The Atheist Bus Campaign was launched to counter the plethora of religious adverts on display. I really can’t see this going over very well in the United States. There would be protests and blah, blah, blah, because the megachurch pastors would get their flock all riled up.
“We’re back to where we started, with the government bailing out the banks and everybody reusing their teabags.”
My friend India Knight, a columnist for The Sunday Times, joined me. “It’s quite nice,” she said. “A bit like the Blitz. A bit of decadence in the dark, you know?”
“Socialism is bursting out all over,” I said.
“I know,” said India. “Greed is not good.”
The restaurants in Primrose Hill were looking pretty but empty. The men finished their coffee and shrugged as they left. “Good luck,” one said to the cafe owner. “Things are going to be very tough.”
Another old friend turned up with cigarettes for everybody. “It’s amazing,” he said, with an observation about the glistening financial center on the Thames. “It looks as if Canary Wharf is going back to what it was — the Isle of Dogs.”
Not much fun, are you, Boris? But I will admit that he has an awesome first name. And how can you not love the guy’s hairstyle?
London’s new mayor, Boris Johnson, left, said that he was banning alcohol on the city’s public transportation system, effective next month, in an effort to “end the problem of drunken and intimidating behavior on the Tube.” Some subway workers said they welcomed the move as a way to change the unpleasant late-night atmosphere in the subways. But Bob Crow, general secretary of the union representing transportation employees, said the plan had been put into place too hastily and would be difficult to enforce. “Perhaps the mayor will come out with his underpants on over his trousers like Superman one Saturday to show us how it should be done,” he told Agence France-Presse.
When I first moved to the UK, I was pretty shocked to see people eating fast food and downing cans of beer on the Tube. It was a big change from the DC metro system, where they arrest 12 year olds for eating french fries in the stations.
Yeah, these photos are over two years old (September ’05) and I just got around to uploading them. I’ve only got 100+ more to go.
These were all taken during my last week in London, when I decided to make one more quick visit to some of the sights in the city.
As to be expected, the Queen has a ridiculously large backyard
Hanging out in the palace backyard after tea with Lizzie.
A royal swan in Round Pond, Kensington Gardens.
I didn’t want to get to close to the swans as they might recognize me from previous “incidents” and maul me, or something.
Tributes to Princess Diana on the gates of Kensington Palace, her former residence
Last night in the old ‘hood
It’s Guy Fawkes Night, that brilliant British celebration involving bonfires, fireworks, and alcohol. Admittedly, I was a bit disappointed that, while attending Bonfire Night festivities in 2004, there was no effigy of Guy Fawkes. I mean, seriously, what’s the point?
Sadly, Fawkes’s hometown, York, no longer holds a Bonfire Night. Afraid of lawsuits, or whatev.
A future NFL champion may someday be crowned overseas in a game witnessed predominantly by a foreign audience, NFL commissioner Roger Goodell said.
“There’s a great deal of interest in holding a Super Bowl in London,” Goodell told reporters Monday. “So we’ll be looking at that.”
What’s the point? They play real football over there.
Here’s a few more recently upped photos of LSE friends – some from my dorm (Bankside represent) and others from my Russian & Post-Soviet Studies (RPSS) program. The theme for this week is drinking, or whatever.
“That blood was still on the wall five months later!”
“I was just standing there and someone handed me a plate…that was on fire.”
It never gets old…for us, at least.
And with that, I have to go figure out how to do my taxes.
Despite having left London in September 2005, I still have yet to upload all the photos from the year I spent there. Here’s a few from the popular London tourist attraction, Madame Tussauds wax museum, otherwise known as the most famous “tourist trap” in the city. Crystal and I went there one late summer afternoon after spending the day stuck inside the library working on our dissertations.
Madame Tussauds is more than just wax figures, however. We went into the Chamber of Horrors which was like a haunted house – really scary and made us scream a lot and we ran through it as quickly as possible. The guy dressed up as Hannibal Lecter kept following us, which was totally bizarre. After that we went on the “Spirit of London” ride where you sit in this little black cab and are taken on a ride through 400 years of London’s history. This includes the plague, which is represented by animatronic rats nibbling on dead bodies, and an Austin Powers-ish conclusion starring a psychedelic, rotating Queen Elizabeth.
The last stop on our visit to Madame Tussauds was the planetarium. Yes, a planetarium. It was educational, but after it was over we were like “What does that have to do with celebrity wax figures?”
I know that after reading this, you are all ready to buy a ticket to London so you can see the wax museum for yourself. Well, come Fall 2007, you’ll just have to ride the red/orange/blue lines to Metro Center in order to visit Washington’s very own Madame Tussauds!
The $16 million project, now in design, is slated to include replicas of the Constitution and Declaration of Independence; interactive experiences involving the history of Washington; and a replica of the Oval Office, where visitors can have their picture taken. President Abraham Lincoln is the designated “greeter,” so his likeness is likely to be the first visitors see upon entering.
Replicas of the Constitution and Declaration of Independence? Who needs to see the real things anyways?
Our flight out of Yerevan left a little after 10am. Prior to leaving, we had to pay a “departure fee”, which is one of the most ridiculous things I’ve ever heard of. You guys made me buy two visas and yet I still have to PAY to LEAVE your country? Whatev.
The flight to Heathrow absolutely sucked. It was full of wild diaspora kids (on their way back to LA, I’m guessing) who were running up and down the aisles screaming their heads off and knocking down the flight attendants who were serving everyone their drinks. I had to try very hard to restrain myself from sticking my arm out and clotheslining one of the brats. Hey parents, wanna control your kids? Oh, right, you’re too busy fidgeting with your iPod to notice that little Aram and Stepan are terrorizing your fellow passengers and convincing Lindsay that she will never EVER EVER want kids…EVER!
I had purposely spaced out my Yerevan – London and London – Washington flights (8 hour layover) so I could head into the wonderful city of London and have a few pints at a pub I used to frequent. We went to Churchill Arms in Notting Hill, which has the most amazing Thai food for six quid (yeah, the dishes went up a few pence since I lived there, but I’m not complaining). When I was at LSE, we’d eat or drink at Churchill Arms at last once a week, so I have some very fond memories of that pub. Saalim, a friend of mine from LSE, met up with us. Just like the old times, innit? (Thanks for the Strongbow and Pimm’s, dude, looking forward to seeing you in January.)
I rode the Heathrow Express back to the airport in a semi-inebriated, near catatonic state. I couldn’t believe I had to go back to Washington-effin’-DC, that goddamn hellhole swamp. I missed London’s pubs, outdoor markets, black cabs, red double decker buses, efficient train system, and generally polite population.
Maybe…MAYBE I could just stay here…no, that would be pretty goddamn irresponsible, eh? Anyways, my visa’s long since expired.
Upon arrival at Heathrow, I purchased two bottles of Pimm’s from duty-free, because I needed some gin-based liqueur to blunt the trauma of my imminent departure from London. The flight was two hours late leaving Heathrow, due to the fact that it’s, well, Heathrow, and massive screwups seem to be par for the course at that airport.
Nothing memorable happened on the flight to Dulles, which arrived a bit past midnight. Customs was surprisingly easy. There weren’t any ridiculous questions that the agents at LAX like to ask: “How did you get to all these countries?”
“Uh, by airplane.”
Or, “Armenia? Were you participating in jihad against the United States of America?”
“Uh, Armenia is a Christian nation, but no.”
Got home at 1:30am, 21 hours after leaving Armenia. Four former Soviet republics down, eleven to go!
THE END…of the most drawn-out vacation description EVER. Took this trip in July and finished writing about it in December…way to go, Lindsay!
Anyways, this post wouldn’t be complete without a big thanks to Liz and Taline for putting us up (and more importantly, putting up with us). Thanks to Brian and Andrew for their brilliant toastmaster skills at our welcome dinner…and for ensuring that the Russki Standart vodka was constantly flowing.
Cheers, guys.
I’m trying to figure out where to go for my next trip. I was thinking of hitting up London over President’s Day weekend, but might switch that to Berlin because flights are cheap and I’ve never been to Germany. A summer surf trip to Costa Rica might be in the works. Let me know if you want to come along.
Also, I’ll post to this “blog” (I still hate that word) a bit more often, so you guys can stop complaining about how I never update it.
Armenia. Georgia. Azerbaijan. I’ve become used to the odd looks when I tell someone where I’m going – most people haven’t a clue where these countries are located, and to the others I might as well have said Afghanistan, as visions of men with AK-47s pop into their heads. Most people are content to lie on white beaches, sipping mai tais and occasionally taking a dip in the crystal-clear water. Not me. I want border crossings in dilapidated taxis, languages I can barely understand, gold-toothed men hawking shawarma from sidewalk eateries, and babushkas selling the mushrooms they picked at their dacha the day before.
Last year, my mom would always ask, “Why Egypt? Why Croatia? Why not Italy?” (she was finally thrilled when I announced that I would, in fact, be visiting Italy – a “normal” country). It’s not that I don’t want to visit places like Spain, Germany, or Austria, I just feel that these countries won’t be that much different ten years from now. Armenia, Georgia, and Azerbaijan, on the other hand, are at a unique period in their respective histories – 70 years of communism followed by bloody civil wars and regional conflicts, and each now pursuing varying stages of economic development. I love “Old Europe” but it can wait for a few years, as I have some other passport stamps I need to collect first.
As mentioned in previous posts, I have two friends – one from GW and the other from LSE – who currently work in Armenia. I promised them that I would visit, and started researching tickets in May. My roommate, Laura, another friend of Liz’s, decided that she, too, would like to see Armenia, and so on the evening of July 4th we found ourselves boarding a British Airways flight that would take us to London and from there, Yerevan. Ah, British Airways, how I love you! The cheery “hullo” when you step onto the plane, free alcohol, tea, Cadbury chocolates…civilization!
I’m usually incredibly lucky when it comes to domestic flights (a whole row to myself, a flight attendant who sneaks me some of the freshly-baked chocolate chip cookies from first class, and so on) but it seems that whenever I fly internationally, the forces of nature conspire against me to ensure that I have a long, uncomfortable flight over the Atlantic. This most recent flight to London was a perfect storm of misery: a screaming baby in the row ahead of me, the knee of the passenger behind me permanently ingrained in my back, and the lady next to me literally spilling over into my seat, thus occupying 15 or so percent of the tiny personal space that British Airways allotted to me.
No matter how hard I try, I can’t sleep on planes (flight insomnia…it has to be a medical condition), so I usually watch movies or listen to some music while everyone else sleeps. I was thoroughly pissed that this lady was occupying a good percentage of my seat, though, and soon after she fell asleep I turned on the bright-as-the-goddamn-sun overhead light. Her eyes immediately fluttered open, nose scrunched up, and she turned to me and sputtered, “Can you turn the light off?” I just grinned, pointed to my book and notepad, and replied, “Well, I’m reading, you see.” She spent the next few hours tossing and turning (yeah, the light really is that bright). If she wanted to sleep that badly, she could have put on her BA-issued eye mask.
We arrived at Heathrow airport around 8am, an hour later than expected. Only a year ago I was living here in London, researching my dissertation topic, looking forward to meeting my family in Dublin, fixing the porn-laden laptops of idiotic LSE students, planning a trip to Prague, and totally unaware that a few days later some idiots would blow up our beloved Underground transportation system. Damn, I miss this city.
After convincing passport control that we were only staying in the country for lunch, we hopped the Heathrow Express to Paddington and took the tube to Notting Hill Gate. We had a pot of tea and scones with jam and clotted cream at Patisserie Valerie, and then wandered down to the Hillgate pub for a morning drink. We arrived at the pub at 10:45am, only to be told that they didn’t open for another 15 minutes, so we walked around Notting Hill and arrived back at the Hillgate promptly at 11am. First customers of the day. Life goal #372 accomplished!
“A pint of Strongbow please.”
I imagined that the bartender must have thought to herself, “Oh, here come the bloody alcoholic Yank backpackers.” But oh, that Strongbow tasted so good.
We got back to Heathrow at 12:45pm for our 2:30 flight, and finally arrived in Yerevan at 12:30am, an hour behind schedule. Passport control was a typical example of Eastern European bureaucracy, with one disinterested guard for every fifty passengers, no semblance of order whatsoever, and a fair amount of pushing and shoving from hyperactive babushkas who spied their family members waving to them behind the plate glass windows beyond the control booths. We finally got out of passport control after 45 or so minutes, collected our luggage, and were met by a driver from the U.S. embassy who would take us to Liz’s apartment.
As we pulled out of the airport, one of the first questions he asked me was, “Do you like Mexican food?”
“Man, I’m from California – I love Mexican food!”
“Good, because I am taking you to Mexican restaurant ‘Cactus.’ Liz is there waiting for you.” We then proceeded to debate the finer points of Mexican cuisine. Tacos, burritos, what are the best?
Driving into Yerevan, one of the first things that struck me about the city was the complete darkness. None of the streetlights were on, and most of the apartment buildings emitted hardly any light. The darkness was occasionally interrupted by the neon glow of the casinos that dotted the road, most of them with names that were ripped-off from their big brothers in Vegas: Bellagio, Caesar’s, etc. I suppose that they are the only ones who can afford the high electricity rates in this part of the world.
We arrived at ‘Cactus’ and met up with Liz, Taline, Crystal (another LSE alum, she had flown in from San Francisco that morning), and their expat friends, who were watching one of the World Cup matches. Can I just tell you how surreal it felt to be standing there, at 2am, in a Mexican restaurant in Yerevan of all places, surrounded by friends from both GW and LSE? It was like a very, very weird dream. After finishing off someone’s Piña Colada, we headed back to Liz’s place, where I showered and finally crashed around 4am.
Next up: We visit some monasteries, our van breaks down, and we are stranded in Northern Armenia
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