprawled out with papers on tables amidst an exposed-brick room, drinking coffee and socialising. I spotted a Scrabble board and soon we were deep in a game. It would be wrong to flaunt my second games-based victory in two days... After Scrabble it was pretty much lunchtime so we had sandwiches and more drinks (I had food envy of Roz's smoked mozzarella and wished I hadn't ordered tofu, which the US seems to like to flavour like meat). Then we hopped on a train north to the lovely Museum of the City of New York.
We were there to see their new exhibition, Notorious and Notable, 20th Century Women of Style. This was a great exhibition of clothes that belonged to New York's most stylish ladies in the last century. I began to feel rather ashamed of my own skirt and top combo and lamented that nobody is very likely to ask me to donate it to a museum exhibition in years to come... We had a fun time considering which outfits we would personally like to wear and popping up to see the dolls' houses, before hopping on the subway again, this time to Murray Hill, to see the new film The Social Network. Disappointingly, the film wasn't as good as the hype. Fortunately the popcorn was, so we watched it quite cheerfully. An interesting story of the birth of Facebook.
After the film we couldn't quite decide what to do - we had three plans, and only time for two. After much deliberation, we decided to ditch the Michael Cunningham book reading at Barnes and Noble bookshop in favour of food and comedy. The food was at another of New York's just-opened restaurants, this time to Osteria Morini in Soho, one of NYC's most awaited openings. In fact it had opened only the night before (friends and family) and last night marked the start of 'preview week'. There was quite a buzz as the restaurant filled up. Rustic Italian style food. We sat at the bar which gave us a good view of our fellow diners. We started with some delicious crisp bread and slightly soggy tomato focaccia, accompanied by a sparkling beverage akin to Prosecco, which they did not yet have in stock. We had a delicious cheeseboard to start with, with excellent cheeses to be eaten with flatbread. And then I almost fainted with food envy at Roz's squash pasta parcels - luckily she gave me half in exchange for my also tasty tomato gnocci. We polished off a bottle of wine and finished off with dessert - mine was a satisfyingly large chocolate, custard and meringue concoction, flame burnt before our eyes, while Roz had an espresso-ice-cream combo.
After an excellent dinner we pottered round the corner to Housing Works, the lovely bookshop whose profits go to helping homeless people with HIV/AIDS. They had a comedy show on, so we settled down with wine. Unfortunately the hosts were both puerile and dull, which I'm afraid led to a still-jetlagged Roz falling asleep. I didn't notice, but alas the comedians did. She awoke to their comments. This did not improve the night! We stayed for a couple of funnier acts, and then caught a cab home to give in to sleepiness.
I shall take the opportunity of Roz having leapt out of bed at 7am to go to a local yoga class to write another update. Yesterday we woke up late and were then flummoxed and indecisive about what to do. Eventually we went out to a local vegetarian cafe called 'Snice, which was indeed rather nice. A bit like a vegetarian Grey Dog, again with people sprawled out with papers on tables amidst an exposed-brick room, drinking coffee and socialising. I spotted a Scrabble board and soon we were deep in a game. It would be wrong to flaunt my second games-based victory in two days... After Scrabble it was pretty much lunchtime so we had sandwiches and more drinks (I had food envy of Roz's smoked mozzarella and wished I hadn't ordered tofu, which the US seems to like to flavour like meat). Then we hopped on a train north to the lovely Museum of the City of New York.
We were there to see their new exhibition, Notorious and Notable, 20th Century Women of Style. This was a great exhibition of clothes that belonged to New York's most stylish ladies in the last century. I began to feel rather ashamed of my own skirt and top combo and lamented that nobody is very likely to ask me to donate it to a museum exhibition in years to come... We had a fun time considering which outfits we would personally like to wear and popping up to see the dolls' houses, before hopping on the subway again, this time to Murray Hill, to see the new film The Social Network. Disappointingly, the film wasn't as good as the hype. Fortunately the popcorn was, so we watched it quite cheerfully. An interesting story of the birth of Facebook.
After the film we couldn't quite decide what to do - we had three plans, and only time for two. After much deliberation, we decided to ditch the Michael Cunningham book reading at Barnes and Noble bookshop in favour of food and comedy. The food was at another of New York's just-opened restaurants, this time to Osteria Morini in Soho, one of NYC's most awaited openings. In fact it had opened only the night before (friends and family) and last night marked the start of 'preview week'. There was quite a buzz as the restaurant filled up. Rustic Italian style food. We sat at the bar which gave us a good view of our fellow diners. We started with some delicious crisp bread and slightly soggy tomato focaccia, accompanied by a sparkling beverage akin to Prosecco, which they did not yet have in stock. We had a delicious cheeseboard to start with, with excellent cheeses to be eaten with flatbread. And then I almost fainted with food envy at Roz's squash pasta parcels - luckily she gave me half in exchange for my also tasty tomato gnocci. We polished off a bottle of wine and finished off with dessert - mine was a satisfyingly large chocolate, custard and meringue concoction, flame burnt before our eyes, while Roz had an espresso-ice-cream combo.
After an excellent dinner we pottered round the corner to Housing Works, the lovely bookshop whose profits go to helping homeless people with HIV/AIDS. They had a comedy show on, so we settled down with wine. Unfortunately the hosts were both puerile and dull, which I'm afraid led to a still-jetlagged Roz falling asleep. I didn't notice, but alas the comedians did. She awoke to their comments. This did not improve the night! We stayed for a couple of funnier acts, and then caught a cab home to give in to sleepiness.
Tuesday 5 October 2010
In which Layla and Roz go to the movies, shop for handbags, play ping pong and almost participate in The Moth
by Layla
I am peeved that the role of getting out of bed, getting dressed, walking to the corner shop and returning with coffee and bagels has definitely officially been designated a Layla role, but when yesterday started with the same routine, I knew it must be so. Just half a bagel though, because it only had to power us a few blocks down the road to the Grey Dog, our favourite breakfast joint last year. It was still as good. Cool, exposed brick surroundings. Huge coffees. Freshly squeezed orange juice. And amazing banana pancakes (me) and granola bowls (Roz). We read the New York Times over breakfast before venturing out in the drizzle.
Our next destination was the Sunshine cinema, a famous old art deco cinema on the Lower East Side which was screening Never Let Me Go, a film that is due to premiere in London next week. I'd been bitter we'd lost out in the ballot for the London opening night, and so was smug to settle down with a bag of popcorn in NYC to see the same film a week early. It was very good, though frankly rather depressing. After it finished we wandered around, trying to hunt down lunch, before settling on Jane, a brunch venue we enjoyed last year. We had a late lunch - a goat's cheese flatbread with caramelised onion for me, and a roast vegetable sandwich for Roz. Very pleasant.
Afterwards Roz reminded me of my outstanding chore: buying a new handbag. So we went to Bloomingdales round the corner where I almost had a heart attack over the prices attached to my potential future bags. Fortunately Roz noted my hysteria and steered me out of Bloomingdales and into a rather less glamorous shop nearby where I managed to invest in a new bag and no longer need to look as though I procured my handbag from a dustbin. Pleasing. Even more pleasing was the red velvet cupcake that Roz produced for me as a reward for binning my old handbag.
We hopped on the subway and sped slightly north to Fat Cat, a great bar/games venue, to play ping pong. Since I introduced Roz to the game in Borneo, she has been obsessed. We grabbed our bats and balls and took our place at our own ping pong court, with others playing/chatting/kissing in adjacent courts. No such distractions for us. I served, and we were off. I won't boast by saying I won, but...
After an hour of ping pong, we took another subway, this time to Park Slope in Brooklyn. Last year New York had introduced us to the glory of The Moth, a storytelling performance night, that led us to The Spark, London's equivalent, where I have since started telling stories myself. When we turned up last year at a Moth Story Slam night, we had been very surprised to find a queue stretching all the way around the block; we very nearly didn't get in. This time we were more canny. We turned up over an hour before the doors opened and joined an already growing line by the door of Southpaw, fortunately sheltered by a canopy from the ongoing drizzle. I settled down to wait while Roz, like a hero, walked down to the glorious Chocolate Room and brought me back a large and superlative hot chocolate with cream, ice cream and marshmallows. As I sipped this in silent joy, she headed off again, this time to obtain falafel. We'd hoped to pop into delicious nearby restaurant Al Di La but this clearly wasn't going to be possible. So Roz returned with freshly made falafel and hummous sandwiches and we stood in line, munching falafel pitta with delight and chatting to a nearby storyteller while waiting for the doors to open.
Eventually they did open and we were smug to get good seats, giving us a vantage point to watch the latecomers having to sit on the floor. Now being a London storytelling veteran (well, almost), I really wanted to tell my story at The Moth, so put my name into the hat. Unfortunately so did another 27 people, and as there were only 10 slots, I knew I would probably be doomed. That meant that Roz and I listened to each of the ten stories in a state of high agitation, wondering if I was going to be called next. I wasn't. We drank beer, ate chocolate-covered Graham Crackers from the Chocolate Room, enjoyed the stories, and sniggered at the bizarre American positivity which led the organiser to tell the three sets of judges 'You can rate the stories on a scale of 1-10, but don't rate anyone lower than seven!' He went on to clarify 'Is there something so wrong with your own life that you have to shit on someone else's?' Er, why have a scale when you can only use the top end of it?! We settled down to an evening of 7.4s and 8.1s... and muttered bitterly that I'd have been a 9.9 (well maybe...). At the end of the night, the remaining 18 people who didn't get to tell their stories were invited onstage to say the first line of their story. I launched into mine, and my one line was a hit. Frustrating that I didn't get to tell the rest. Even for that one minute, with the huge crowd of highly enthusiastic people, I felt a little like a rock star (or perhaps I poorly estimate the feeling of a rockstar, but at any rate, I felt cool).
The stories over, we walked back to the subway and ambled slowly home on a local train.
I am peeved that the role of getting out of bed, getting dressed, walking to the corner shop and returning with coffee and bagels has definitely officially been designated a Layla role, but when yesterday started with the same routine, I knew it must be so. Just half a bagel though, because it only had to power us a few blocks down the road to the Grey Dog, our favourite breakfast joint last year. It was still as good. Cool, exposed brick surroundings. Huge coffees. Freshly squeezed orange juice. And amazing banana pancakes (me) and granola bowls (Roz). We read the New York Times over breakfast before venturing out in the drizzle.
Our next destination was the Sunshine cinema, a famous old art deco cinema on the Lower East Side which was screening Never Let Me Go, a film that is due to premiere in London next week. I'd been bitter we'd lost out in the ballot for the London opening night, and so was smug to settle down with a bag of popcorn in NYC to see the same film a week early. It was very good, though frankly rather depressing. After it finished we wandered around, trying to hunt down lunch, before settling on Jane, a brunch venue we enjoyed last year. We had a late lunch - a goat's cheese flatbread with caramelised onion for me, and a roast vegetable sandwich for Roz. Very pleasant.
Afterwards Roz reminded me of my outstanding chore: buying a new handbag. So we went to Bloomingdales round the corner where I almost had a heart attack over the prices attached to my potential future bags. Fortunately Roz noted my hysteria and steered me out of Bloomingdales and into a rather less glamorous shop nearby where I managed to invest in a new bag and no longer need to look as though I procured my handbag from a dustbin. Pleasing. Even more pleasing was the red velvet cupcake that Roz produced for me as a reward for binning my old handbag.
We hopped on the subway and sped slightly north to Fat Cat, a great bar/games venue, to play ping pong. Since I introduced Roz to the game in Borneo, she has been obsessed. We grabbed our bats and balls and took our place at our own ping pong court, with others playing/chatting/kissing in adjacent courts. No such distractions for us. I served, and we were off. I won't boast by saying I won, but...
After an hour of ping pong, we took another subway, this time to Park Slope in Brooklyn. Last year New York had introduced us to the glory of The Moth, a storytelling performance night, that led us to The Spark, London's equivalent, where I have since started telling stories myself. When we turned up last year at a Moth Story Slam night, we had been very surprised to find a queue stretching all the way around the block; we very nearly didn't get in. This time we were more canny. We turned up over an hour before the doors opened and joined an already growing line by the door of Southpaw, fortunately sheltered by a canopy from the ongoing drizzle. I settled down to wait while Roz, like a hero, walked down to the glorious Chocolate Room and brought me back a large and superlative hot chocolate with cream, ice cream and marshmallows. As I sipped this in silent joy, she headed off again, this time to obtain falafel. We'd hoped to pop into delicious nearby restaurant Al Di La but this clearly wasn't going to be possible. So Roz returned with freshly made falafel and hummous sandwiches and we stood in line, munching falafel pitta with delight and chatting to a nearby storyteller while waiting for the doors to open.
Eventually they did open and we were smug to get good seats, giving us a vantage point to watch the latecomers having to sit on the floor. Now being a London storytelling veteran (well, almost), I really wanted to tell my story at The Moth, so put my name into the hat. Unfortunately so did another 27 people, and as there were only 10 slots, I knew I would probably be doomed. That meant that Roz and I listened to each of the ten stories in a state of high agitation, wondering if I was going to be called next. I wasn't. We drank beer, ate chocolate-covered Graham Crackers from the Chocolate Room, enjoyed the stories, and sniggered at the bizarre American positivity which led the organiser to tell the three sets of judges 'You can rate the stories on a scale of 1-10, but don't rate anyone lower than seven!' He went on to clarify 'Is there something so wrong with your own life that you have to shit on someone else's?' Er, why have a scale when you can only use the top end of it?! We settled down to an evening of 7.4s and 8.1s... and muttered bitterly that I'd have been a 9.9 (well maybe...). At the end of the night, the remaining 18 people who didn't get to tell their stories were invited onstage to say the first line of their story. I launched into mine, and my one line was a hit. Frustrating that I didn't get to tell the rest. Even for that one minute, with the huge crowd of highly enthusiastic people, I felt a little like a rock star (or perhaps I poorly estimate the feeling of a rockstar, but at any rate, I felt cool).
The stories over, we walked back to the subway and ambled slowly home on a local train.
Monday 4 October 2010
In which Roz and Layla cycled clockwise round Manhattan, had an untimely brunch, attended a clever event and dined in a brand new restaurant
by Roz
We awoke very early, after our beetroot extravaganza the night before. I made a quick decision to make Layla's key chore for the holiday getting up to go and get me coffee in bed. Having informed Layla of this, I remained cosily in bed whilst she nipped to the corner deli. That she returned with coffee and bagels obviously didn't cause me any sorrow (and is the reason why she is currently out performing this chore again, as I type) and we planned our only Sunday in NY.
We began the very sunny day by wandering down along the Hudson river to the bike shop where we'd hired bikes last year (which fortunately opens early, even on a Sunday). We rejected all suggestions that we should go for cruiser bikes for women and butchly opted for men's bikes (because of their familiar handlebars). We then cycled off clockwise round Manhattan - the opposite way to last year (which we had convinced ourselves would mean it would be a very different experience). And indeed, it did turn out to be so. Partly, I suspect, because towards the end of the cycle last time we were so tired that we didn't notice anything - but also because Manhattan is infinitely varied, as are its people. Pleasingly there was some kind of organised cycle ride going on which we got caught up on the edges of - roads were closed (not that this affected us, since we were cycling along the riverside) and there was generally much excitement and we continued to pass riders all the way up the West Side. (A quick google search has revealed that this was in fact the Bike MS NYC ride, which is the largest organised cycling event in the US - which seems most strange, given that one of the nicest things about seeing it was that it seemed comparatively small and given the thin trickle of riders we were surprised that roads were closed - in the UK they'd have had to put put up with a narrow corridor on the edge of the road.)
We'd decided to go less far than last time - the top of Manhattan doesn't have the same pleasant bike route and we didn't feel the need to see Harlem again. Which made it all the more odd that we ended up stopping off for water in the same dodgy looking corner store as last year. Either there aren't many stores up there, or we have a peculiar homing device... Going down the East Side, we went through quiet parks and felt very jolly in the sunshine. But hunger always starts to get the better of me (after all did you notice we'd only had one breakfast?!) and so we slowed as we passed the only stall we'd seen on the route. Delightfully, as we did so, the music which we'd not noticed before suddenly changed, and was a very slow version of "Too Marvellous" - our wedding dance song. We didn't quite manage to Charleston to it but we did do a jig of joy at being in NYC, city of romance.
Still, romance doesn't mean you can't be hungry - and since the music-playing stall turned out to have a combination of fruit and CDs (a curious business model) - we pressed on. Skirting the UN, I wondered why the civil servants housed there weren't more interested in having delightful lunch options (since I could only see dodgy looking cafes): presumably there's a wonderful cafe or two inside. Back by the river, just before South Street Seaport, we came across a lovely farmers' market. We abandoned our bikes with glee, and sampled pretty much everything that was going, from pesto goat's cheese to NY wine, before opting for a bowl or two of a really delicious butternut squash soup and some tomato focaccia, which we ate on a bench overlooking the river. We then pressed on towards Battery Park, feeling smug at our progress and lack of tiredness. Until we realised that we'd actually been going at a snail's pace and our 4 hours of bike hire were nearly up (either that, or we spent a reeeeally long time eating food at the farmers' market!). But I'm afraid we nevertheless did dally to wave at the Statue of Liberty and grin at the sunshine and the jollyness of the day.
We got back to the bike hire shop with 10 minutes to spare and half an hour to kill before we were due at the SVT Theatre, in hopes of getting tickets for another talk at the New Yorker Festival (a few additional tickets go on sale an hour before an event). We wandered towards Greenwich Village to go a shop that I'd seen on our first night in NY which had a pretty bag in it. Alas the pretty bag turned out to be not so good in daylight but Layla decided to invest in a cute black hat - obviously an essential component in anyone's wardrobe. Having tarried there longer than we intended, we then jumped into the nearest metro station - only to find some drama with the metro. We hopped out again, far from the theatre, and I made Layla walk at such a pace that her face turned bright red. In retrospect, I was cruel. We joined the queue for tickets and crossed our fingers tightly that there would be tickets still left for the panel discussion we wanted to go to: Your Brain on the Internet". Delightfully there were. Having secured the tickets, I expressed an enthusiasm for a drink. In fact, I meant (true English girl that I am) a cup of tea. However, Layla suggested we head to East of Eighth, a gay restaurant which we'd been to last year and which was very close indeed. We headed over there, and asked for mimosas. The nice waiter brought mimosas and the brunch menu "just in case". I'm afraid to say that we decided our enjoyment of the New Yorker Festival would be much enhanced by a hasty pancake and so we indulged. Brunch at 3.30: it seemed wrong, but it tasted very good! Back at the theatre, the discussion was interesting (though not as good as the first discussion we'd been to). It nevertheless sparked discussion, on and off, for much of the rest of the day. And a large number of tweets from Layla.
We walked back to our flat and had a rest (having failed to make the TV work due to our incompetence and non-familiarity with such devices) and got ready for our night out. We were both immensely excited about our evening plans: dinner at a newly opened and very fancy restaurant over on the Lower East Side. (In fact, it turned out to be so newly opened that at the end of the evening we got 20% off our bill, for being in preview week: pleasing.) We got a cab over (my heels were too high to walk for 40 mins!) and found ourselves deposited in a deserted road by the river. We looked at each other uncertainly: could this really be where one of NY hottest tables of the moment was to be found?! We decided to press on, and headed towards a very corporate looking building - oddly walking past tons of signs congratulating those who had made to contributions to science. Inside the corporate building, there was a reception desk (none of the staff looked interested in us). We walked with some trepidation round the corner - only to find a beautiful dimly-lit restaurant. We began by a glass of prosecco (for Layla) and a prosecco based pink cocktail for me. We then inspected the other diners. They turned out to be a curious bunch: not quite as glamorous as we would have expected. We asked the waitress to "talk us through our vegetarian options". She looked slightly appalled. Having rejected the chef's offer to make us a "veggie plate" (which another diner had had, and which would have been "special" and a "surprise" but which seemed to simply consist of a vast number of vegetables, including brussel sprouts), Layla opted for a slightly spicy cheese option to start with, whilst I had an artichoke salad. We then both went for pumpkin seed tortellini in a roasted squash soup. All were delicious (though we both thought the butternut squash soup we'd had earlier in the day had, in fact, had the edge), as was the Sancerre we had. For dessert, Layla went for the slimming option of chocolate tart and chocolate sorbet, whilst I had vanilla ice cream. Only after the desserts had been brought, did the waitress tell us that the desserts had been bought for us by the manager, to make up for the lack of vegetarian options - if I'd known that I'd have upgraded my dessert options! Or indeed gone for the option taken by a table of fellow diners - to have one of each of the desserts (we decided that they were probably restaurant critics- albeit distinctly unglamorous-looking ones- which would also explain the amount of attention they received)! After that very lovely meal, we were both yawning with a touch of jet lag and the soporific effect of the dim lighting, and so we got a cab home.
We awoke very early, after our beetroot extravaganza the night before. I made a quick decision to make Layla's key chore for the holiday getting up to go and get me coffee in bed. Having informed Layla of this, I remained cosily in bed whilst she nipped to the corner deli. That she returned with coffee and bagels obviously didn't cause me any sorrow (and is the reason why she is currently out performing this chore again, as I type) and we planned our only Sunday in NY.
We began the very sunny day by wandering down along the Hudson river to the bike shop where we'd hired bikes last year (which fortunately opens early, even on a Sunday). We rejected all suggestions that we should go for cruiser bikes for women and butchly opted for men's bikes (because of their familiar handlebars). We then cycled off clockwise round Manhattan - the opposite way to last year (which we had convinced ourselves would mean it would be a very different experience). And indeed, it did turn out to be so. Partly, I suspect, because towards the end of the cycle last time we were so tired that we didn't notice anything - but also because Manhattan is infinitely varied, as are its people. Pleasingly there was some kind of organised cycle ride going on which we got caught up on the edges of - roads were closed (not that this affected us, since we were cycling along the riverside) and there was generally much excitement and we continued to pass riders all the way up the West Side. (A quick google search has revealed that this was in fact the Bike MS NYC ride, which is the largest organised cycling event in the US - which seems most strange, given that one of the nicest things about seeing it was that it seemed comparatively small and given the thin trickle of riders we were surprised that roads were closed - in the UK they'd have had to put put up with a narrow corridor on the edge of the road.)
We'd decided to go less far than last time - the top of Manhattan doesn't have the same pleasant bike route and we didn't feel the need to see Harlem again. Which made it all the more odd that we ended up stopping off for water in the same dodgy looking corner store as last year. Either there aren't many stores up there, or we have a peculiar homing device... Going down the East Side, we went through quiet parks and felt very jolly in the sunshine. But hunger always starts to get the better of me (after all did you notice we'd only had one breakfast?!) and so we slowed as we passed the only stall we'd seen on the route. Delightfully, as we did so, the music which we'd not noticed before suddenly changed, and was a very slow version of "Too Marvellous" - our wedding dance song. We didn't quite manage to Charleston to it but we did do a jig of joy at being in NYC, city of romance.
Still, romance doesn't mean you can't be hungry - and since the music-playing stall turned out to have a combination of fruit and CDs (a curious business model) - we pressed on. Skirting the UN, I wondered why the civil servants housed there weren't more interested in having delightful lunch options (since I could only see dodgy looking cafes): presumably there's a wonderful cafe or two inside. Back by the river, just before South Street Seaport, we came across a lovely farmers' market. We abandoned our bikes with glee, and sampled pretty much everything that was going, from pesto goat's cheese to NY wine, before opting for a bowl or two of a really delicious butternut squash soup and some tomato focaccia, which we ate on a bench overlooking the river. We then pressed on towards Battery Park, feeling smug at our progress and lack of tiredness. Until we realised that we'd actually been going at a snail's pace and our 4 hours of bike hire were nearly up (either that, or we spent a reeeeally long time eating food at the farmers' market!). But I'm afraid we nevertheless did dally to wave at the Statue of Liberty and grin at the sunshine and the jollyness of the day.
We got back to the bike hire shop with 10 minutes to spare and half an hour to kill before we were due at the SVT Theatre, in hopes of getting tickets for another talk at the New Yorker Festival (a few additional tickets go on sale an hour before an event). We wandered towards Greenwich Village to go a shop that I'd seen on our first night in NY which had a pretty bag in it. Alas the pretty bag turned out to be not so good in daylight but Layla decided to invest in a cute black hat - obviously an essential component in anyone's wardrobe. Having tarried there longer than we intended, we then jumped into the nearest metro station - only to find some drama with the metro. We hopped out again, far from the theatre, and I made Layla walk at such a pace that her face turned bright red. In retrospect, I was cruel. We joined the queue for tickets and crossed our fingers tightly that there would be tickets still left for the panel discussion we wanted to go to: Your Brain on the Internet". Delightfully there were. Having secured the tickets, I expressed an enthusiasm for a drink. In fact, I meant (true English girl that I am) a cup of tea. However, Layla suggested we head to East of Eighth, a gay restaurant which we'd been to last year and which was very close indeed. We headed over there, and asked for mimosas. The nice waiter brought mimosas and the brunch menu "just in case". I'm afraid to say that we decided our enjoyment of the New Yorker Festival would be much enhanced by a hasty pancake and so we indulged. Brunch at 3.30: it seemed wrong, but it tasted very good! Back at the theatre, the discussion was interesting (though not as good as the first discussion we'd been to). It nevertheless sparked discussion, on and off, for much of the rest of the day. And a large number of tweets from Layla.
We walked back to our flat and had a rest (having failed to make the TV work due to our incompetence and non-familiarity with such devices) and got ready for our night out. We were both immensely excited about our evening plans: dinner at a newly opened and very fancy restaurant over on the Lower East Side. (In fact, it turned out to be so newly opened that at the end of the evening we got 20% off our bill, for being in preview week: pleasing.) We got a cab over (my heels were too high to walk for 40 mins!) and found ourselves deposited in a deserted road by the river. We looked at each other uncertainly: could this really be where one of NY hottest tables of the moment was to be found?! We decided to press on, and headed towards a very corporate looking building - oddly walking past tons of signs congratulating those who had made to contributions to science. Inside the corporate building, there was a reception desk (none of the staff looked interested in us). We walked with some trepidation round the corner - only to find a beautiful dimly-lit restaurant. We began by a glass of prosecco (for Layla) and a prosecco based pink cocktail for me. We then inspected the other diners. They turned out to be a curious bunch: not quite as glamorous as we would have expected. We asked the waitress to "talk us through our vegetarian options". She looked slightly appalled. Having rejected the chef's offer to make us a "veggie plate" (which another diner had had, and which would have been "special" and a "surprise" but which seemed to simply consist of a vast number of vegetables, including brussel sprouts), Layla opted for a slightly spicy cheese option to start with, whilst I had an artichoke salad. We then both went for pumpkin seed tortellini in a roasted squash soup. All were delicious (though we both thought the butternut squash soup we'd had earlier in the day had, in fact, had the edge), as was the Sancerre we had. For dessert, Layla went for the slimming option of chocolate tart and chocolate sorbet, whilst I had vanilla ice cream. Only after the desserts had been brought, did the waitress tell us that the desserts had been bought for us by the manager, to make up for the lack of vegetarian options - if I'd known that I'd have upgraded my dessert options! Or indeed gone for the option taken by a table of fellow diners - to have one of each of the desserts (we decided that they were probably restaurant critics- albeit distinctly unglamorous-looking ones- which would also explain the amount of attention they received)! After that very lovely meal, we were both yawning with a touch of jet lag and the soporific effect of the dim lighting, and so we got a cab home.
Saturday 2 October 2010
In which Layla and Roz return to New York, eat a large number of breakfasts, and attend the New Yorker Festival
by Layla
Almost a year since our wonderful New York honeymoon, Roz and I decided to return to the scene of romance and have another week-long holiday in NYC. Sadly this one hasn't involved lots of friends giving us money to do wonderful things and eat fabulous food, as they did for our wedding presents last year, but nevertheless, we are very excited.
We set off from London at 4:30pm which we hoped would be the best way to combat jetlag. A slight delay to the flight meant we arrived in NYC just in time for a late dinner. First we dumped our bags and unpacked with great speed at our new Horatio Street apartment, just on the border of Greenwich Village and the Meatpacking District. It's owned by a gay boy couple and the one who showed us round was very welcoming. Having unpacked at triple speed, we ventured out into the Friday evening buzz. For some reason we had identified a restaurant to visit that was quite a walk away and did not take reservations; predictably when we eventually arrived, it was packed with a huge queue outside, so we thought better of it and retreated to a place called Cowgirl. We had some tasty nachos and guacamole and enjoyed some people watching before we were surrounded on either side by people eating the most meat in the world and Roz started to feel a tad ill. We finished off our drinks outside, then stumbled home sleepily to bed.
Up far too bright and early the next day, we were bitter that our anti-jetlag plan had not worked as perfectly as we had hoped. I popped out to a cornershop, walking joyfully down the redbrick-lined New York street in the sunshine, and returned with coffee, juice, and a bagel and cream cheese which we munched with relish in bed.
Eventually it was an acceptable time to get up properly. Our flat is just a block from the start of the Highline Park, that elevated, narrow park made from old railway lines. We pottered along its length, with the river sparkling in the sun in the distance, and felt very, very happy to be back in New York. Our early morning bagel being merely a snack, our sights were set on a delicious brunch in Cookshop at the other end of the park. Sadly it was still closed, so we spent the next hour walking through the streets of Chelsea, popping into cool boutiquey shops, and eating a pre-prandial banana/caramel crepe at a lovely little boutique mini-mall. Roz asks me to stress that I had the lion's share of said crepe. I personally think that's a lie...
After our crepe we decided it really must be time for breakfast and retraced our steps to Cookshop, which was absolutely packed. In a New York mood we ordered Mimosas to our fancy scrambled eggs, carmelised onion and chicory combo and spent a delightful brunch eating and again people watching. New York is such a brilliant place for people watching. It's intriguing how such an apparently comparatively higher proportion of the population seems to be gay.
Brunch over, we walked past a pretty gated playpark where we played giant noughts-and-crosses until Roz was eventually victorious, before noting adults without children were not allowed in the park and retreating to the site of our next event, the SVA Theater. We had been delighted to discover our trip coincided with the famous New Yorker festival. Roz had identified that tickets sell out within 15 minutes of going on sale, so a few weeks ago I sat at my computer, fingers poised over the mouse, and successfully obtained tickets to two events (which pleasingly were both sold out within 5 minutes). Our first was at 1pm yesterday: James Surowiecki was speaking on 'Lucky, Good or Both? Talent and Context in a Random World'. Surowiecki is the person who wrote 'The Wisdom of Crowds' and he was even more fascinating than I had expected. After an accidental tiny jet-lagged snooze in the first 10 minutes, I was glued to his talk and tweeted vigorously. Afterwards, we bought 7 day metro passes and zipped north to Central Park, via the Columbus City shopping mall in a doomed attempt to purchase a handbag to replace my falling-apart-and-full-of-holes-and-doesn't-close monstrosity. Clutching my open, holey bag, we proceeded into the park, which was very busy and full of New Yorkers enjoying the sunny Saturday. We found the boating pond but the queues were disgusting, so we ended up sitting on a quiet bench looking out on the model boat pond which was far more serene. I proved once again that my soppiness levels are ridiculous (particularly when on holiday) by shedding a tear at the dedications on the bench...
After the park we took the subway down to Greenwich Village, our old subway stop of last year's trip, and went to the Cornelia Street Cafe for some old time's sake Sancerre. Tasty. Then we walked down Bleeker Street to our other New Yorker event, in association with our much-beloved Moth Storytelling event, at Le Poisson Rouge. Free wine and chocolate made me happy before the stories even began at this rather cool venue, and then the stories by New Yorker staff about their time at the magazine were really interesting.
Alas the event went on for so long that we missed our dinner reservation at the Fig and Olive. When we turned up, they said they'd find us a table, then abandoned us in a mobbed, loud music, trendy place where we stood jet-laggedly before fleeing in favour of a random Italian restaurant on the corner of our street. We couldn't seem to understand the menu, which may be how we ended up with a massive plate of beetroot. (Also a little risotto and a salad, but mainly it was beetroot.) We were much revived by the beetroot, but still sleepy, so after a rather pleasant meal, eaten at a little Hudson Street sidewalk table, we sloped off home to bed.
Almost a year since our wonderful New York honeymoon, Roz and I decided to return to the scene of romance and have another week-long holiday in NYC. Sadly this one hasn't involved lots of friends giving us money to do wonderful things and eat fabulous food, as they did for our wedding presents last year, but nevertheless, we are very excited.
We set off from London at 4:30pm which we hoped would be the best way to combat jetlag. A slight delay to the flight meant we arrived in NYC just in time for a late dinner. First we dumped our bags and unpacked with great speed at our new Horatio Street apartment, just on the border of Greenwich Village and the Meatpacking District. It's owned by a gay boy couple and the one who showed us round was very welcoming. Having unpacked at triple speed, we ventured out into the Friday evening buzz. For some reason we had identified a restaurant to visit that was quite a walk away and did not take reservations; predictably when we eventually arrived, it was packed with a huge queue outside, so we thought better of it and retreated to a place called Cowgirl. We had some tasty nachos and guacamole and enjoyed some people watching before we were surrounded on either side by people eating the most meat in the world and Roz started to feel a tad ill. We finished off our drinks outside, then stumbled home sleepily to bed.
Up far too bright and early the next day, we were bitter that our anti-jetlag plan had not worked as perfectly as we had hoped. I popped out to a cornershop, walking joyfully down the redbrick-lined New York street in the sunshine, and returned with coffee, juice, and a bagel and cream cheese which we munched with relish in bed.
Eventually it was an acceptable time to get up properly. Our flat is just a block from the start of the Highline Park, that elevated, narrow park made from old railway lines. We pottered along its length, with the river sparkling in the sun in the distance, and felt very, very happy to be back in New York. Our early morning bagel being merely a snack, our sights were set on a delicious brunch in Cookshop at the other end of the park. Sadly it was still closed, so we spent the next hour walking through the streets of Chelsea, popping into cool boutiquey shops, and eating a pre-prandial banana/caramel crepe at a lovely little boutique mini-mall. Roz asks me to stress that I had the lion's share of said crepe. I personally think that's a lie...
After our crepe we decided it really must be time for breakfast and retraced our steps to Cookshop, which was absolutely packed. In a New York mood we ordered Mimosas to our fancy scrambled eggs, carmelised onion and chicory combo and spent a delightful brunch eating and again people watching. New York is such a brilliant place for people watching. It's intriguing how such an apparently comparatively higher proportion of the population seems to be gay.
Brunch over, we walked past a pretty gated playpark where we played giant noughts-and-crosses until Roz was eventually victorious, before noting adults without children were not allowed in the park and retreating to the site of our next event, the SVA Theater. We had been delighted to discover our trip coincided with the famous New Yorker festival. Roz had identified that tickets sell out within 15 minutes of going on sale, so a few weeks ago I sat at my computer, fingers poised over the mouse, and successfully obtained tickets to two events (which pleasingly were both sold out within 5 minutes). Our first was at 1pm yesterday: James Surowiecki was speaking on 'Lucky, Good or Both? Talent and Context in a Random World'. Surowiecki is the person who wrote 'The Wisdom of Crowds' and he was even more fascinating than I had expected. After an accidental tiny jet-lagged snooze in the first 10 minutes, I was glued to his talk and tweeted vigorously. Afterwards, we bought 7 day metro passes and zipped north to Central Park, via the Columbus City shopping mall in a doomed attempt to purchase a handbag to replace my falling-apart-and-full-of-holes-and-doesn't-close monstrosity. Clutching my open, holey bag, we proceeded into the park, which was very busy and full of New Yorkers enjoying the sunny Saturday. We found the boating pond but the queues were disgusting, so we ended up sitting on a quiet bench looking out on the model boat pond which was far more serene. I proved once again that my soppiness levels are ridiculous (particularly when on holiday) by shedding a tear at the dedications on the bench...
After the park we took the subway down to Greenwich Village, our old subway stop of last year's trip, and went to the Cornelia Street Cafe for some old time's sake Sancerre. Tasty. Then we walked down Bleeker Street to our other New Yorker event, in association with our much-beloved Moth Storytelling event, at Le Poisson Rouge. Free wine and chocolate made me happy before the stories even began at this rather cool venue, and then the stories by New Yorker staff about their time at the magazine were really interesting.
Alas the event went on for so long that we missed our dinner reservation at the Fig and Olive. When we turned up, they said they'd find us a table, then abandoned us in a mobbed, loud music, trendy place where we stood jet-laggedly before fleeing in favour of a random Italian restaurant on the corner of our street. We couldn't seem to understand the menu, which may be how we ended up with a massive plate of beetroot. (Also a little risotto and a salad, but mainly it was beetroot.) We were much revived by the beetroot, but still sleepy, so after a rather pleasant meal, eaten at a little Hudson Street sidewalk table, we sloped off home to bed.
Tuesday 21 September 2010
Further Amsterdam Adventures
Waking up to a grey sky and the dismal splatter of raindrops almost gave poor Roz a heart attack - her book options (ferry ride, cycling in the countryside north of Amsterdam)demanded sun. And so we wrapped up and headed out to the American Hotel, where we had heard tell of a great jazz brunch. In fact it turned out to be a rather unappetising buffet, so instead we retired to the Stanislavski restaurant in a pretty theatre for our scrambled eggs and croissants. Our zeal to recreate those wonderful New York brunches demanded mimosas, but the bar woman refused to make them due to not knowing the recipe. One glass of orange juice, one glass of prosecco and an extra champagne glass later and we were sipping home made mimosas with pride.
After brunch we suddenly had a mad shopping enthusiasm: most uncharacteristic. I got new boots from a fancy shop and we pottered back to the hotel via afternoon coffee, a visit to an art market, and a stroll along the canals. We glammed up and headed out for a reasonable dinner at the much recommended and rather hippy style Golden Temple, followed by a Boom Chicago comedy show in central Amsterdam. After the show (and its accompanying bottle of wine), we walked hotelwards along cobbled paths and canal bridges and stopped at a sweet and trendy little bar for a final glass of wine to dull the pain of a holiday that was short and nearly over.
The next day we had a light breakfast in the fashionable Esprit cafe, before catching a tram out of town and to what turned out to be Amsterdam's top restaurant and quite possibly one of my top restaurants ever (which is saying a lot): De Kas. It was very, very good. Set in the middle of a park, it is a huge glasshouse, with its own greenhouse where the chefs pick the ingredients specifically for your meal. Wonderful service, spectacular food, and our desserts had 'happy anniversary' piped onto them in chocolate. A proper occasion restaurant, and a massive treat. In fact I was so intent on lingering that we nearly missed our train. We dashed along the platform and jumped aboard in the nick of time. And started chugging towards London.
Luckily the fun wasn't quite over. We got off at Brussels, took the subway into town, and finished our weekend in grand style over waffles and crepes in the Grand Place before finally sinking into the comfy chairs with an armful of newspapers in the first class lounge, and awaiting our summons back to London. Bravo Roz. A wonderful surprise third anniversary treat.
After brunch we suddenly had a mad shopping enthusiasm: most uncharacteristic. I got new boots from a fancy shop and we pottered back to the hotel via afternoon coffee, a visit to an art market, and a stroll along the canals. We glammed up and headed out for a reasonable dinner at the much recommended and rather hippy style Golden Temple, followed by a Boom Chicago comedy show in central Amsterdam. After the show (and its accompanying bottle of wine), we walked hotelwards along cobbled paths and canal bridges and stopped at a sweet and trendy little bar for a final glass of wine to dull the pain of a holiday that was short and nearly over.
The next day we had a light breakfast in the fashionable Esprit cafe, before catching a tram out of town and to what turned out to be Amsterdam's top restaurant and quite possibly one of my top restaurants ever (which is saying a lot): De Kas. It was very, very good. Set in the middle of a park, it is a huge glasshouse, with its own greenhouse where the chefs pick the ingredients specifically for your meal. Wonderful service, spectacular food, and our desserts had 'happy anniversary' piped onto them in chocolate. A proper occasion restaurant, and a massive treat. In fact I was so intent on lingering that we nearly missed our train. We dashed along the platform and jumped aboard in the nick of time. And started chugging towards London.
Luckily the fun wasn't quite over. We got off at Brussels, took the subway into town, and finished our weekend in grand style over waffles and crepes in the Grand Place before finally sinking into the comfy chairs with an armful of newspapers in the first class lounge, and awaiting our summons back to London. Bravo Roz. A wonderful surprise third anniversary treat.
Sunday 19 September 2010
A surprise trip to Amsterdam
By Layla
The third anniversary of getting together demands celebration, and Roz is responsible for ensuring that suitable celebration happens (I’m in charge of wedding anniversaries). For year one she raised expectations sky high – our anniversary was on the Saturday and she’d asked to organise it… I gratefully agreed. I’d imagined a nice meal. So it was with absolute excitement that on Friday afternoon, while working at a conference in a hotel in London, I was told I had a package awaiting me with the concierge. I retrieved said package, opened it, and found a notebook. On the front was a post-it note: ‘this is your anniversary present: you may only turn the pages when instructed to do so. You may now turn the first page’. This book led me, step by step, to Brussels (our particular city of romance) and we had a wonderful weekend away, involving me turning pages of the book every time a new activity approached. It was fantastic and the most romantic thing I had ever experienced.
On year 2, a similar book appeared, and we went to Oxford, for punting, and spectacular meals, including a 10 course tasting menu.
This year she told me that there would not be a book. I reassured her (with a tiny smidge of disappointment) that I certainly could not expect yet another book. Our anniversary was on Monday. So it was with great surprise that I came home from work on Thursday night and checked the post to find an envelope containing…. another book! It instructed me to ensure I was at a particular bus stop at a particular time the following day with my bags packed. Only at the bus stop could I turn the page. I almost burst with excitement.
The next day, promptly at the bus stop with bag in hand I found I was to get the 45 bus to Kings Cross, then that I was going to International Departures , then that the first leg of our journey was to Brussels. We sipped G&Ts in the first class lounge and I tried to restrain myself from turning the page. On the train, with wine in hand and meals served, it was time to turn the page… we were going to Amsterdam!
A change at Brussels, and another train later, we stepped out at Amsterdam Centrale. I was intrigued. Amsterdam has always had its red light district and cannabis reputation, but I had full confidence in Roz’s classiness. We walked through the stag night parties on the road between the station and Dam Square, then walked a little more and found ourselves in a romantic cobbled-street network of glistening canals sparkling with lights from the many bridges. The streets between were tiny with little boutique shops selling beautiful specialist items, and the streets were filled with cyclists, their bikes parked by the hundreds along the streets, their owners in nearby pretty, fashionable bars by the canals.
Soon, between the Western Canal Belt and the quirky Jordaan areas, we reached our hotel, the Ambassade, known for its popularity with authors. It’s made up of several canal houses, which meant our bedroom, romantically decorated in the style of Louis Quatorze apparently, had a little balcony overlooking the canal. Roz’s book proudly advised me that the hotel was one of Time Out’s top 5 Amsterdam hotels.
No sooner had we checked in, at about 10:30pm, it was time to turn the page and make our way over canal bridges and through little streets to Vyne, one of Amsterdam’s only wine bars. Romantic and highly stylish. we drank prosecco and Sancerre before returning through the pretty streets to bed.
On Saturday morning it was time to turn the page and find out our breakfast destination: Gartine. In the city centre, Gartine is, according to Time Out, ‘simple but marvellous’. The scrambled eggs on sourdough bread were some of the most delicious I’ve ever had, and the restaurant is friendly and stylish and very cool.
After breakfast, Roz felt the need for a scarf. I mocked her as it wasn’t that cold, but after obtaining one, she pointed out to me that every single Amsterdam woman was wearing a scarf! I blushed under the shame of my fashion faux pas. But I turned more pages and bravely soldiered on. Our next stop was Noordermarkt, a cool local farmers’ market, accessed along another very pretty canal. We wandered from stall to stall, sampling olive oil and lots of cheese, and then walked down the another canal to the Jordaan area where we popped our head into a rather deserted lesbian bar (well, it was about 12 noon) and enjoyed the pretty buildings, and settled for a drink in a café overlooking the water.
After our drinks, we proceeded to Vondelpark, where we walked romantically past lakes filled with ducks, and a wedding party, and had lunch at Vertigo, at the Film Museum. And then through Museumplatz, where lots of the museums are located in an attractive landscaped park. Turning the page, I found we were off on a guided cycle ride of Amsterdam. This was fun, and I felt like a local as we zipped up and down the canal bridges (known as ‘Dutch hills’ apparently) and heard various stories of Amsterdam. The most interesting, I thought, was that Amsterdam’s symbol is 3 Xs (for Catholic reasons) and when they legalised porn, all porn coming out of Amsterdam was marked with the city symbol (as were all exports), i.e. XXX. And this is why porn is now known as XXX.
After our bike ride, and a speedy walk back to our hotel to glam up, we walked off to a very glamorous and quirky restaurant at De Witte Uyl (Roz having apparently done much research regarding the best restaurant in Amsterdam). Cool 1920s interior, delicious food, and best of all… as an alternative to a cheeseboard they had… a chocolate board! An array of chocolate with a big pick to chisel off chunks of chocolate.
We wandered home down canals with bikes pottering past, and went to sleep absolutely full, having overindulged excessively on that chocolate board…
The third anniversary of getting together demands celebration, and Roz is responsible for ensuring that suitable celebration happens (I’m in charge of wedding anniversaries). For year one she raised expectations sky high – our anniversary was on the Saturday and she’d asked to organise it… I gratefully agreed. I’d imagined a nice meal. So it was with absolute excitement that on Friday afternoon, while working at a conference in a hotel in London, I was told I had a package awaiting me with the concierge. I retrieved said package, opened it, and found a notebook. On the front was a post-it note: ‘this is your anniversary present: you may only turn the pages when instructed to do so. You may now turn the first page’. This book led me, step by step, to Brussels (our particular city of romance) and we had a wonderful weekend away, involving me turning pages of the book every time a new activity approached. It was fantastic and the most romantic thing I had ever experienced.
On year 2, a similar book appeared, and we went to Oxford, for punting, and spectacular meals, including a 10 course tasting menu.
This year she told me that there would not be a book. I reassured her (with a tiny smidge of disappointment) that I certainly could not expect yet another book. Our anniversary was on Monday. So it was with great surprise that I came home from work on Thursday night and checked the post to find an envelope containing…. another book! It instructed me to ensure I was at a particular bus stop at a particular time the following day with my bags packed. Only at the bus stop could I turn the page. I almost burst with excitement.
The next day, promptly at the bus stop with bag in hand I found I was to get the 45 bus to Kings Cross, then that I was going to International Departures , then that the first leg of our journey was to Brussels. We sipped G&Ts in the first class lounge and I tried to restrain myself from turning the page. On the train, with wine in hand and meals served, it was time to turn the page… we were going to Amsterdam!
A change at Brussels, and another train later, we stepped out at Amsterdam Centrale. I was intrigued. Amsterdam has always had its red light district and cannabis reputation, but I had full confidence in Roz’s classiness. We walked through the stag night parties on the road between the station and Dam Square, then walked a little more and found ourselves in a romantic cobbled-street network of glistening canals sparkling with lights from the many bridges. The streets between were tiny with little boutique shops selling beautiful specialist items, and the streets were filled with cyclists, their bikes parked by the hundreds along the streets, their owners in nearby pretty, fashionable bars by the canals.
Soon, between the Western Canal Belt and the quirky Jordaan areas, we reached our hotel, the Ambassade, known for its popularity with authors. It’s made up of several canal houses, which meant our bedroom, romantically decorated in the style of Louis Quatorze apparently, had a little balcony overlooking the canal. Roz’s book proudly advised me that the hotel was one of Time Out’s top 5 Amsterdam hotels.
No sooner had we checked in, at about 10:30pm, it was time to turn the page and make our way over canal bridges and through little streets to Vyne, one of Amsterdam’s only wine bars. Romantic and highly stylish. we drank prosecco and Sancerre before returning through the pretty streets to bed.
On Saturday morning it was time to turn the page and find out our breakfast destination: Gartine. In the city centre, Gartine is, according to Time Out, ‘simple but marvellous’. The scrambled eggs on sourdough bread were some of the most delicious I’ve ever had, and the restaurant is friendly and stylish and very cool.
After breakfast, Roz felt the need for a scarf. I mocked her as it wasn’t that cold, but after obtaining one, she pointed out to me that every single Amsterdam woman was wearing a scarf! I blushed under the shame of my fashion faux pas. But I turned more pages and bravely soldiered on. Our next stop was Noordermarkt, a cool local farmers’ market, accessed along another very pretty canal. We wandered from stall to stall, sampling olive oil and lots of cheese, and then walked down the another canal to the Jordaan area where we popped our head into a rather deserted lesbian bar (well, it was about 12 noon) and enjoyed the pretty buildings, and settled for a drink in a café overlooking the water.
After our drinks, we proceeded to Vondelpark, where we walked romantically past lakes filled with ducks, and a wedding party, and had lunch at Vertigo, at the Film Museum. And then through Museumplatz, where lots of the museums are located in an attractive landscaped park. Turning the page, I found we were off on a guided cycle ride of Amsterdam. This was fun, and I felt like a local as we zipped up and down the canal bridges (known as ‘Dutch hills’ apparently) and heard various stories of Amsterdam. The most interesting, I thought, was that Amsterdam’s symbol is 3 Xs (for Catholic reasons) and when they legalised porn, all porn coming out of Amsterdam was marked with the city symbol (as were all exports), i.e. XXX. And this is why porn is now known as XXX.
After our bike ride, and a speedy walk back to our hotel to glam up, we walked off to a very glamorous and quirky restaurant at De Witte Uyl (Roz having apparently done much research regarding the best restaurant in Amsterdam). Cool 1920s interior, delicious food, and best of all… as an alternative to a cheeseboard they had… a chocolate board! An array of chocolate with a big pick to chisel off chunks of chocolate.
We wandered home down canals with bikes pottering past, and went to sleep absolutely full, having overindulged excessively on that chocolate board…
Saturday 10 July 2010
Up and down mountains and home to the sun
Days 12 and 13
By Layla
Yesterday was cold and miserable. Another ‘free day’, our plans to potter by the pool and go for a picnic were clearly doomed. After consuming our whole melon and suchlike breakfast items, we huddled in our little bedroom and tried to work out a plan. Eventually we used the internet to identify that there seemed to be an ice rink in Sibiu. We had someone drive us there, despite their misgivings. On arrival at the address, there was nothing even vaguely resembling an ice rink. However on turning the corner we found a dry rink, with ice machines sitting silently, mockingly, at the side of a circle that lacked any ice at all. It was deserted. Boo! No ice skating for us, then! And no further belief in Sibiu’s tourist website! Instead we braved the grey sky and went for a walk in the park. As the sky grew darker, we turned around and walked into Sibiu centre for our final day in this lovely town.
We pottered along Sibiu’s main street, discussing my career, and then popped into a stationery shop to obtain a notebook so that we could create a three year plan for me over lunch at an outdoor restaurant. I felt like a massive nerd… with a very planned three years! From lunch to the Orient Express where we ate chocolate and pretzel sticks and read our books and lamented that this was our last visit. And then up to Café Wein for our last mohitos. To the square for our last lovely pizzas as we watched the world go by. And then to the ice cream stand for our last ice creams. We walked back along the main street and caught a taxi home, where we watched Once on DVD and started feeling sad about our imminent return to London…
Today we were up early as demanded, had our breakfast, and were ready for our last day in Romania. This was our last activity day and we had to join up with the new arrivals, four retired middle English people, raring to go. We drove up into the Fagaras Mountains, which is bear country and looks just as you might imagine a Romanian mountain to look: dark, misty, mysterious. We caught a cable car further up the mountain, which after a long trip, deposited us at the top, next to where there is an Ice Hotel in winter. Obviously not in summer, though there was some snow on the ground and the climate was decidedly chilly. Our heads were literally in the clouds as we embarked on what turned out to be a five hour walk back to the car, through a range of mountain scenery. The first half hour was steep uphill. Then we started to descend, with the clouds so thick we could barely see in front of us, and moisture in our hair. Further descending brought us to a more open valley and as the clouds moved, we caught glimpses of the pine forest ahead. We had lunch at the bottom of a valley, next to a river, and then moved on. It felt like Lord of the Rings country, and the suspense when we passed several flocks of sheep, horses, donkeys and pigs, guarded by reputedly very fierce attack sheepdogs, added to the feeling of us being on a quest fraught with danger. I placed myself between two men holding big sticks but luckily the dogs did little more than bark and vaguely move in our direction. Which, after being warned of their ferocious risk, nearly gave me a heart attack! Then it was into the forest, with the pine trees rising and an array of rivers trickling down the mountainside as we climbed along a ridge. By this time I was getting a tad exhausted. The four pensioners were not: they skipped along like mountain goats, without a wheeze between them. I was very ashamed and resolved to do some exercise when in London (maybe). Roz fared rather better. I struggled along as the least fit person and whimpered when the track started to slope up over yet another mountain. Though I must admit, the scenery was spectacular.
Finally, it was the last descent. We climbed down, down, and the car park came into sight. I thought this moment would never come. With a burst of energy I marched towards it. All that stood between me and a comfy car seat was a roaring torrent of a river. But apparently there was a bridge. Except there wasn’t. The torrential rain over the last fortnight had in fact washed it away and all that remained was a single intact log, and one rather rotten one. Oh dear. Jez started talking about retracing our steps, finding a place to walk across the river. I didn’t want to walk any more. And I didn’t want to get my feet wet. It was time for me to be intrepid. I mounted the log and, elegantly, I bumped along it on my bottom, using my arms to propel myself along. Roz thought I was doomed to plummet into the white water below. Fortunately I wasn’t, and they all followed my lead. Soon we were driving home and my sore knees sang in relief.
Due to all the guests, our usual dining for two experience was lost to a barbecue. Always tedious for the vegetarian, we accepted our three vegetable kebabs and looked on while everyone else gorged on various meat items. I yearned for the previous nights where our dinner conversation had been about financing public services; tonight’s was inane, punctuated by middle-English mildly offensive comments about race, and a massive, detailed discussion about the World Cup that excluded us entirely. They debated whether to support Spain or Holland in the final. My very favourite moment was when Roz, in an attempt to appear interested in the conversation, asked them if there were any other teams that one could support in the World Cup. Her utter lack of knowledge that these two teams were the ones playing in the final, and there could be no third team, caused so much consternation that we were able to soon make our escape.
A final walk around the village, a settling of our bar tab, and it was home to blog and book and bed. A mere few hours of sleep await before we’re up horribly early, deposited at the airport, and transported home. Unusually, to the sun. And to a church fete where we have tombola-running responsibilities.
By Layla
Yesterday was cold and miserable. Another ‘free day’, our plans to potter by the pool and go for a picnic were clearly doomed. After consuming our whole melon and suchlike breakfast items, we huddled in our little bedroom and tried to work out a plan. Eventually we used the internet to identify that there seemed to be an ice rink in Sibiu. We had someone drive us there, despite their misgivings. On arrival at the address, there was nothing even vaguely resembling an ice rink. However on turning the corner we found a dry rink, with ice machines sitting silently, mockingly, at the side of a circle that lacked any ice at all. It was deserted. Boo! No ice skating for us, then! And no further belief in Sibiu’s tourist website! Instead we braved the grey sky and went for a walk in the park. As the sky grew darker, we turned around and walked into Sibiu centre for our final day in this lovely town.
We pottered along Sibiu’s main street, discussing my career, and then popped into a stationery shop to obtain a notebook so that we could create a three year plan for me over lunch at an outdoor restaurant. I felt like a massive nerd… with a very planned three years! From lunch to the Orient Express where we ate chocolate and pretzel sticks and read our books and lamented that this was our last visit. And then up to Café Wein for our last mohitos. To the square for our last lovely pizzas as we watched the world go by. And then to the ice cream stand for our last ice creams. We walked back along the main street and caught a taxi home, where we watched Once on DVD and started feeling sad about our imminent return to London…
Today we were up early as demanded, had our breakfast, and were ready for our last day in Romania. This was our last activity day and we had to join up with the new arrivals, four retired middle English people, raring to go. We drove up into the Fagaras Mountains, which is bear country and looks just as you might imagine a Romanian mountain to look: dark, misty, mysterious. We caught a cable car further up the mountain, which after a long trip, deposited us at the top, next to where there is an Ice Hotel in winter. Obviously not in summer, though there was some snow on the ground and the climate was decidedly chilly. Our heads were literally in the clouds as we embarked on what turned out to be a five hour walk back to the car, through a range of mountain scenery. The first half hour was steep uphill. Then we started to descend, with the clouds so thick we could barely see in front of us, and moisture in our hair. Further descending brought us to a more open valley and as the clouds moved, we caught glimpses of the pine forest ahead. We had lunch at the bottom of a valley, next to a river, and then moved on. It felt like Lord of the Rings country, and the suspense when we passed several flocks of sheep, horses, donkeys and pigs, guarded by reputedly very fierce attack sheepdogs, added to the feeling of us being on a quest fraught with danger. I placed myself between two men holding big sticks but luckily the dogs did little more than bark and vaguely move in our direction. Which, after being warned of their ferocious risk, nearly gave me a heart attack! Then it was into the forest, with the pine trees rising and an array of rivers trickling down the mountainside as we climbed along a ridge. By this time I was getting a tad exhausted. The four pensioners were not: they skipped along like mountain goats, without a wheeze between them. I was very ashamed and resolved to do some exercise when in London (maybe). Roz fared rather better. I struggled along as the least fit person and whimpered when the track started to slope up over yet another mountain. Though I must admit, the scenery was spectacular.
Finally, it was the last descent. We climbed down, down, and the car park came into sight. I thought this moment would never come. With a burst of energy I marched towards it. All that stood between me and a comfy car seat was a roaring torrent of a river. But apparently there was a bridge. Except there wasn’t. The torrential rain over the last fortnight had in fact washed it away and all that remained was a single intact log, and one rather rotten one. Oh dear. Jez started talking about retracing our steps, finding a place to walk across the river. I didn’t want to walk any more. And I didn’t want to get my feet wet. It was time for me to be intrepid. I mounted the log and, elegantly, I bumped along it on my bottom, using my arms to propel myself along. Roz thought I was doomed to plummet into the white water below. Fortunately I wasn’t, and they all followed my lead. Soon we were driving home and my sore knees sang in relief.
Due to all the guests, our usual dining for two experience was lost to a barbecue. Always tedious for the vegetarian, we accepted our three vegetable kebabs and looked on while everyone else gorged on various meat items. I yearned for the previous nights where our dinner conversation had been about financing public services; tonight’s was inane, punctuated by middle-English mildly offensive comments about race, and a massive, detailed discussion about the World Cup that excluded us entirely. They debated whether to support Spain or Holland in the final. My very favourite moment was when Roz, in an attempt to appear interested in the conversation, asked them if there were any other teams that one could support in the World Cup. Her utter lack of knowledge that these two teams were the ones playing in the final, and there could be no third team, caused so much consternation that we were able to soon make our escape.
A final walk around the village, a settling of our bar tab, and it was home to blog and book and bed. A mere few hours of sleep await before we’re up horribly early, deposited at the airport, and transported home. Unusually, to the sun. And to a church fete where we have tombola-running responsibilities.
Thursday 8 July 2010
A quest for Dracula in Transylvania
Day 11
By Layla
Today was one of the first days on holiday I’ve managed not to wake up at 6am. Usually the insistent crowing of a rooster and the jangling bells as cows and goats are taken up to the fields shakes me well awake and I have to spend the next three hours watching Roz slumbering in smug peacefulness. Alas we had to get up semi-early anyway as today we were off on a ‘citadel tour’. I blame Roz: on her first day at the guesthouse while making polite conversation, she indicated an extreme (and fallacious) interest in visiting churches. Our hosts have been keen on fulfilling her churchly desires and today promised a full schedule of ancient Saxon church action. One full melon, plus an array of other breakfast items, later, and we were off.
First, and probably best, was a ruined 14th century Saxon castle on a hill in a place called Slimnik. We were the only visitors, possibly for days. We were encouraged to climb up into the bell tower though cautioned that we were not allowed to touch the bells. We were initially confused: why would we want to touch the bells? It was soon clear: there were several, attached to long cords that hung at different levels, all within reach and so excruciatingly tempting that if I hadn’t been strictly warned, the village would have been serenaded with my first bell ringing attempt… or maybe the ancient bells would have shattered… We climbed to the very top for some lovely countryside views, and explored the grassy grounds.
It was then on to a far less romantic-looking church, 10th century and still in use. They wouldn’t let us climb the bell tower as it was too rickety (or perhaps they saw the look of bell ringing temptation in my eyes) but sent us round their random museum instead.
Our main stop of the day was the citadel town of Sighisoara (pronounced ‘Shigyshwara’), birthplace of Dracula and home to cobbled streets, gothic churches, and a rather rubbish statue of the vampire himself. We had lunch in a nice little café and then wandered amongst thousands of souvenir shops (looking for snow globes for our friend’s collection, to no avail) before retiring to another café where I ordered pancakes, much to Roz’s amusement as she sipped her beer. And then I tried to make her forget about the pancake consumption and lure her to a nearby ice cream cart… we walked through the park eating ice creams before finding the car and proceeding to the final Saxon church of the day in a town called Biertan, and one of the dullest, as it was large and plain. Good organ though. We had a little wander in the adjacent village and then returned to the car just as the first raindrops started to fall.
We drove home through a torrential downpour which abated as we neared Sibiu, and we arrived just in time for a bit of pre-prandial internetting. Dinner was excellent and I’m afraid I overindulged (not for the first time) – I fear a post-holiday diet is looming…
By Layla
Today was one of the first days on holiday I’ve managed not to wake up at 6am. Usually the insistent crowing of a rooster and the jangling bells as cows and goats are taken up to the fields shakes me well awake and I have to spend the next three hours watching Roz slumbering in smug peacefulness. Alas we had to get up semi-early anyway as today we were off on a ‘citadel tour’. I blame Roz: on her first day at the guesthouse while making polite conversation, she indicated an extreme (and fallacious) interest in visiting churches. Our hosts have been keen on fulfilling her churchly desires and today promised a full schedule of ancient Saxon church action. One full melon, plus an array of other breakfast items, later, and we were off.
First, and probably best, was a ruined 14th century Saxon castle on a hill in a place called Slimnik. We were the only visitors, possibly for days. We were encouraged to climb up into the bell tower though cautioned that we were not allowed to touch the bells. We were initially confused: why would we want to touch the bells? It was soon clear: there were several, attached to long cords that hung at different levels, all within reach and so excruciatingly tempting that if I hadn’t been strictly warned, the village would have been serenaded with my first bell ringing attempt… or maybe the ancient bells would have shattered… We climbed to the very top for some lovely countryside views, and explored the grassy grounds.
It was then on to a far less romantic-looking church, 10th century and still in use. They wouldn’t let us climb the bell tower as it was too rickety (or perhaps they saw the look of bell ringing temptation in my eyes) but sent us round their random museum instead.
Our main stop of the day was the citadel town of Sighisoara (pronounced ‘Shigyshwara’), birthplace of Dracula and home to cobbled streets, gothic churches, and a rather rubbish statue of the vampire himself. We had lunch in a nice little café and then wandered amongst thousands of souvenir shops (looking for snow globes for our friend’s collection, to no avail) before retiring to another café where I ordered pancakes, much to Roz’s amusement as she sipped her beer. And then I tried to make her forget about the pancake consumption and lure her to a nearby ice cream cart… we walked through the park eating ice creams before finding the car and proceeding to the final Saxon church of the day in a town called Biertan, and one of the dullest, as it was large and plain. Good organ though. We had a little wander in the adjacent village and then returned to the car just as the first raindrops started to fall.
We drove home through a torrential downpour which abated as we neared Sibiu, and we arrived just in time for a bit of pre-prandial internetting. Dinner was excellent and I’m afraid I overindulged (not for the first time) – I fear a post-holiday diet is looming…
Wednesday 7 July 2010
A lot of melon, a cycle, and some magical mud
Day 10
by Roz
Layla rather undersold the glory of last night’s dinner. But she also failed to mention that the owner, Di, had commented on our impressive consumption of the melon she’d provided for our breakfast that morning. In fact, we’d consumed the melon over a longer period (dinner, breakfast and then a little for lunch) but were too ashamed to admit this – particularly when Di said she’d specifically asked one of her staff to get off the bus early on his way on to work to buy us a melon for us to have for breakfast (since she’d now understood our true level of enthusiasm for the fruit)…! And so we found ourselves in the position of having demanded a full melon to eat for breakfast every day.
Oddly enough, eating an entire melon didn’t seem that difficult when it actually came to it. (I reserve judgement on whether it is going to be achievable every morning!) Though the plate of it did look slightly daunting for a minute or two…
From the glory of breakfast (which also included scrambled eggs – though Layla assures me that mine are much better) we headed off in a Range Rover with bikes up into the mountains. The intention of the day was every lazy biker’s dream: a beautiful downward ride through rural villages and beside babbling brooks (and with few cars). And indeed that ambition was achieved. It’s hard to describe how lovely it was. We saw the odd lazy dog, a few horses and carts and even the odd ancient villager on a bike. But no tourists and indeed no city dwellers. A truly joyful experience.
Having made it through the villages to the hideousness of an upward slope we stopped for a packed lunch in the village. A lunch made all the more delicious by knowing that part of the sandwich was a tapenade made by smoking the glut of vegetables at the end of autumn for 24 hours…
Although the temptation to cycle further was quite strong, in the end we decided to keep to our original plan of visiting old salt mines that had, over the years, been turned into salt lakes with very muddy bottoms. We drove there through very pretty countryside and to the sound of the BBC World Service. And what a random place it turned out to be! Visited by enthusiastic locals for the mud’s healing properties, it is now in the process of being redeveloped (by whom, who knows). But the redevelopment (and even the signs of “danger”) are still not a deterrent for locals who we found bathing in salt water – and covering themselves with mud – with glee. Always keen to fit in, Layla and I had to join them and dived in (ignoring the adjacent bulldozers). The salt water was fun (why does salt make it impossible to swim on your front?!) and the mud copious. Having daubed ourselves in mud appropriately, we baked along with locals until the mud was caked on – and then dived back in to the salt water to wash off the magical mud.
On the way home, Jez, having heard about the current ongoing manhunt in England, started asking about criminal sentences and how they are determined. In the circumstances, and given my job, I felt obliged to bore him and Layla with a lengthy explanation about how sentences are set (and how a sentence is served partly in jail and partly in the community). Fortunately before they’d both dozed off, we were back home. A fairly quick swim (for Layla) and a more languorous one for me, and then it was dinner time. Hurrah.
My only sorrow is that Layla is now waiting impatiently for me to finish my current book – Theodora, by Stella Duffy. This will teach me not to rave too much about anything until it’s read. This misguided book chat came about through the slightly odd atmosphere of dinner in the guesthouse – which is to say dinner a deux, in a tiny dining room, with not quite dim enough lighting to be appropriate and absolute silence. This leads to the need for un-holidayish intelligent conversation to fit the weird ambience: last night was public service and the pros and cons of commissioning and privatisation (aren’t you all, dear readers, glad you aren’t married to me?!) and tonight what is the definition of a historical novel – and particularly what makes a good historical novel.
Speaking of which, I must go: I have 40 pages of “Theodora: Actress. Empress. Whore.” to go and I can’t wait! And nor can I wait for tomorrow and the next bit of our Transylvanian fun….
by Roz
Layla rather undersold the glory of last night’s dinner. But she also failed to mention that the owner, Di, had commented on our impressive consumption of the melon she’d provided for our breakfast that morning. In fact, we’d consumed the melon over a longer period (dinner, breakfast and then a little for lunch) but were too ashamed to admit this – particularly when Di said she’d specifically asked one of her staff to get off the bus early on his way on to work to buy us a melon for us to have for breakfast (since she’d now understood our true level of enthusiasm for the fruit)…! And so we found ourselves in the position of having demanded a full melon to eat for breakfast every day.
Oddly enough, eating an entire melon didn’t seem that difficult when it actually came to it. (I reserve judgement on whether it is going to be achievable every morning!) Though the plate of it did look slightly daunting for a minute or two…
From the glory of breakfast (which also included scrambled eggs – though Layla assures me that mine are much better) we headed off in a Range Rover with bikes up into the mountains. The intention of the day was every lazy biker’s dream: a beautiful downward ride through rural villages and beside babbling brooks (and with few cars). And indeed that ambition was achieved. It’s hard to describe how lovely it was. We saw the odd lazy dog, a few horses and carts and even the odd ancient villager on a bike. But no tourists and indeed no city dwellers. A truly joyful experience.
Having made it through the villages to the hideousness of an upward slope we stopped for a packed lunch in the village. A lunch made all the more delicious by knowing that part of the sandwich was a tapenade made by smoking the glut of vegetables at the end of autumn for 24 hours…
Although the temptation to cycle further was quite strong, in the end we decided to keep to our original plan of visiting old salt mines that had, over the years, been turned into salt lakes with very muddy bottoms. We drove there through very pretty countryside and to the sound of the BBC World Service. And what a random place it turned out to be! Visited by enthusiastic locals for the mud’s healing properties, it is now in the process of being redeveloped (by whom, who knows). But the redevelopment (and even the signs of “danger”) are still not a deterrent for locals who we found bathing in salt water – and covering themselves with mud – with glee. Always keen to fit in, Layla and I had to join them and dived in (ignoring the adjacent bulldozers). The salt water was fun (why does salt make it impossible to swim on your front?!) and the mud copious. Having daubed ourselves in mud appropriately, we baked along with locals until the mud was caked on – and then dived back in to the salt water to wash off the magical mud.
On the way home, Jez, having heard about the current ongoing manhunt in England, started asking about criminal sentences and how they are determined. In the circumstances, and given my job, I felt obliged to bore him and Layla with a lengthy explanation about how sentences are set (and how a sentence is served partly in jail and partly in the community). Fortunately before they’d both dozed off, we were back home. A fairly quick swim (for Layla) and a more languorous one for me, and then it was dinner time. Hurrah.
My only sorrow is that Layla is now waiting impatiently for me to finish my current book – Theodora, by Stella Duffy. This will teach me not to rave too much about anything until it’s read. This misguided book chat came about through the slightly odd atmosphere of dinner in the guesthouse – which is to say dinner a deux, in a tiny dining room, with not quite dim enough lighting to be appropriate and absolute silence. This leads to the need for un-holidayish intelligent conversation to fit the weird ambience: last night was public service and the pros and cons of commissioning and privatisation (aren’t you all, dear readers, glad you aren’t married to me?!) and tonight what is the definition of a historical novel – and particularly what makes a good historical novel.
Speaking of which, I must go: I have 40 pages of “Theodora: Actress. Empress. Whore.” to go and I can’t wait! And nor can I wait for tomorrow and the next bit of our Transylvanian fun….
Hills and fine dining
Days 8 and 9
By Layla
Roz having awoken (from what she would like to be noted was only a brief doze), cooked a delicious meal for our last night in our self catering house: tortilla, pasta, lots of melon, lots of wine. Nice. We watched the first half of Rear Window until I pleaded tiredness and went to bed.
The next day was a so-called ‘Free day’ – we had to entertain ourselves and had decided to do so by climbing up a large hill. Having had an extravagant last self-catered breakfast, we packed up our things and then set off. Rather fun to walk from our house straight into the forest. Armed with our little hand drawn map (‘turn left at the big log’) and a picnic courtesy of Roz, we had a really lovely walk along a track by a river with trees, past Frog Rock, and then up a steep slope… we’d vaguely been aiming for the top, but then the thought of having to get down in the event of rain was unappealing given the likely quick move to mushy mud, and we headed for a riverside picnic spot instead. Then fled the wasps to another spot where we read our books before sleepily wandering home to our new abode, a room in the 2-room guesthouse at the other end of the village.
We had been a little concerned that the move away from self-catering might be risky (more polenta, sour cream and cheese)… but in fact we were served up with a glorious three course meal and wine, home cooked and delicious. In fact after eating it we were so exceptionally full we could hardly breathe. We walked around the village, stuffed, before retiring to our bedroom to watch the rest of Rear Window. Our early night was due to my exhaustion. I turned on my phone and was shamed to read my parents had been out at a late night outdoor movie double bill til 2am… I should resolve to be more of a party girl. If only I wasn’t so exhausted.
By Layla
Roz having awoken (from what she would like to be noted was only a brief doze), cooked a delicious meal for our last night in our self catering house: tortilla, pasta, lots of melon, lots of wine. Nice. We watched the first half of Rear Window until I pleaded tiredness and went to bed.
The next day was a so-called ‘Free day’ – we had to entertain ourselves and had decided to do so by climbing up a large hill. Having had an extravagant last self-catered breakfast, we packed up our things and then set off. Rather fun to walk from our house straight into the forest. Armed with our little hand drawn map (‘turn left at the big log’) and a picnic courtesy of Roz, we had a really lovely walk along a track by a river with trees, past Frog Rock, and then up a steep slope… we’d vaguely been aiming for the top, but then the thought of having to get down in the event of rain was unappealing given the likely quick move to mushy mud, and we headed for a riverside picnic spot instead. Then fled the wasps to another spot where we read our books before sleepily wandering home to our new abode, a room in the 2-room guesthouse at the other end of the village.
We had been a little concerned that the move away from self-catering might be risky (more polenta, sour cream and cheese)… but in fact we were served up with a glorious three course meal and wine, home cooked and delicious. In fact after eating it we were so exceptionally full we could hardly breathe. We walked around the village, stuffed, before retiring to our bedroom to watch the rest of Rear Window. Our early night was due to my exhaustion. I turned on my phone and was shamed to read my parents had been out at a late night outdoor movie double bill til 2am… I should resolve to be more of a party girl. If only I wasn’t so exhausted.
Monday 5 July 2010
A birthday, some glass icons, and hydroelectric fun
Days 7 and 8
By Layla
After lunch, we ventured over to the main guesthouse and their swimming pool. It’s a bit of a random, elevated pool, and as there’s so little water in this village they had to have it delivered in a lorry. It seemed wrong not to take advantage. And it was lovely swimming in our own private pool, right next door to a very pretty orthodox church and directly opposite a Lutheran one. Church bells accompanied our splashes and the backdrop to the pool was steeples and hillside. We read books over beer afterwards before retiring home. Roz made us pasta which we ate on our patio in the sun before watching the last ever West Wing episodes. I sobbed like a girl and have since felt bereft – I can’t imagine life without the next series. We went to bed and I had to giggle when Roz told me she was too excited to sleep as the next day was her birthday…
Sure enough, the next day started with the excitement of Mimosas in bed (a la New York) and a huge pile of birthday presents for Roz. I always live in fear that I will have chosen unsatisfactory presents but she seemed happy. Despite her being the birthday girl, in view of my culinary incompetence she made breakfast, which we ate on our patio, and I was smug, though alarmed, to find that one of the most successful presents I gave her was a tiny heart-shaped pot of marmite which she smeared on toast with some glee… At 10:30 we were collected from our house and driven up a hill, where we were deposited, with Jez as our guide, at the edge of the forest. The forest looks just as I had imagined a Transylvanian forest might look, with tall dark trees. I hadn’t expected the open countryside though! We walked through the forest, past WW1 trenches, and over hills and meadows that would have looked appropriate in The Sound of Music, complete with haystacks and church spires glistening in the distance all around as the sun shone vehemently. I had arranged this walk for Roz’s birthday and it was mainly really lovely, walking through three different villages, including a tiny one that only just acquired a dirt track by which to access it last year. No tourists at all. It was fun walking past these wooden, pastel-coloured houses, and people driving past on horse and cart, and open countryside all around. It was only unpleasant at the end when, after 3 ½ hours of walking, we had to climb up a very, very steep hill.
However it was worth it. I had pre-planned with our hosts that they would set out a special romantic birthday picnic for Roz at the top of the hill, and they had done me proud. They had set up a picnic blanket under a canopy, bearing a ‘happy birthday’ banner. Our plates boasted party items, and a lovely array of homemade tomato tart, fresh bread, cheese and grapes and salad were laid out on the blanket. Not to mention the champagne. And the piece de resistance… a lesbian birthday cake! I couldn’t quite believe the glory. Di had asked me to buy icing in London and bring it with me to Transylvania, which I duly did. And she created an amazing cake featuring two female pandas (with matching pink bows) in a double bed with a pink blanket made of icing. There was even a pair of slippers at each side of the bed. It was quite spectacular. And possibly the only lesbian cake either of us has ever seen. Di was very smug when she returned after lunch to see Roz’s appreciative reaction. Then a shepherd passed by with his flock and brought a tiny lamb over for us to stroke. Very cute.
After our lunch the plan of us walking back home ourselves sounded remarkably untempting. We gazed at the sky: possible rain. We gazed at our feet: ouch. We gazed at each other: a plan was psychically formed. Rather than the walk, Roz asked Di to drive us home and, trying not to feel like wusses, we were transported back to our house just in time to feel smug about having escaped the rain that did indeed fall. We had planned to watch a film but both of us were shattered and ill and had to turn it off halfway through. I think we might have had mild sunstroke.
Luckily a quick nap and we were as good as new. We dressed up and someone came to give us a lift to Sibiu. Though we had only left two days ago, we were very nostalgic and delighted to be back. We started off with a mohito (or five) at the lovely outdoor Café Wien, to the sounds of live piano, while we people-watched. Then we sauntered across the square to El Turn, a rather lovely outdoor Italian restaurant with delicious food, on the main square. We had prosecco and bruschetta and pizzas and then chose ice cream for dessert at our favourite ice cream seller (who had put their ice cream price up from 50p two days ago to 60p: extortionate!). We walked through the square feeling romantic and, having considered having drinks in a rather pretentious and touristy piano bar, we decided instead to head back to the Orient Express where we had beer and played chess, culminating in the barman taking over Roz’s side of the game and thrashing me on her behalf – Roz’s smugness was massive as I was repeatedly checkmated. Well, it was her birthday… We decided that Orient Express is probably our favourite bar out of every bar we have ever been in. We ran through London, Glasgow, New York, and all the other fantastic places we’ve been, but nowhere beats it. Just before we left the music turned particularly cool and we jumped up to do our ‘wedding dance’, i.e. a Charleston, to the delighted bemusement of the chess-playing barman. As we were driven home we both revelled sleepily in what had been an excellent birthday.
We hadn’t arranged what time we were meeting Di and Jez the next day, but of the nine nights we’re staying in Cisnadioara we paid for five of them to be ‘all inclusive activity days’; Roz’s birthday was the first, and today was to be the second. However we hadn’t actually made plans with them, so poor Jez came knocking at the door at 9:30, only to meet a bleary-eyed Layla who had stumbled from bed (Roz refused to stumble and stayed put). He looked confused, as though he had never encountered the phenomenon of people sleeping in (even if they’d had champagne cocktails for breakfast, champagne for lunch, prosecco for dinner, multiple mohitos, and a few glasses of beer the day before, on top of a demanding hike…). We managed to send him away long enough to get hastily up and for Roz to whip up another tasty breakfast before it was time to embark on our second day of activity.
The sun shone as we sped through an array of picturesque hills, streams, and fairytale mountain villages. At one village we stopped to wander around a pretty church and walk through the village. At the next we went to see the Glass Icon Museum. We had both been rather unconvinced by the likely delights of this attraction. However it turned out to be rather lovely. It seems that in the old days, a glass painting of a religious scene was the proudest possession of many families in Romania. When Communism came, these paintings were banned, but apparently one monk risked his life collecting all the illegal icons and hiding them until after the Communist rule, at which point the museum was established. We were assured that this is the most important collection of glass icons in the world. And they were interesting to see: bright and colourful, almost cartoonish, and lovely to imagine them in family homes. Rather random to find them in this obscure Transylvanian village.
After this excitement, it was on to yet another village, which was having a festival. Apparently said festival had not been advertised, which goes to show the power of word of mouth, as every person from miles around was in attendance, many with fun Romanian folk outfits. You can imagine that if you lived around here, this would be the social event of your whole year! It was a strange combination of sweet little fete, and horrible commercial funfair. We were deposited on the road and walked down into the festival where we acquired lunch of an item that is apparently translated as ‘shepherds’ cheesy balls’. In fact this turns out to be our disguised vegetarian staple of polenta, cheese and sour cream sneakily rolled together into a rather large ball to trick you into thinking it’s something else. We were duly fooled but quickly realised the truth... We wandered around afterwards with sweetcorn and popcorn, had a glance at the stage where people in traditional Romanian garb were doing country dancing and emitting unpleasant folk songs to the delight of most of the festival attendees, and ended up going for a walk along a sunny path to the cascading sheets of water of a nearby hydroelectric water plant. Roz was highly amused at my nerdy excitement about this. I do like a nice hydroelectric water plant…
After the festival we drove back home and found ourselves utterly exhausted again. Di offered us the option of going ‘mushrooming’ to find wild mushrooms for dinner. We were too tired. We picked up some food from the shop and started out on the 10 minute walk to our house. As we set off, the heavens opened and we were absolutely saturated. We made it home, drenched, and are now curled up on the daybed in dry clothes eating birthday cake and reading and typing. Well, in fact I now notice Roz has fallen asleep. I am jealous. I don’t think either of us has ever been so exhausted on holiday. I blame the exhaustion of our pre-holiday lives. I wonder if we’ll manage the 5 hour hike up a mountain tomorrow… much less a return to work in a week’s time…
By Layla
After lunch, we ventured over to the main guesthouse and their swimming pool. It’s a bit of a random, elevated pool, and as there’s so little water in this village they had to have it delivered in a lorry. It seemed wrong not to take advantage. And it was lovely swimming in our own private pool, right next door to a very pretty orthodox church and directly opposite a Lutheran one. Church bells accompanied our splashes and the backdrop to the pool was steeples and hillside. We read books over beer afterwards before retiring home. Roz made us pasta which we ate on our patio in the sun before watching the last ever West Wing episodes. I sobbed like a girl and have since felt bereft – I can’t imagine life without the next series. We went to bed and I had to giggle when Roz told me she was too excited to sleep as the next day was her birthday…
Sure enough, the next day started with the excitement of Mimosas in bed (a la New York) and a huge pile of birthday presents for Roz. I always live in fear that I will have chosen unsatisfactory presents but she seemed happy. Despite her being the birthday girl, in view of my culinary incompetence she made breakfast, which we ate on our patio, and I was smug, though alarmed, to find that one of the most successful presents I gave her was a tiny heart-shaped pot of marmite which she smeared on toast with some glee… At 10:30 we were collected from our house and driven up a hill, where we were deposited, with Jez as our guide, at the edge of the forest. The forest looks just as I had imagined a Transylvanian forest might look, with tall dark trees. I hadn’t expected the open countryside though! We walked through the forest, past WW1 trenches, and over hills and meadows that would have looked appropriate in The Sound of Music, complete with haystacks and church spires glistening in the distance all around as the sun shone vehemently. I had arranged this walk for Roz’s birthday and it was mainly really lovely, walking through three different villages, including a tiny one that only just acquired a dirt track by which to access it last year. No tourists at all. It was fun walking past these wooden, pastel-coloured houses, and people driving past on horse and cart, and open countryside all around. It was only unpleasant at the end when, after 3 ½ hours of walking, we had to climb up a very, very steep hill.
However it was worth it. I had pre-planned with our hosts that they would set out a special romantic birthday picnic for Roz at the top of the hill, and they had done me proud. They had set up a picnic blanket under a canopy, bearing a ‘happy birthday’ banner. Our plates boasted party items, and a lovely array of homemade tomato tart, fresh bread, cheese and grapes and salad were laid out on the blanket. Not to mention the champagne. And the piece de resistance… a lesbian birthday cake! I couldn’t quite believe the glory. Di had asked me to buy icing in London and bring it with me to Transylvania, which I duly did. And she created an amazing cake featuring two female pandas (with matching pink bows) in a double bed with a pink blanket made of icing. There was even a pair of slippers at each side of the bed. It was quite spectacular. And possibly the only lesbian cake either of us has ever seen. Di was very smug when she returned after lunch to see Roz’s appreciative reaction. Then a shepherd passed by with his flock and brought a tiny lamb over for us to stroke. Very cute.
After our lunch the plan of us walking back home ourselves sounded remarkably untempting. We gazed at the sky: possible rain. We gazed at our feet: ouch. We gazed at each other: a plan was psychically formed. Rather than the walk, Roz asked Di to drive us home and, trying not to feel like wusses, we were transported back to our house just in time to feel smug about having escaped the rain that did indeed fall. We had planned to watch a film but both of us were shattered and ill and had to turn it off halfway through. I think we might have had mild sunstroke.
Luckily a quick nap and we were as good as new. We dressed up and someone came to give us a lift to Sibiu. Though we had only left two days ago, we were very nostalgic and delighted to be back. We started off with a mohito (or five) at the lovely outdoor Café Wien, to the sounds of live piano, while we people-watched. Then we sauntered across the square to El Turn, a rather lovely outdoor Italian restaurant with delicious food, on the main square. We had prosecco and bruschetta and pizzas and then chose ice cream for dessert at our favourite ice cream seller (who had put their ice cream price up from 50p two days ago to 60p: extortionate!). We walked through the square feeling romantic and, having considered having drinks in a rather pretentious and touristy piano bar, we decided instead to head back to the Orient Express where we had beer and played chess, culminating in the barman taking over Roz’s side of the game and thrashing me on her behalf – Roz’s smugness was massive as I was repeatedly checkmated. Well, it was her birthday… We decided that Orient Express is probably our favourite bar out of every bar we have ever been in. We ran through London, Glasgow, New York, and all the other fantastic places we’ve been, but nowhere beats it. Just before we left the music turned particularly cool and we jumped up to do our ‘wedding dance’, i.e. a Charleston, to the delighted bemusement of the chess-playing barman. As we were driven home we both revelled sleepily in what had been an excellent birthday.
We hadn’t arranged what time we were meeting Di and Jez the next day, but of the nine nights we’re staying in Cisnadioara we paid for five of them to be ‘all inclusive activity days’; Roz’s birthday was the first, and today was to be the second. However we hadn’t actually made plans with them, so poor Jez came knocking at the door at 9:30, only to meet a bleary-eyed Layla who had stumbled from bed (Roz refused to stumble and stayed put). He looked confused, as though he had never encountered the phenomenon of people sleeping in (even if they’d had champagne cocktails for breakfast, champagne for lunch, prosecco for dinner, multiple mohitos, and a few glasses of beer the day before, on top of a demanding hike…). We managed to send him away long enough to get hastily up and for Roz to whip up another tasty breakfast before it was time to embark on our second day of activity.
The sun shone as we sped through an array of picturesque hills, streams, and fairytale mountain villages. At one village we stopped to wander around a pretty church and walk through the village. At the next we went to see the Glass Icon Museum. We had both been rather unconvinced by the likely delights of this attraction. However it turned out to be rather lovely. It seems that in the old days, a glass painting of a religious scene was the proudest possession of many families in Romania. When Communism came, these paintings were banned, but apparently one monk risked his life collecting all the illegal icons and hiding them until after the Communist rule, at which point the museum was established. We were assured that this is the most important collection of glass icons in the world. And they were interesting to see: bright and colourful, almost cartoonish, and lovely to imagine them in family homes. Rather random to find them in this obscure Transylvanian village.
After this excitement, it was on to yet another village, which was having a festival. Apparently said festival had not been advertised, which goes to show the power of word of mouth, as every person from miles around was in attendance, many with fun Romanian folk outfits. You can imagine that if you lived around here, this would be the social event of your whole year! It was a strange combination of sweet little fete, and horrible commercial funfair. We were deposited on the road and walked down into the festival where we acquired lunch of an item that is apparently translated as ‘shepherds’ cheesy balls’. In fact this turns out to be our disguised vegetarian staple of polenta, cheese and sour cream sneakily rolled together into a rather large ball to trick you into thinking it’s something else. We were duly fooled but quickly realised the truth... We wandered around afterwards with sweetcorn and popcorn, had a glance at the stage where people in traditional Romanian garb were doing country dancing and emitting unpleasant folk songs to the delight of most of the festival attendees, and ended up going for a walk along a sunny path to the cascading sheets of water of a nearby hydroelectric water plant. Roz was highly amused at my nerdy excitement about this. I do like a nice hydroelectric water plant…
After the festival we drove back home and found ourselves utterly exhausted again. Di offered us the option of going ‘mushrooming’ to find wild mushrooms for dinner. We were too tired. We picked up some food from the shop and started out on the 10 minute walk to our house. As we set off, the heavens opened and we were absolutely saturated. We made it home, drenched, and are now curled up on the daybed in dry clothes eating birthday cake and reading and typing. Well, in fact I now notice Roz has fallen asleep. I am jealous. I don’t think either of us has ever been so exhausted on holiday. I blame the exhaustion of our pre-holiday lives. I wonder if we’ll manage the 5 hour hike up a mountain tomorrow… much less a return to work in a week’s time…
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