Amsterdam with Tony and friends

Right. So I’m hella behind on my blogging. I owe posts (yes, I feel like I owe you, I care about my readers, all six of you) on the rest of Orkney, Amsterdam, Malta and whatever else I have sitting on my camera/in my brain. So here’s what I remember about Amsterdam, in just over a thousand words…

After staying up all night drinking shit vodka (it shouldn’t freeze!) with Kris, and on just two hours of sleep, I hopped an EasyJet to Amsterdam-Schipol to meet up with Tony, Meru and Kristian (who I’d travelled to Ireland with two years ago). It’s a good thing it’s a nice airport, as I ended up there for a while. My flight was late taking off, so I texted Kristian to say I might be a bit late, but would call as soon as I landed, so they’d know when to come meet me.

Ha. That worked. I waited at an airport bar, drinking Heineken, randomly receiving calls from Kristian that they were late or had missed the bus (with Tony yelling in the background to let him speak.) But you know what? I wasn’t bothered. It was the first time I felt really relaxed in a while. I had no where to go and nothing to do until they showed up, an occurrence which was out of my hands. So I sat, people watching and reading, sipping my pint, feeling pretty good despite my general exhaustion.

Tony finally showed up, and I’m always happy to see him, so that just added to the general feeling of GTs – and we weren’t even in Amsterdam yet.

Once we tracked down Meru (wandering in departures, inexplicably) and called Kristian (jogging around the airport, inexplicably), we caught the train into town, had some shitty KFC before finding some shitty tourist bar out of the rain where we had an overpriced shitty drink. It was awesome.

We wandered about through town, trying to find a coffee shop or pub that was still open. At some point, one of us asked a guy standing in the street for directions. Bart, as he turned out to be called, turned out to be a homeless guy, who gives tours of the red light district for hostel cash. He found our coffeeshop (it was closed), gave us directions to a beer pub (closed, but we returned later), and eventually found an open place – but not before taking us on a tour of the red light district. He took us down one hidden alley, just a few feet wide, with red lights and windows lining the sides. While women catcalled from open doors, British men (overwhelmingly) leered and cut deals, their sweaty skin and bald heads shining red in the light. Exiting that alley, we turned along an old church down a less busy strip, where Bart and I had this exchange:

Bart: The women on this street cost less.
Me: How come?
Bart: Because they’re fat. Do you want to see where the transvestites are?
Me: No… I think I’ll pass.

After running the gauntlet of prostitutes, Bart took us to a pub. After giving him all our change and a couple of five euro notes, he joined us for a pint (offering to buy his own, now he had enough cash, which I thought was rather sweet.) Anyway, if you ever go to Amsterdam, go to the zoo, as it came highly recommended by Bart.

The next day, after moving our gear from tents to a cabin, I rented a wobbly one-speed bike and we all rode into town for pancakes. They do weird things to pancakes in Amsterdam. Mine involved apples and bacon, and damn was it good. Afterwards, we did some beer shopping and aimless cycling – they have proper cycle lanes in this city, and I love it. There’re bikes everywhere. If I were mayor of London, my goal would be to make it like this. Forget cars. Forget trams. Get everyone on bikes.

I don’t really remember what else we did, but it probably involved drinking beer and cycling home and getting lost and possibly hot-boxing the cabin, but probably not.

On the last day, leaving Kristian behind in the cabin (possibly to hot-box it, possibly not), we took the bus and the metro into Amsterdam, stopping to sort out some travel-related stuff for the guys, before heading to the museum district, where we toured the Van Gogh museum. Pretty cool stuff, and I fell madly in love with one painting (as I tend to do). Tony ditched (as he tends to do in museums and Guiness tours) and we all arranged to meet up at the pub later that night. I finished with the museum, did a little shopping and headed to the flower market, which was pretty boring. It used to be a row of barges hawking flowers and bulbs, now it’s just some floating tat shops. From there, I walked back into the centre, shopping and photo-ing sex shops along the way, getting to the pub much too early. Which was fine by me, I gotta say.

So this pub. Tony noticed it the first day, the Old Nickel, because it had a sign up outside advertising 60 (or so) different beer. These are the things that catch Tony’s eye. The first night, it was closed – or so we thought. If you know the right people and what to say, it stays open past 4am… And now we know. The next day, we used it as a meeting place, and had a few pints from their rather impressive selection before moving on.

The last night, however, we parked ourselves at the bar, and Tony and the Bartender became best-friends-forever. Sensing a kindred spirit (maybe), the bartender started pulling out bottles of specialty beers, handing us books about the subject and showing us where it was made on maps. This man knows his stuff. After going thru a few bottles of beer – including a Laphroigh-like smokey beer – we cracked open a big bottle of Chimay, which tastes differently depending on the size of the bottle. The 20 euro one is pretty awesome, let me tell you.

We had dinner there, and Tony and I maybe or maybe not went to a sex show, which maybe or maybe not was hilarious and maybe or maybe not involved bananas. Maybe. Maybe not. Mmmm… potassium.

As I had a flight the next morning, Meru and I hopped a bus (sadly, not the right one) and trekked back – me, incredibly grumpy and tired – to the cabin, somewhat expecting Kristian on his bike to beat us there. Yeah, he didn’t. But he did have the key. I didn’t get much sleep, but enough to hop a flight back to London-Luton… and straight to work. Yeah, I was productive that day…

For a trillion more photos, go here.

Stromness and the West Mainland

Note of warning: As Kris well knows by now, I'm having some difficulty wordsmithing this trip. So this be a bit rambly, yo!

Right. So after arriving in Kirkwall at 11pm, we hopped a bus and went to our hostel, which was in an old army building behind where Emily's dad used to work, before he moved and they tore down his office. I don't think the two events are connected, however.

The next morning, we hopped another bus across the Mainland. Now, Orcadians have a funny way about them. For example, the Mainland to them is not Scotland, but the biggest of their 70 islands, as tho Scotland has nothing to do with them.

Anyway, after wandering aimlessly for a bit, we managed to find our hostel in the town of Stromness. It's very cute -- nearly the entire town is within a block or two of the shore, and it's all grey buildings with stepped roofs. Despite such endearing quaintness, we rented bikes and headed out of town.


First stop was a 5,000 year old tomb called Maes Howe. Time and nature have done their work, and it now looks like a rather perfect small hill, but it once looked more like a small pyramid. The only way to see the interior is on guided tour, so we did just that. No photos allowed inside, sadly, but I'll just use words to paint you a picture (ha ha ha ha.) Or go here for pics.

The front passageway is a short (in height), long (in length) tunnel. You have to duck and shuffle along to get through, and if you raise your head at the wrong time, the stone ceiling doesn't not hurt. I followed a disabled girl in, and she was clearly not quite sure about the whole thing. She was crouched, shuffling along like all of us, but going quite slowly, and I don't blame her, as her mom was at the other end calling out: "Keep going, just come toward the light!" I wonder if that's what dying is like, and I certainly hope not.

The interior houses three burial chambers, all empty. But from the inside, you can see how massive the flat stones are that they used to build it. And, you can see Viking graffiti. Apparently some Vikings found the tomb and broke in through the ceiling way back when, and left behind runes, carved into the white stone with their axes, bragging about treasure and making saucy jokes about local women. They also carved some rather intricate animals, including a dragon and walrus, into one wall. Another wall features a cross -- the tour guide suggested crusade connections.

Like the Chichen Itza pyramid, this one's got solstice significance. Looking out the front passageway, there's a perfect view of the two hills of Hoy, an island to the south. On the solstice, the sun cuts between the hills, past a standing stone, and up the passageway, illumniating the interior of the tomb. Pretty cool.

From the outside of the tomb, you can see the two sets of standing stones. Because of all the super old shit in such a tight concentration, this whole area is a UNESCO world heritage site.

Anyway, we next stopped at the Stones of Stenness, which are older than Maes Howe. There's only four left standing; the rest have dissappeared, probably into local buildings. The cool thing about Orkney (well, one of the many cool things) is that these sites are so low key. Maes Howe had an entrance fee and small interpretive centre, but the standing stones have none. If you want access, you just push open the gate and get as close to the damn things as you want -- very different to the tourist setup down south at Stonehenge.

From the SoS, it's a short cycle on a single lane road between two lovely lochs to the Ring of Brodgar, which makes me think of Tolkien. This ring of stones is more complete, but slightly younger. It's a couple dozen massive rock slabs surrounding a field of purple heather. Very pretty. And again, you can get as close as you want -- hell, lick the damn things if you want. They've been there for millenia, it won't hurt the stones. Might hurt your tongue.



After that, we pedalled over some hills (Over the hills and far away -- I miss Sharpe, Natalie) past a ton of sheep and cows -- with Emily giving me strange looks as I baaa-ed and mooo-ed at them.

A few miles down, we found Skaill Bay, home to a big manor house and an ancient stone village called Skara Brae. It was discovered by the Laird of the manor after a storm washed the top soil off of it. What's cool about it is the furniture was also made out of stone, and much of it remains. So you can walk around where they've excavated it it, and see how their houses would have looked 5,000 years ago. Now, to me, the green grassy bits, white sandy floors and numbered sites made it look like a minigolf course.

We took a walk through the manor as well, but it was a house. Yeah, awesome. Seen enough of those with Mary. We also hung out on the beach, which is perfect white sand with scattered stones. Whether inspired by the standing stone rings further back or the stone houses they'd just seen, people had stacked the stones up in strange shapes all across the beach.

From Skara Brae, we headed north, out of Norse territory and onto a more personal hunt: the town of Twatt. Why? Do you really need to ask? We cycled along a bird observatory -- lots of those in Orkney -- and came to the right spot on my ordnance survey map, but there were no signs designating the town name. Disapointed over the lack of funny picture opportunities, Emily pointed out a church... could it be? Could it be the church of Twatt? Indeed, it was. And we laughed very, very hard.

Then, we turned back for Stromness. And the wind picked up. Gale force, right into our faces. Stop pedaling, and you start rolling backwards. I was having difficulty, and I cycle daily. Emily, in her black dress and gold tights ("there's no reason not to look fabulous") was making an admirable effort, but it did really suck. (Tho, clothed like that, on a bike in a strong wind, she did put me in mind of that scene from Wizard of Oz...)

By the time we got back to Stromness, we were both exhausted and not exactly in good moods. Ditching the bikes, we headed back to the hostel to change, before making our way to the Stromness Hotel, home that night to a local beer fesitval. After several pain-numbing pints of Scapa Special and whatnot, we wandered out into the Stromness night, and on the way back to the hostel, I got into an argument with a cat. Look, he had it coming. No reason to mouth off like that... Bad attitude on that one. Seriously.

More pictures are here.

Tour de France... in London?

Inexplicably, the Tour de France started in London last weekend. I say "inexplicably" because it's the Tour de France, after all -- and last I checked, London has not been invaded. (Insert "cheese-eating surrender monkey" joke here.) Apparently the TdF starts 's outside of France from time to time -- this is the 16th time that's happened.

Anyway, I thought the thought of watching people cycle would be overwhelmingly lame, so wasn't going to go watch any of it, but Shannon talked me into it, and it was sunny last Saturday, so I went to go watch the time trials in Hyde Park.

Holy massive thighs Batman, it was hella cool.



The time trials are to decide the order of the race, which set off the next day, on Sunday. The 8km track ran from near Trafalgar Square through the park and then back again, so areas around that were all blocked from traffic. Cycling down the middle of Westminster Bridge, past Big Ben, I thought this was quite cool. But by the time I hit Hyde Park, the crowds were so thick I had to get off and push. Took me an hour to get from Waterloo to the spot where Shatrick waited north of the Serpentine. (There is an event planned for September where the city's going to close a bunch of roads to cars, which should be hella cool. As long as the pedestrians stay out of my way...)

Anyway, once I arrived and drank two canned G&Ts, I relaxed a bit, and started to really enjoy the race. They go bloody fast. I know that sounds like an obvious statement, but photographing them proved nearly impossible, and video wasn't much better. We were sitting in front of a giant tv screen, and according to the commentator dudes, the cadence of the cyclists -- how fast they pedal -- was a hundred times a minute. So they're moving their legs in that little circle more than once a second. I counted it out as they went by, and indeed they were moving that fast.




One dude hit a side barrier and wiped out. I jumped and instinctively covered my face with my hands when it happened. At least I wasn't going that fast when I bit the pavement.

The fastest time came in a few seconds under 9 minutes for the 8km track -- so roughly 54km/hr. On a bike. The winner was ridiculously faster than the rest of the racers, beating the second place dude by some 12 seconds (or something like that). The commentators commented that the escort motorbikes actually slowed him down on a few corners.

After all the racers finished, we hung out and waited for the crowds to thin before heading over to Kensington. I took the opportunity going there and heading back home to cycle down the track -- essentially just roadways around the park, lined with temporary fencing and banners. I wasn't the only cyclist out pretending to be Lance Armstrong, and despite going about as fast as my little commuter can go, was still being passed by show-offs in spandex on road bikes.

The next day, Emily -- despite multiple protestations against sport of any kind -- and I met up near Tower Bridge to see the racers do their warm up ride before the race's rolling start in Greenwich (ending for the day some 213 km away in Canterbury). There was a weird ceremony at the top of the bridge -- for the jersies? -- before all the cyclists rolled past us in about 20 seconds. It then took us 20 minutes to get off the bridge, because of all the crowds.





It surprised me a bit -- given the rather boring nature of watching cycling -- that so many people came out, but the crowds apparently were in the millions both days. Will it spur Londoners to take up cycling? One hopes not, as the roads are crowded enough as it is... As I shall explain in my next post... (don't let the suspense kill you.)

More photos here, more videos here and here, and here are some panos:

Bike!

A full two months after getting smacked off my bike (thereby bending the frame and rendering it useless, not to mention smashing my teeth) I have finally procured a new one:

And oh my god, I'm in love.

I've owned two other bikes here in London, the purloined Sally and the now bent Raleigh. Both were bought used -- not from markets, I don' t need more bad karma -- and tho both eventually met unhappy fates, they did the trick at the time.

But this one -- my god. I stroke the seat when I walk past it, parked in the hallway. It is, if you're interested, a Specialized Globe Elite.

This is the nicest thing I've ever owned. Thanks to Luis, my Mexican burglar, I own absolutely nothing of value. Looking around my room, I see nothing worth more than spare change, excepting of course this laptop, which I don't own. My phone is cheap, my mp3 player useless and my own computer was sitting in a closet before it was gifted to me.



Indeed, this bike might actually be the most expensive thing I've ever owned, save automobiles, and even then it's a tight contest. I bought my very first car -- an '84 mustang -- for $1100. I bought this bike for £400 (plus accessories.) If you know that car, it'll be an easy guess to say which runs better...

Indeed, keeping that car and the following Jetta in mind, I've never had anything that runs so nicely, that feels like it might have been engineered. It's clearly had design and thought and skill put into its manufacture (I say this while typing on a Dell, so yeah, it's a rare feeling for me).

The way this bike feels to me is what I imagine (and I can only imagine) it feels like to go from driving beater after beater to a brand new car, or to go from using shit second-hand rebuilt PCs to a shiny new mac -- it's like, oh, this is what it's supposed to be like.

You may think I exaggerate my affection for this new love of mine. But consider this: I cycled my brand-new bronze baby home from London Bridge feeling exhilarated. A smile was on my face the entire trip. Never once did I flinch out of fear of being on the road again. Nor did it ever cross my mind that what I was doing was dangerous, and could potentially, y'know, wipe the smile off my face and straight out of my gums.

It was just too much fun, too easy, that I forgot to be nervous or scared or shaky the first time out after the accident. And that's a feeling that's worth £400... especially given I'm getting the bike about 45% off, thanks to an awesome program at work. Booya! Exhilaration at discount -- now that can't be beat.

That said, with my current run of luck, I've taken out insurance -- on the bike (theft or accident), on myself (accident, injury and death), and the rest of the world (public liability). I'm now covered if my precious is stolen, if I lose a limb, or if I somehow manage to take out a building worth £1.25 million. And no, I'm not taking that as a challenge...

More bike porn here.

Edit/addition: It just occurred to me that prior to the bikes I've owned in London, I've owned just one in Calgary, which I got while still in elementary school, if you can believe it. I rode it all those years too -- I even had the trainer I worked for in Edmonton bring it up to the track so I could use it there, and that was the summer just before I came out to London.

He still has that bike for me, somewhere. Well over a decade on one bike in Calgary, and then three in two years in London. Crazy.

Sally, where have you gone?

I suppose it's inevitable, in London, in a city this big and brutal, but it still pisses me right the hell off. Of what annoyance, of what bane of modern living do I speak? Theft, my good friends, I speak of theft. Yes, it has happened again.

My good, faithful mountain bike – known as Sally to her friends, of which I did indeed count myself -- is no longer with me.. as she's been stolen. That's right, gentle readers, stolen. The horror, I know.

I rode my dear, kidnapped bike – tho I suppose she is no longer “my” bike – to Vauxhall station this morning, where I left her, locked to a rack with £25 of rubber-coated, inch-thick, braided metal cord.

When I returned many hours later – after volunteering, no less – the bike lock lay forlornly on the ground, severed into uselessness by common crooks with a masterful set of wire cutters. And Sally – gone.

I've contacted the police and sent in photos, but I don't dare hope at her return. I know I write this in mock horror, but -- like the last time I fell victim to such senseless crime -- my melodrama just hides my pain. And, it keeps me from unleashing a curse- and adjective-filled rant upon the internet, and your unsuspecting eyes... because you don't deserve that. But them -- the bad people -- oh, they deserve very bad things indeed.

So... um... y'all gonna ship me out a new bike, like last time? 'Cause that'd be cool...