The Truth is on the Red Carpet

I've gotten to do some pretty cool things while out here in Bizzaro World, but my night out on Wednesday would make the top five. I got to go to the X-Files premiere in Leicester Square.

The actual premiere bit is lame -- read all the details here -- but getting to see Mulder and Scully was awesome, and it was a pretty cool experience to get to do the whole red carpet thing.

The movie itself wasn't great, just a sort of alright episode (would not put it in a top five, that's for sure) but I loved that show so much I'd pay to see a shit episode, just to see it again. But given how poorly it's done -- I'd say more because of TDK competition than anything else -- I doubt there'll be a third...

At the moment, I'm waiting for Mary to show up. We're doing a shitload of theatre-y goodness while she's out here, and heading up to Edinburgh for Fringe Fest on the weekend. This post is boring me, so I'm going to go back to playing Classic Sim City online. Why? I don't really know.

Hotel Nicole, pt 6

Can I claim hotel-ness while staying at someone else's house? Maybe that should read Hotel Dan...

So yeah, my hostel-ity has continued, despite me being homeless. Mike Leung traveled thru London, and after missing a flight to Hamburg needed a place to stay for a night before heading off to Bangladesh. Well-traveled, that he is.



With such a quick stopover, all we had time for was pints in the evening and a good hearty english breakfast the following morning, before getting Leung back to Heathrow -- wouldn't want to miss the flight to Bangladesh, after all...

Hotel Nicole, pt 5

Kris and his cousin Maciek have been here the past few days. Kris is on his way back to Calgary -- but for how long?!?! -- after a summer slumming it in Geneva and Germany and Poland and Spain and Rome and Paris and yes I realize I'm mixing cities and countries. Maciek is finishing up a stint working in a Fish and Chips shop in a touristy town in South England, and is heading back to Poland to finish his degree.

Obviously, we've spent much of the evenings here in various pubs, which have sadly proved disapointing. The guys arrived from Poland Sunday night, and we couldn't find an open pub despite being in Waterloo at 1030pm.

And last night, we met up in Soho at a Slug and Lettuce pub for a few drinks with Mike Bowerman (just arrived to do is MA in some finance shiznit) and two Canadian girls Kris knows, Kat and Lauren. (How Kris knows more people in this city is beyond me.)

We were booted from that pub promptly and rudely at 11pm. We found another with a closing time of midnight... and got rather rudely herded from that one, too, as soon as the hour struck, leaving Kris and Mike to chug their Guinness. Terrible.

Thankfully, they have had one nice pub experience, at our local, which has the sweetest, most perfect English lady bartender in the world -- not to mention a very impressive selection of beer.

Not only does this lady -- whose name I shamefully have never asked -- know her beer, she's eager to let you sample them before you buy. Pair that with a sweet but sharp sense of humour, and a willingness to ignore the clock when 11pm approaches, and yeah, I think she wins my bartender of the year award. In the very least, she managed to salvage some of the UK's pub reputation...

Shakespearienced!

Let me just say this: Reading Shakespeare sucks -- well, it does when compared to seeing it peformed the way it should be. Forced high school readings and local community productions should be banned on pain of death for making Shakespeare difficult and boring, when it should be bloody (actually and figuratively) hilarious good fun.

Some context? Okay. On Friday, Peter, Garth and I trained it up to Stratford-Upon-Avon, the birthplace of the bard. It's a bit disneyfied, yes, but who gives a crap when it's also home to one of the finest theatre companies in the world who happen to be doing a complete works festival with some of the best actors in the world.

There's not much else to do in S-U-A aside from theatre, so we wandered aimlessly for a bit after checking into our B&B, having a pint (or I did, anyway) at the Black Swan/Dirty Duck pub.

And then, to the theatre, where we saw The Tempest starring Patrick Stewart. Not surprisingly, it was very good, as was Patrick Stewart. I thought of Natalie during his shirtless scenes... mmm... hot. And weird.

Set on a cold, ice-covered island instead of the usual tropical one, it looked amazing -- blockbuster films don't look this good -- especially the first bit where the boat sinks and the part where Ariel pops out of a dead whale's body all bloody and gooey with spikey wings ... tho I'm not sure that last bit was exactly how Shakespeare imagined it. (Amusingly, The Observer via google tells me that they were once and maybe still are planning a Tempest video game.)

The next day, after returning to London, we went to the recreation of the Globe theatre on the South Bank to see Titus Andronicus. Our (very cheap) tickets were for the standing room around the stage -- all very authentic. The play itself was surprisingly well done and very very funny. The story (read the summary on Wikipedia, it's hilarious) is very melodramatic and tragic, but the Globe production played it for black humour -- quite likely how it would have been played in Shakespeares day.

So the scenes of gore -- with blood spurting into the standing audience -- were very often played for laughs. Especially the bit where Titus' hand is chopped off. And in the final scenes, Titus is running around with a Chef's hat, laughing manically. Though nearly everyone dies in the finale, I couldn't stop laughing. It was all very funny, in a very black way -- but had I read play, rather than see it here, I'm not sure I would have laughed once.

Photos of S-U-A are here. Oh -- and regarding the title of this blog: There is a touristy thing in town called Shakesperience! And no, we didn't go.

Hotel Nicole, pt 4

Peter and Garth are here (I just heard the recurring sound of one of them knocking my ridiculously-impossible-to-make-work shower curtain rod to the ground again).

On the first night, I took them to Brick Lane -- favourite of all my visitors -- and yesterday night had dinner in the Crypt near Trafalgar Square before heading out to Hoxton for some live music.

Today we're heading off to Stratford-Upon-Avon for some hot Shakespeare action (or is that hot Patrick Stewart action, Natalie?) and coming back to London tomorrow for some more hot Shakespeare action at the reconstructed Globe on the Southbank.

Then they leave, and later that evening, Kris arrives, in Hotel Nicole, pt 5: the Return of Kotarski!

Hotel Nicole, pt3

Matt Oakes stopped thru last night, on his way back to Calgary from Spain (after touring Germany, World-Cup style) with Kris, et al, for the past few weeks.

Matt Oakes! And my ugly wallpaper!

In the few years since I've seen Matt, he's become a property mogul and rather amazingly lives around the corner from DarNat/Tony. Calgary might be growing, but it's still a small town...

Then again, at times, so is London. Matt's flight was supposed to arrive at Luton airport about 5:40pm. I figured it'd take him a couple hours to get to my place, but when 9pm came around, I started to get concerned. I knew he had my cell number and all that, but was getting a bit anxious -- until my flatmate Peter comes back from the shop around the corner... with Matt.

Apparently, Matt got to my building, but couldn't find my flat (it is a weird building). He had no change to make a phone call, so walked back to the main street, went into a shop and tried to buy a phone card. Peter overheard Matt's discussion/argument with the inane shop clerk, and somehow deduced -- by his accent, I suppose -- that Matt was Canadian.

Figuring there could only be one Canadian on our street, Peter asked: Hey, are you looking for Nicole? Which must have totally blown Matt's mind...

Anyway, we went to the pub and talked about the Calgary property market and German efficiency, among other things. And then this morning, after spending half an hour trying to catch the tube to Victoria (delays due to signal failures, as usual), he was off home again...

So who's next at Hotel Nicole? Could it be you? Nah... doubt it.

Checked out

Before my parents left on Saturday, they/we did the following:

• Monday, got my flatmates drunk and fed in order to thank them;
• Tuesday, wandered around Regents Park and did some shopping and something else which escapes my mushy brain;
• Wednesday, met up with me near Spitalfields, then went on a Ghouls, Gaslight and Guinness walking tour, despite the rain -- which was good for the atmosphere, actually;
• Thursday, in keeping with the ghostly theme, saw Phantom of the Opera;
• Friday, went out for dinner and sat in a pub.
  

Among other things. Since they left, I've slept. I'm tired and I'm sick-- indeed, I'm sick and tired. I can barely remember what we did this week. Compiling the above list required more effort than it should have and I'm not even sure of its accuracy. A month of vacation is tiring. A month of work is tiring. Doing both, simultaneously, in one month, is exhausting.

But the thing is: a month long visit, it's just not long enough.

I want all the people I care about, love and miss in one place and I want to be in that place -- but that's not ever going to happen again, is it? Indeed, that wouldn't happen even if I still lived in Calgary, to be honest.

I remember the first person who "left" Calgary and was therefore to be missed by me: Jolaine, moving to Minot, ND -- of all the places -- for university. And since then, lots of people have moved, travelled, come back and left -- likely -- forever. Mel went to Olds and thankfully -- for me and for her -- came back again. Nat travelled to China, sure, for four months, but four looong months -- just ask Daorcey and the good folks at Boston Pizza. South, to Ottawa, crushing the happy Gauntlet family. Michelle, to Lethbridge, taking the living room furniture with her. James to Halifax and a perfect life. Sonia to Toronto and an MBA. Mike to China. Mary and Esther and even Rob to Edmonton. Kris to who knows where and who knows what. And then hell, I come out here, make shiny new friends. And then they move on, like Ann, who moved back to T.O. from London.

Okay, there might be a joke here about how everyone runs away from me no matter where I go.

But I guess you get used to it. Or more used to it? I remember when Jolaine left, man, did I feel devestated. Bawled my eyes out. I was, I should note, 17 and drunk. On two liters worth of Kiwi-Strawberry Coolers. But it was also the end of the summer after high school, so movie-like, it probably felt significant to my melodramatic teenaged brain.

But then, I still bawl like an idiot. Ask my parents about me crying in the airport. Or ask Nat and Daorcey about me sobbing after their wedding -- again, drunk and overemotional.

I'm not sure I'll ever get used to missing people and I suppose I shouldn't want to. If I didn't miss you lot, and had no one to miss, that'd be quite a bit worse, then, wouldn't it?

The Louvre, on wheels

After my sister's unfortunate tripping incident, her mobility was somewhat limited. Given Paris is meant for walking, this presented some difficulty. We left her and her painkillers alone in the hotel for day, but managed to get her to the Louvre in the rental car.

Despite the problems getting to the Louvre, the biggest obstacle was yet to be overcome: the museum is several blocks long, and on multiple levels.

Thankfully, they have free access to wheelchairs, so she had a seat and I had a ball rolling her around that massive maze.

That place is not set up for disabled people tho; I think it's a French thing, but that's based on very little actual knowledge or evidence. While easy enough to access, say, the Mona Lisa, there were some spots that were either impossible to get into or very, very difficult to get out of. Thankfully, the security guards are wicked-cool, and sympathetic, too. With the help of their security clearance and rings o' keys, we got to take some secret short cuts.

Aside: If you're going to Paris and are under 26 (I think), you get into the Louvre free after 6pm on Fridays -- we arrived at 530pm, and didn't find out about this freebie until we'd paid... because there are no signs, it is in none of the billions of guidebooks I read, and no one told us. It is printed, however, in tiny, tiny, tiny print on the back of the museum map leaflets. Go figure.

Something smells like cheese

So we're lost in Paris. Not lost, really. We know where we are; we're exiting a tunnel next to the Samaritans building by Pont Neuf, the famous old bridge.



The problem was that we were aiming for the Louvre. We somehow ended up in a tunnel which exited blocks behind the museum, couldn't turn left for several streets-- because the French designate one-way streets with utter callousness -- and then finally found a road to turn left on, which on my map went straight to the Louvre, but in reality went underground. To Pont Neuf -- and if you know Paris, this makes very little sense (and the tunnels really come out of no where, with little signage. No wonder Princess Di's driver had such, uh, difficulty).

So after driving in circles, and up and down underground, we found ourselves sitting at a light, before the bridge, hoping to turn right back towards the museum.

But then, the smell hit. My mom suggested it smelled like cheese; I countered it smelled like someone had eaten smelly cheese, gotten sick and farted it out... Michelle thought it might have something to do with the construction happening right next to us. We all agreed on this: it stank. I was gagging.

The light changed. We couldn't turn right -- damn one way roads! -- so we crossed the bridge. Stuck in traffic half-way across the bridge, the smell returned. It was following us... It was us. Pedestrians crossing the bridge made faces as they passed us; even they could smell it.

At this point, my dad realizes he's done something to the clutch while waiting on the ramp exit to leave the tunnel, burning something to cause that smell.

Creeping slowly across the bridge, tourists looking around as they pass the car, wondering
My god, what is that awful smell. Thankfully, we soon found a Louvre entrance, and Michelle and I exited, saying we'd be more than happy to take a cab back to the hotel if my parents didn't want to come back and pick us up... in the now stinky Audi.

Hospitalized in Paris

My sister tripped. There's no other way to say this. She tripped.

Now, the thing is: Michelle has crappy feet. So, her tripping = bad. As in, shooting pain, tears in the hotel lobby, and a trip to the emergency room.

So we spent the morning of our second day in Paris in the Hospital Hotel Dieu, across the street from the Notre Dame Cathedral. We could hear the church bells ringing, when the ambulance sirens weren't drowning them out.

This again severely tested my french, as I had to look up the words for "twisted her ankle" and "has had prior foot operations." But when the non-english-speaking man at the front desk heard my french, he smiled wryly and motioned me to shut up. Guess I was hindering more than helping...

Thankfully, her foot wasn't broken or anything horrible like that. She did get some crutchy things, and her ankle hurts a lot, so she's not going to be too touristy for the rest of the days in Paris...

One snore over the cuckoo's nest

While I toiled -- toiled, people! -- at work yesterday, 3/4 of my family were off galavanting around London, visiting Buckingham Palace, and touring the National Gallery.

When I was finally released from my drudgery, I met up with them, had a few pints, had dinner in a crypt, and then went to see a play, One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, "starring" Christian Slater.


My younger sister seemed a bit excited, as (according to her) she used to have a big crush on (the formerly) hunky Mr Slater, back when he was A-list, and young. Now he is neither, but she appreciated the nostalgia, I'm sure.

My parents didn't appreciate the play, however. While it didn't suck, it wasn't quite captivating enough to keep them awake, and both slept through parts of the first half. My dad even snored.


It wasn't bad, but it wasn't great either. Slater was decent, though I have to admit when his character dies at the end, I really didn't care. And Alex Kingston (formerly of ER) was annoying half the time, and great the other half of the time, which was frustrating. And confusing.

And the guy who played the Big Chief -- he hasn't been in shitty movies or big-name television, so I don't know his name, nor (apparenlty) care to know his name -- did a very funny voice. Kind of like shitty old Westerns, where the injun speaks in toddler-English ("Me Tonto. You ugly.") in a grunty, gutteral tone. I don't think they were being ironic.

It was funny in parts tho, but doesn't deserve the awesome reviews it's had. The best part was Slater at the bows, motioning for the audience to give him a standing ovation... which they (mostly) reluctantly did. Sad. Very sad.

Hotel Nicole, pt2

Yesterday, 3/4 of my family arrived (parents, and the younger sister) for a visit in London... which means I'm camping again, only this time, it's in the living room, because they've taken over my lovely bedroom. Sigh...

I met them yesterday post-work in Trafalgar Square, and we wandered around, had a pub dinner on the Southbank, took a convoluted bus route (oops...) to Oxford Street and Regents Street, and then walked around Picadilly Circus and down to Leisceter Square...

...where everyone's favourite actor, the midgety Scientologist Tom Cruise was working the crowd ahead of the premiere of Mission: Impossible 3. We didn't get to see him with our own eyes; he and his adoring fans were behind tall security fences. We had to watch on a big screen, which is probably good -- who knows, maybe Tommy boy is like the Medusa of Scientology... you look at him directly and start to worship L Ron Hubbard? Or maybe they were worried Cruise would try to escape their Scientologist clutches? Naah...

A very nice man tried to lift me up on his shoulders... you can imagine how well that worked out. I suppose it's a good thing people think I weigh less than I do, but yeah, he could have really hurt himself.