22.1.08
des questions
There is any number of reasons why people travel. Some people are running; some people are searching; and some people are just being. When you are traveling – or spending extended time away from home – you may find yourself wondering where you fall on the scale. Depending on my day, or on my week, I see myself as being anywhere along that scale; nothing is constant, least of all my emotions and feelings about being away from my family. I experience constant ups and downs depending on the company I have been keeping, the work I have been doing and the places I’ve been. (And, of course, there is that always enjoyable PMS time… which does nothing but aggravate any emotion I might be experiencing. However, this does lead me to wonder what things would be like without that magnification of emotion. Would things seem dull if I missed out on that monthly surge of swollen senses? For it isn’t always a terrible thing to experience with such force those turbulent feelings…)
At the beginning of January I went on a quick jaunt to London, my first since arriving here in the UK. I had a lovely time; in fact, it was more than just lovely. But there were consequences to this trip. As some of you know, my father has a lot to do with my reason for coming here. While it was something I had wanted to do for many years, it was my brief visit to London about 5 years ago that really solidified my desire to come to the UK. On that visit I experienced one of those terribly cheesy – so-cheesy-it’s-hard-to-admit – moments when I felt I connected with something. To put it plainly – and in short – in London I felt my dad (or thought so much about him I thought I felt him… as much as you can “feel” dead people).
So, five years later I decided to take the trip back to the UK and this time for longer. Decided to do a little soul-searching, if you will – and not just for my own, I suppose. Only Birmingham hasn’t been a repeat of my time in London. It has been good – don’t get me wrong. It has been a wonderful experience; it has been a learning experience in so many ways. But when I got off the train in London, on a Friday afternoon at Marylebone Station, I arrived at home.
I barely spent two days in the city: I had a lovely visit with some family who were there, did a bit of wondering and shopping, and climbed to the top of St. Paul’s Cathedral. But it was enough to remind me why I came to the UK in the first place. It was very difficult coming back to Birmingham; I honestly did not want to. I was upset, wishing I had gone to London, rather than here. I wondered what the heck I was doing in this city.
At this point I have a bit of a better view on the situation. I have been enjoying my job (despite the daily challenges, some of which I could do without); it is a wonderful opportunity I am grateful to have had. But I miss London: I miss the feeling of home (as much as you can experience that away from your proper home), and the feelings that I have that have led me here. There is a heaviness that I feel when in London, something weighing on my heart – one of a comforting weight: the weight of a handmade quilt on a tired body. For now, however, London is something I have to look forward to.
At the beginning of January I went on a quick jaunt to London, my first since arriving here in the UK. I had a lovely time; in fact, it was more than just lovely. But there were consequences to this trip. As some of you know, my father has a lot to do with my reason for coming here. While it was something I had wanted to do for many years, it was my brief visit to London about 5 years ago that really solidified my desire to come to the UK. On that visit I experienced one of those terribly cheesy – so-cheesy-it’s-hard-to-admit – moments when I felt I connected with something. To put it plainly – and in short – in London I felt my dad (or thought so much about him I thought I felt him… as much as you can “feel” dead people).
So, five years later I decided to take the trip back to the UK and this time for longer. Decided to do a little soul-searching, if you will – and not just for my own, I suppose. Only Birmingham hasn’t been a repeat of my time in London. It has been good – don’t get me wrong. It has been a wonderful experience; it has been a learning experience in so many ways. But when I got off the train in London, on a Friday afternoon at Marylebone Station, I arrived at home.
I barely spent two days in the city: I had a lovely visit with some family who were there, did a bit of wondering and shopping, and climbed to the top of St. Paul’s Cathedral. But it was enough to remind me why I came to the UK in the first place. It was very difficult coming back to Birmingham; I honestly did not want to. I was upset, wishing I had gone to London, rather than here. I wondered what the heck I was doing in this city.
At this point I have a bit of a better view on the situation. I have been enjoying my job (despite the daily challenges, some of which I could do without); it is a wonderful opportunity I am grateful to have had. But I miss London: I miss the feeling of home (as much as you can experience that away from your proper home), and the feelings that I have that have led me here. There is a heaviness that I feel when in London, something weighing on my heart – one of a comforting weight: the weight of a handmade quilt on a tired body. For now, however, London is something I have to look forward to.
16.1.08
A Voyage to Corsica
The holidays this year found me away from home for the first time ever. However, as much as I would have loved to experience a "real english christmas", I was fortunate enough to get away from this little island for a bit and head to another little island. One of the brilliant things about being here in the UK, as many of you know, is the that you are so close to so many awesome places, and travel can be quite affordable... Everything is so close together here - which is something that is so different from home. So, it was Christmas in Corsica for this little vagabond, but happily not a lonesome one. I hopped on a plane and flew to the home of that Napolean character to meet my dear friend Amy and the rest of the Johnston bunch.
The travel day was a long one. My early flight from B'ham was delayed; as I waited, I received a phone call from Amy (who was at the airport in Paris) informing me that there was an Air France strike in Paris (I believe striking may be a national pastime in France). She was pretty sure it was all going to be fine, but wanted to warn me as I was meant to transfer planes in Paris. I went online to double check my itinerary, and discovered (much to my chagrin) that I not only had to transfer airplanes, but I had to get from Paris Charles de Gaulle to Paris Orly Airport. The first airport is not adjacent to the second. They are actually quite a distance apart, to say the least. But I discovered there was an Air France shuttle, and I was optimistic it would not be a problem.
I arrived in Paris, and my luggage was the first to come through on the carousel. I picked it up and headed to find my shuttle, which was supposed to depart every 30 minutes. I found the shuttle stop, parked myself in line, and began waiting… patiently. Time ticked by, and it inched closer and closer to my check-in time for my connecting flight. I found out that there was an accident on the motorway, and for this reason the shuttles were delayed. A few others were also getting connecting flights at Orly, and seemed to be panicking more than I was. Over conversation I discovered their flights were actually later than mine, and began to think that perhaps I too should be panicking. Eventually it began to seem like a good idea to hop in a taxi – the shuttle could come any minute, but better to be safe than sorry. So, along with two other travelers I got into a taxi to take us to the other airport. As we began to drive away, the shuttle bus pulled up. We were now taking the more expensive option; but with limited time it seemed the better idea.
There was quite a bit of traffic on the motorway. Paris on a Thursday afternoon, was one can imagine, is not a good place to be if you are in a car and late. Eventually we got to Orly – I threw my temporary taxi friends 20 Euros, grabbed my luggage, and ran to check-in… 30 minutes before my flight. I by-passed the line to check-in, and ran to security. It was then that I found out my flight to Bastia was also delayed, thanks to the strike. The first time I have ever been thankful for a delayed flight.
Hours later I arrived in Bastia. I thought I was going to miss the last bus from Bastia (the city) to Morsiglia (the town) due to the delayed flight, but I arrived to discover there was no bus. At this point, however, nothing really bothered me: I was in Corsica, and I could find my way to the town. Amy left a message for me with the car rental company, leaving me details about where I was to go, and I got myself a Taxi. The taxi driver I had was, coincidentally, the same one Amy had spoken to earlier that day to ask about prices – and he was kind enough to chat with me, despite my embarrassing French language skills; he was even kind enough to tell me I spoke French well.
The drive was not short; but, almost two hours and 150 euros later I was in Morsiglia with Amy, having a drink and a chat in a 16th century tower. I could not have been happier at that very moment, and for that I am grateful.
The travel day was a long one. My early flight from B'ham was delayed; as I waited, I received a phone call from Amy (who was at the airport in Paris) informing me that there was an Air France strike in Paris (I believe striking may be a national pastime in France). She was pretty sure it was all going to be fine, but wanted to warn me as I was meant to transfer planes in Paris. I went online to double check my itinerary, and discovered (much to my chagrin) that I not only had to transfer airplanes, but I had to get from Paris Charles de Gaulle to Paris Orly Airport. The first airport is not adjacent to the second. They are actually quite a distance apart, to say the least. But I discovered there was an Air France shuttle, and I was optimistic it would not be a problem.
I arrived in Paris, and my luggage was the first to come through on the carousel. I picked it up and headed to find my shuttle, which was supposed to depart every 30 minutes. I found the shuttle stop, parked myself in line, and began waiting… patiently. Time ticked by, and it inched closer and closer to my check-in time for my connecting flight. I found out that there was an accident on the motorway, and for this reason the shuttles were delayed. A few others were also getting connecting flights at Orly, and seemed to be panicking more than I was. Over conversation I discovered their flights were actually later than mine, and began to think that perhaps I too should be panicking. Eventually it began to seem like a good idea to hop in a taxi – the shuttle could come any minute, but better to be safe than sorry. So, along with two other travelers I got into a taxi to take us to the other airport. As we began to drive away, the shuttle bus pulled up. We were now taking the more expensive option; but with limited time it seemed the better idea.
There was quite a bit of traffic on the motorway. Paris on a Thursday afternoon, was one can imagine, is not a good place to be if you are in a car and late. Eventually we got to Orly – I threw my temporary taxi friends 20 Euros, grabbed my luggage, and ran to check-in… 30 minutes before my flight. I by-passed the line to check-in, and ran to security. It was then that I found out my flight to Bastia was also delayed, thanks to the strike. The first time I have ever been thankful for a delayed flight.
Hours later I arrived in Bastia. I thought I was going to miss the last bus from Bastia (the city) to Morsiglia (the town) due to the delayed flight, but I arrived to discover there was no bus. At this point, however, nothing really bothered me: I was in Corsica, and I could find my way to the town. Amy left a message for me with the car rental company, leaving me details about where I was to go, and I got myself a Taxi. The taxi driver I had was, coincidentally, the same one Amy had spoken to earlier that day to ask about prices – and he was kind enough to chat with me, despite my embarrassing French language skills; he was even kind enough to tell me I spoke French well.
The drive was not short; but, almost two hours and 150 euros later I was in Morsiglia with Amy, having a drink and a chat in a 16th century tower. I could not have been happier at that very moment, and for that I am grateful.
6.1.08
m.i.a.
I admit I have been terrible at keeping up with this blog in the last month, and to those of you who regularly (or maybe semi-regularly) check in on it, I give you my sincerest apologies. No excuses here. I have been busy, up and down, here and there... I have managed to get a few posts started, but have saved them as drafts in their tidy little e-folders. I enjoy the blog, and enjoy letting you all know what is going on here with me without force-feeding you mass emails - but the there is something about "publishing" a post that encourages hesitation with each entry. (Perhaps my self-conscious tendency rearing it's slightly egocentric head?)
Anyway, I am going to try to do my best to get back at it, and update regularly. I owe you all (and myself) a note on the holidays, which I spent in Corsica with Amy and the Johnston bunch, a note on my brief but meaningful visit to London, and a note on my return to work (which is tomorrow)... For the moment I will leave it at this. I have been homesick lately, contemplating all sorts of deep and meaningful things, and dealing with some anxiety about work. I have to go to bed. Whether or not I will sleep is debatable, but I will try.
in the meantime, I leave you with this... hundreds of Santa's, running for the Heart Foundation, down Broad Street in Birmingham.
Anyway, I am going to try to do my best to get back at it, and update regularly. I owe you all (and myself) a note on the holidays, which I spent in Corsica with Amy and the Johnston bunch, a note on my brief but meaningful visit to London, and a note on my return to work (which is tomorrow)... For the moment I will leave it at this. I have been homesick lately, contemplating all sorts of deep and meaningful things, and dealing with some anxiety about work. I have to go to bed. Whether or not I will sleep is debatable, but I will try.
in the meantime, I leave you with this... hundreds of Santa's, running for the Heart Foundation, down Broad Street in Birmingham.
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