Return to norwich - week one

The place I’m staying in Norwich is pretty shabby, but for forty dollars a night, I’m not complaining. Every door has a sticker on it welcoming you to the Beeches Bar and Restaurant, and the other night I went out in search of this fabled eatery. I wandered around in vain for about ten minutes before finding an employee smoking on some steps. She informed me there is no such place, and the stickers should’ve been removed ages ago.

But it’s not without its charm. It’s nicest when the morning sun comes in, and the other day I spotted a squirrel bouncing around outside in the quaint English garden.

During my first week in Norwich I have fallen into an enviabe pattern of waking up early and sitting in bed for a few hours while the hotel internet is still fast, half-watching Antiques Roadshow or Judge Judy or some historical documentary before showering and venturing into town to wander those famous Norwich laneways and eat soup in one café or another, then meeting up with friends in the afternoons and evenings.

The very cool Bicycle Shop, where I came last time to see Nick play a gig.

Sighted these two almost identically dressed (down to the headbands) twins walking about town.

You can't really see, but this was a very lively street band and an old man dancing, shopping in hand.

Guilt mushrooms on toast at Frank's. I felt bad sitting in there with just a coffee when they were so busy, so I had second breakfast.

Spotted Liam playing with some friends one day on my ramblings.

Aside from soup, I love (and miss in Australia) pasties. God damn, I love pasties. I keep walking all the way into town from my hotel in the vain hope that they will be open for dinner, but they never are (they don't post opening hours in the window, frustratingly). At the time of writing, I have consumed six pasties in two days.

Bible bashers outside the West Cornwall Pasty Co.

Norwich recently became a UNESCO City of Literature (along with Melbourne), and it's not hard to see why. Everywhere there are young people reading literature, and down every lane is a bookshop. I've even noticed a substantively higher quality of graffiti! Sure, you've got your standard 'Elizabeth woz ere', but you've also got Keats!

And for you New Agers ...

On the afternoon of my first day, I was reunited with Sam and George in Norwich’s coolest café, Frank’s Bar, where it took us only an hour to get into one of our customary D&Ms. Lately I’ve found all my resistance to alcohol has evaporated somehow, and after two of the English ciders I’ve so missed since returning to Australia, I was beginning to feel the effects, which was amusing. We speculate that this was the cause of mine and Sam's mid-consumption complementary lollipop swap.

After a quick trip to Norwich’s fine Millennium Library and Tesco, we set off on the hour walk to George’s house in Costessey (pronounced 'cossy'), where I got to see other Norwich friends Liam and Chris. We basically hung out in the malodorous lounge room all night talking, often about Pokémon, as Chris is re-playing the classic Blue. We also watched an episode of Mad Men and played a few rounds of Super Smash Bros Melee, which Sam dominated, professing it was probably his third greatest skill.

Character of choice, Sheik the he-bitch.

The next day after my morning wanderings and soup breakfast, I met Sam and George at Frank's again, but was this time joined by the legendary Rob Perry. I also commenced dispensing the stack of Australian books I had brought as gifts from home, with Sam taking Christos Tsolkias' The Slap, George taking Nam Le's The Boat, and Rob taking Anna Funder's All That I Am. I later gave Markus Zusak's The Book Thief to Liam, David Malouf's Remembering Babylon to Avani, and Geraldine Brooks' People of the Book to Kim.

Leaving Frank's.

That night 'the Transcontinentals' were reunited when Sam (USA) and I (Aus) visited Kim's (UK) house, where she kindly cooked us dinner (and accommodated my vegetarianism when I informed her of it at the last minute). We continued in our tradition of Whedon-viewing (when I was last in the country we watched Dollhouse from start to finish) by starting Firefly, which I'd never seen.

We also discussed what mine and Sam's names might mean, Balderdash-style. See below.

luke

(verb)

1. to bungle, often by complicating a simple matter. She luked the report.

(noun)

1. the act of luking. He really made a luke of the birthday party.
2. a globule or dollop of viscous or gelatinous matter, typically expelled through a nozzle onto a conveyor belt. The machine produces 400 lukes per minute.
3. a bag of milk, or any other liquid. Pass me the luke.

samuel

1. an archaic song, performance, or dance, or a ritual comprised of such. The performers completed the samuel.
2. a small rodent endemic to Latin America. A sulfur-spotted samuel scurried through the brush.

On Friday the Transcontinentals were due to convene once again, but Kim got caught up at the phone shop replacing her relic of a phone, Sam overexerted himself remedying the abovementioned noxious carpet at George, Chris and Liam's (or Newell, Stephens and Pritchett's) and spent the whole afternoon napping, and I did likewise after a week of getting up early and staying up late while generally jetlagged.

So we rescheduled for the next day. I knew Kim would be walking up the other side of the block my hotel is on, and I wondered if there was a way to get through from my side. I expected a dingy overgrown pathway or something, so imagine my surprise when I was greeted by this sight, accompanied by a timely parting of clouds:

Apparently the hotel backs onto a Victorian garden (which you are supposed to pay to enter). To my distress, however, there was no exit to the other side of the block. Luckily I was able to scale a wall just in time to run into Kim as she walked up the street. We spent an hour perusing in Norwich's best bookshop, the Book Hive, then met Sam at the cinema bar for drinks.

That night I headed over to NS&P's for pre-drinks, where I was to see some more familiar faces in Avani and Jess. I got very drunk, and we played Kings and Werewolves, and spectated as Sam taught Liam a Chinese drinking game.

For some reason they decided the dying rounds required belts to be tied round their heads.

We got a cab into town and met Rob Perry and co at the Playhouse, before making an unsuccessful attempt to get into Vodka Revs. Apparently Liam's shoes were too low-brow for that fine establishment. But never fear, for we were in the company of Rob Perry. Shortly after he said he wouldn't be able to work the same magic he had last time at the bar across the road because the management had changed, we were all walking in ahead of the queue, without a cover charge, being ushered into a (completely silent) private room where free Jagerbombs were awaiting us. We had a terrible dance, a drink, and then sat around chatting, reminiscing about the time Rob put his balls on George. Then Rob bestowed more free drinks upon us.

At some point before I went home, Avani and I discussed a fry-up at NS&P's the next morning. I rocked up at eleven thinking I'd probably have missed it, and that they would have all been up hours ago, but it turned out that after I'd left they hadn't been able to get a cab and, inhumanely, did the walk back to Costessey.

We basically hung around watching Mad Men, Magnum P.I., and the incredible Adventure Time (which I hadn't seen before), and feeling very day-after. I was also introduced briefly to Liam's tradition of Punk Rock Book Club, which originated when he had friends staying but no money, so they just spent every day in the backyard drinking and reading.

Chris Stephens: Jabba the Hutt, Grotty Mermaid, Insect Creature.

'Put a black and white filter on it. "We're having new age fun with a vintage feel!"' – Chris Stephens

Eventually I felt I needed sleep and headed back to the flat. And thus began my woes. The hour walk back to Norwich wasn't so bad. And it was pretty on the way.

The real trouble began when I got to Norwich and spent another hour walking around, just trying to find somewhere to get some takeaway food. Apparently Norwich is as dead as Wollongong on a Sunday night, if not deader. I've never had that much trouble finding food in the Gong. I eventually found a Pizza Hut on the other side of Norwich, where I ordered a drink and a pizza. What they gave me was a tiny pizza and a gigantic 7up (which I don't even really like). All I wanted after two hours of walking was to get into bed and watch TV and use the internet, but the hotel wifi was unusably slow, and all the channels except BBC had inexplicably disappeared off my TV. 

And that wasn't the end of it, either. I decided the next morning that I'd do my laundry at a laundrette I'd walked past on my way back from NS&P's. Once I got there, though, I realised I had no cash. The lady in the laundrette said I could leave my washing there, and directed me to the nearest ATM (or 'cashpoint'), at a Tesco down the road. Unfortunately, it was being serviced, so I enquired and was directed to the Co-op even further up the road. Unfortunately again, the ATM wouldn't accept my travel card OR my regular card. So I consulted my phone for the nearest ATM, and saw there was one off in the middle of nowhere and, slightly further away, a cluster in town. So I stupidly opted for the one in the middle of nowhere. I got halfway there before realising it was much further away than I'd originally thought, and also that if I went all the way there and it didn't work I'd have to go all the way back into town, so I decided to just go into town straight away, where I was to try a further two separate ATMs before I found one that worked, and walked ALL the way back to the laundrette where I'd left my washing. Fun times. And, yes, for the second post in a row, #FirstWorldProblems.

Luckily, things picked up after Til arrived that afternoon. But I'll write about that in my next post.

Luke and tilly abroad once more

I've been in the UK since Tuesday, and Til will be joining me next Monday!

Because I know what I'm like, I headed to the airport about three hours early and just spent the extra time reading Cloud Atlas (I wanted to reread it before Til and I see the film in New York; plus I read it last time I was in Europe, so it feels right). Coincidentally, my US Literature lecturer from my last semester of uni, Dr John Bolin, sat down across from me at the terminal. We had a chat and it turned out he was off to London to give a paper during UOW's mid-semester break. Til joked that I should've said, 'Oh yes, I know, I'm going to London to hear you speak.'

Our flights were only about two thousand dollars to go from Sydney to London, London to New York and New York back to Sydney, which had some unexpected repercussions, one of which was that we're flying 'the wrong way', via San Francisco instead of South East Asia. I was happy, though, 'cause San Francisco is more exciting than, you know ... Bangkok.

But the cheapness of the flights along with some other factors did mean the journey over wasn't quite as heavenly as last time. I was scolded at every step for my tatty passport, with people incredulously asking me what happened to it in Australian, American and British accents along the way. In the US I was actually sent to the 'secondary' customs room to be questioned, (tellingly) the only caucasian in a room full of Middle-Easterners and Asians. I know it's a bit grubby, but surely it's not that bad?

(I blurred out my details ... It doesn't actually look like that haha).

Worse than the mild threat of being refused entry due to an unkempt passport was the fact that the Sydney–San Francisco flight was delayed by an hour (due to a mechanical defect!), which had a knock-on effect of causing everyone to miss their connections. Worse still was the moment in the plane when I looked up from Cloud Atlas and realised there was no TV screen in the back of the seat in front of me. Instead there was, horror of horrors, A SHARED SCREEN. I didn't know they still did that on long flights. Furthermore, I was in the middle seat, which guaranteed no elbowroom or rest for the twelve hours to San Francisco (#FirstWorldProblems, much?).

My horror of the shared screen turned out to be justified, though. The programmers seemed to be determined to pick the worst, most banal, inoffensive, lowest-common-denominator movies possible (averaging a somewhat generous IMDb score of 5.6). The first was, as they say, the worst. Surely the most B-grade Diane Keaton movie ever made, Darling Companion, about a family who loses their dog, 'Freeway', the point of which seemed to be 'forget about logic, reason and rationality and HAVE FAITH!' Among other ridiculous plotlines was the gypsy who kept urging everyone not to 'lose faith' in finding the dog. Just absurd. When it finished I heard the young guy behind me say as much to the guy next to him and I actually turned around to agree vigorously.

Next up was Battleship, which I started watching, hopeful it was something good. But as soon as Rihanna made her first appearance, I threw my headphones off in melodramatic disgust. The best of the three came last, and it says more about the shittiness of the previous two than anything about its own quality that it was the most enjoyable – a recent Zac Efron affair also heavy in dog-related plotlines, The Lucky One.

It was beautifully shot, but almost too beautifully. Like, twee beautiful, nowhere more apparent than in the nature porn in the thoroughly vestigial opening, wherein Efron seems to try to find a way to jam every imaginable cliche into a single burst of narration in a lame attempt to frame the story. It turns out that Efron incarnates the strong, silent type as a sensitive, chivalrous, chess- and piano-playing philosopher–soldier who's good with kids and animals, looks like a model, and inexplicably knows how to fix boats and tractors. Not being an androphile, I think I missed out on what was meant to constitute a large part of the film's appeal. If anything his unrealistic perfection was just irritating.

And he doesn't really have to do anything as an actor. He just has to be this morally infallible, characterless, emotionless, stony-faced ideal. I suspect this is the best way to capitalise on his prettiness – let the female lead do all the hard acting work while just looks at her sullenly, eyes asparkle. I'm reminded of the David Stratton quote I've referenced here before: 'Efron, who proved he could act in Me and Orson Welles, isn't called upon to do much here except divest himself of his shirt and blink tears from his beautiful blue eyes.' Thankfully this film resisted the urge to get Efron shirtless at any point, although I thought his setting up in a decrepit old house was a sure sign of an impending sweaty, painting and cleaning and hammering montage.

I ended up having something like seven hours to wait in San Francisco, and I really wanted to go and see something, so I Google-mapped it and it looked like there was a park right near the airport, which sounded great, since it was beautiful Californian weather. I had no way to really orientate myself as to where I was on the map, though – whereabouts in the airport I was and which direction I'd have to go in to get to the park, let alone whether I could walk there or if I'd have to get a taxi or bus. I gave it a go, though, unsuccessfully, and when I came back to the airport asked an information guy for directions, and he didn't seem to think there were any parks around.

So I consigned myself to hanging around the airport using its free wifi and spending the meal vouchers United Airlines gave me as recompense for the delayed flight. It was weird being in the US, even if only at the airport and if only for a few hours. Every black person I saw I did a double-take because I kept on thinking they were celebrities (I suppose because the only contact I've had with black Americans is through TV and movies). I also constructively purchased an Australia–US adaptor and a lot of US cash.

Getting into the Cali spirit.

My second flight was much better. It had individual screens and I was in the window exit-row seat, pretty much the best one in economy (I think the lady who seated me liked me 'cause I was polite and her previous guy had been an ass). Despite the fact that I was literally falling asleep with my head resting on my hand and then waking up when it slipped off while waiting in the airport terminal, once I got on the plane I somehow woke right up.

The young guy seated next to me looked interesting, and he was reading Henry James, which was a plus in my book, so I tried to start a conversation with him, but he kind of shut me down. Then, of all the movies and TV shows available, he watched Dial M for Murder, which in itself of course is fine and good, but that in combination with the Henry James and the snub made me wonder if he was just up himself.

I got a lot of sleep on the second flight, which was good. It was also fun listing my main occupation on the entry card as 'editor' rather than 'student'. The guy in UK customs made me show him my business card as proof, though. Evidently I still look the student. I guess I was wearing my UEA jumper ...

Once in London, I topped my Oyster card up like a pro while English-accented women next to me struggled. At Paddington Station I bonded with the Asian-American woman who had coincidentally been sitting on the other side of the Henry James elitist on the plane, as well as a young Welshwoman flight attendant named Kia, over how surprisingly difficult it can be to know which train to get on to go to Victoria. 

I guided Kia to Victoria Coach Station, but my bus to Norwich was still about four hours away, so I went to Starbucks and then the nearest pub to pass the time, then wandered back through some very pretty (Pimlico?) streets to get back to the station, where I struck up another conversation with an Essaxon surfer who I was sure was Australian. He said he gets that a lot.

As soon as my four-pound bus got in I rushed to the backseat so I could stretch out and sleep the whole way. I got there at around eleven, forty-seven hours after I left the flat in Wollongong. My accommodation here is right next door to a big Catholic cathedral which people call 'fake' because it's only around a century old. When I first arrived the guy I talked to could obviously not be bothered dealing with me, which made it even worse when the code he gave me to access my room didn't work and I had to go back and check it with him. 'Is it sixty, sixty-six, sixty?', I asked him, to which he replied that it was. I said I'd been trying that and it hadn't worked, but that I'd go back and try again. To no avail. I had to bother him a third time and get him to do it for me, which he did huffily, getting it on the first try. I noticed that he'd done sixty, sixty, sixty, though, which is not what he'd told me. Take a look at the indecipherable slip of paper he gave me and tell me I'm to blame, especially after he mistakenly confirmed that the middle number was '66':

In what universe does this say '60 60 60'?

And then I flopped onto my bed and went to sleep. I think the nature of the journey was such that I essentially just skipped a night of sleep and then started following UK time, so I haven't been too battered by jetlag at all. Woke up the next morning at 5:50am, which is of course unprecedented for me, but not outside the realms of normality for awakening times. Sam tells me jetlag gives you permanent brain damage, though, which is a nice thought to leave you with. My next post will detail what I've been up to since arriving in Norwich, and promises to be mildly more amusing than this one!

The faces of europe part three: til pulling ridiculous faces

Another thing I noticed reviewing the photos from our trip was the number of ridiculous photos of Tilly we have. I had to share some:

Fat Tilly in my room in Norwich, UK.

Facepalm Til in a club in London, UK.

Wide-eyed Til at the Tower of London, UK.

Vicious Til in a park in London, UK.

Riley Til on a bus in France.

Asian Til in a French supermarket.

Lippy Til in a park in Paris, France.

Nose-picking Til in the Louvre, Paris.

Baghead Til in our French hostelroom.

Windblown Til and I in Brussels, Belgium.

Dramatic Til in Prague, Czech Republic.

Frenzied Til in Prague, Czech Republic.

Shocked Til in Prague, Czech Republic.

Bespectacled Til in Berlin, Germany.

Emotionless Til in Berlin, Germany.

Double bespectacled Til in Berlin, Germany.

Dejected Til in Amsterdam, Netherlands.

Sad Til in a hammock shop in Amsterdam, Netherlands.

Sourface Til in Vondelpark, Amsterdam.

Voldemort Til in a cinema in Amsterdam.

Argumentative Til in a castle in England, UK.

Wide-eyed Til in the Colosseum in Rome.

Bizzare Til in our Berlin hostelroom.

Despondent Til in Norwich, UK.