Isle of Wight, Home of the Stinging Nettle

Last weekend, my friends Margot, Kim, Stefanie and I took a little jaunt to the seaside town of Lymington in Southern England and spent a day hiking on the Isle of Wight (a half-hour ferry ride from Lymington Pier). Lymington is about an hour and a half train ride from London's Waterloo Station, making it a very easy weekend escape.

In Lymington, we stayed at the Angel Inn, a homey little tavern with a lively pub downstairs. Saturday morning, after breakfast at the Inn and a visit to Tesco where we picked up some granola bars, dried fruit and water, we boarded the ferry for the town of Yarmouth on the Isle of Wight. It's a really charming place...lots of coastal walks along the cliffs, quaint towns and pretty scenery. We hiked about 6 miles along the coast, on a trail through the brush that was at times precarious, to say the least (the path would occassionally disappear completely as we were in foliage over our heads and would shout to ensure we were all still together....sort of gave me the creeps like in an episode of "Lost") We occassionally came upon plateaus covered in heather, which was really beautiful, not to mention that these were higher spots where we also got magnificent views of the sea and scattered white sailboats.

We hiked from Yarmouth out to "The Needles" -- a collection of three jagged white rocks that reach out into the sea. About halfway along the hike, we stopped at a quaint seaside restaurant for lunch. That's the thing I love about England...you can hike in wilderness and not see another soul, yet still have places along the way to stop, eat a proper meal, and use a bathroom. That's my kind of hiking.

We also walked through a stretch of flat countryside where there were gorgeous golden fields of hay...one of my favourite things about the country here. It was on this particular stretch that I also discovered for my first (and hopefully last) time, stinging nettles. OUCH! Are they jellyfish, you ask? No. Stinging nettles look like MINT. But they are NOT mint. I thought I smelled mint (think they are from a similar family), looked down and yelled, "HEY GUYS -- LOOK! MINT!" While reaching down for a handful. OH. MY. GOD. Instant fire and pain. I snapped my hand back yelling something like, "OW OW OW OW !!! OWWW!!! OOOOOWWWWW!" I had no idea what had hit me. No one really seemed to care, Margot nonchalantly said, "Oh, stinging nettles." And I'm like, "What the hell is that? Do I die from it? Is it poisonous??? OWWWW!!!!!" Margot explained it would eventually subside, which it did, about 10 minutes later after much more griping (your hands get red with white bumps when you touch it). That was totally not fun. But now I know. I'm just happy the pain came quickly as a warning before I popped some into my mouth, which I was definitely planning to do. Somehow I do not think I'd fare well in wilderness survival. Poor Stef was wearing shorts so she caught a bit of the nettles too in the brush. But she didn't yell or complain. She clearly is more grown up than me and has a higher tolerance for pain.

Toward the end of the hike, we ended up at the famous "coloured sands," a stretch of cliffside that exposes many different shades of sand (if you take the painted dessert in America and put it vertical on a cliffside, this is what you get). The coloured sands overlook the sparkly green Alum Bay (there's also a glass factory nearby). From the rocky beach at the base of the coloured sands, we took a chairlift to the top of the cliff. I saw the chairlift and thought "Cool! Let's take the chairlift!" Then, about a quarter of the way up I began to have an anxiety attack and was pretty much clutching onto Margot and waiting for it to be over. I suddenly remembered one of the many reasons I hate sking -- the chairlifts. Though at least if you fall off a chairlift skiing, the snow below seems like a consolation. Jagged rocky cliffs do not. I was releived to hop off.

After the chairlift, we walked out to an old Battery directly overlooking the Needles. They were about to close, so we took a quick run through (I actually preferred the view of the Needles from the other side of the bay though versus immediately overhead of them.) By this point in the day, we were too tired to walk back, so we waited for a bus to take us back to Yarmouth.

When we got back into town, we caught the tail end of a local parade and then jumped on the ferry back to Lymington. It had been a really splendid day among the green foliage and sparkly water, and we were tired.

Saturday night we had a lovely dinner at Stanwell House, an Inn across the street from where we were staying. They have a comfy, pretty conservatory where we ate. After dinner, we walked down the street to a small bar and cafe called "Graze" where we had a drink. The cocktails there were impeccable. I had ordered an apple martini, then caught a glance of a girl sitting behind me with a pina colada bigger than my head (how totally retro and cool!!!)....so I quickly changed my order. And boy was it good. Splendid little place with a good vibe.

Sunday it was raining. So after our breakfast at the Inn, we took a brief stroll down the high street, then went back to the Stanwell House where the kind staff parked us in a large comfy corner with sofas and chairs and we relaxed there for a couple hours in the sunlight of the conservatory reading the paper, eating scones and english tea cakes and drinking tea. It was soooo nice and relaxing. Perfect lazy Sunday.

Around 3pm, we caught a train back to London (still raining), had dinner at Wagamama together (great Asian noodle chain in London, and my favorite Sunday evening spot) and then went our seperate ways. Good friends. Good weekend. Except those evil stinging nettles.

I'm Quite Proud of the Gays. Especially the Dutch Ones.

Last weekend I went to Amsterdam to visit my good friend Kate who recently moved there from Washington, DC (Kate and I go way back about 10 years when we met in DC and became fast friends). It happened to be Gay Pride weekend, so we spent Saturday on a boat on a canal with about 15 other people (some of whom Kate works with) watching the Gay Pride Parade, which takes place on boats crusing down the canal...gives all new meaning to the term "parade floats." The weather was gorgeous and the whole city was out. Heck, it was so packed, perhaps all of the Netherlands was there...the city was buzzing.

It's impressive how popular Gay Pride activities have become. So popular, actually, that all the straight people go too. It's a bit of an all-day love fest of peace and understanding -- as everyone gets a bit more in touch with their inner disco drag queen. What's not to love about that?? By the end of the evening, one of Kates friend's, Karen, had a huge sticker plastered on her chest that said "I'm Gay." (She's not.)

What I really like about Gay Pride "Dutch Style" is that the parade takes place on boats. The streets and bridges were lined with crowds watching the party go by. After watching the parade pass, all the boats (including ours) went out on the water for a two-three hour cruise, forming a traffic jam on the water full of people partying, dancing and having a generally crazy time. Adults, kids, pets...everyone was out enjoying the disco-thumping boats. I think my favourite parade boats were the "gay grannies" (exactly what it sounds like -- old, gay grandmas); the ING boat (corporations are impressively on-board with Gay Pride these days too) with a cast of smartly dressed IMG employees performing their own choreographed line dance to Dolly Parton's classic song "Working Nine to Five;" a set of topless, blue-painted mermaids with long golden braids; a boat of gay tennis players (most in skirts) dancing with rackets in hand; and the gay Brazilian boat. And of course, no Gay Pride Parade is complete without a slew of men in drag who have better bodies than me and most women I know. Whatever. I was just enjoying rocking out to all the Wham! and ABBA.

Our party cruise ended around 6pm-ish. By this time, the crowds had taken to the streets and everyone was out (no pun intended). Kate and I fought our way through the crowds, got dinner and then went to a cafe for a cappuccino around 8:30pm. We were sitting outside gabbing when two cute blonde guys came and joined us at our table with a pretty endearing pick-up scheme. It totally worked -- we ended up going with them to one of the main city squares for a giant party where everyone under 25 who lives in Holland (it seemed) was packed into a tight space dancing to a DJ playing blaring techo music. We had some more drinks (there were beer stands lining the streets) and danced with our new pals for a couple hours, then slipped off to meet up with some of Kate's friends at yet another outdoor party about 5 blocks away in another city square. This party had a band. We had some more drinks, hung out a bit more (I bought a fun light-up neon lei necklace), and we finally departed the scene around 1:30am. By this time, Kate and I were famished again, so we stopped into a busy Middle Eastern diner called The Pharoah something-or-other where we each got a plate of grilled chicken (we think it was chicken) and a giant side of french fries. nothing says "DIET" quite like that at 2am. Stomachs full, we stumbled home pretty tired. I had a splinter in my toe where I had wiped out on some wooden steps earlier and Kate and I both had a bizarre case of the spins. We are both clearly too old for this.

Saturday we took it easy...met Kate's friends for brunch at an Irish pub near the Dam (city center), then wandered over to tour the Rembrandt House. Rembrandt lived there for more than 20 years where he painted most of his famous works. The house contains many of his etchings and is still furnished/preserved in typical 17th-century style. After the tour, we wandered through a few galleries and antique shops, browsed the storefronts (as most places are closed there on Sundays), and then stopped into the lounge at the Hotel Americain and had a few cocktails as we watched the people go by. We wandered to another more residential square later that evening and had dinner outdoors at a very tasty Turkish cafe.

I flew back to London Monday morning and went straight into work. It's kind of nice...Kate and I are now the same distance away from each other (45 minute flight) as we were when I lived in NYC and she lived in DC. It's nice having an old friend from home so close...and fun that we are both having European adventures together. It's hard to beleive that the last time we were both in Amsterdam back in February, Kate had no clue she would be living there permanently in 4 short months. Funny how life works...

My Canterbury Tale

It seems some of my best-remembered and most content moments involve coffee. Cappuccino or espresso, to be exact. One such moment was in Italy a couple years ago, on a ferry from Sorrento to the island of Capri on a chilly but sunny November afternoon. I remember having my coat and scarf on, watching the island's rocky cliffs draw closer across the surface of choppy blue water, when a steward on the boat kindly brought me a demitasse of hot espresso with a small biscotti. The boat was practically empty, except my two friends I was with and a few other off-season travelers. I think that espresso may have been the best I ever had.

The most recent java moment was last Saturday as I found myself in a rowboat (what is it with the boats and coffee?), on a picture-perfect canal in Canterbury, around 6pm on a lovely warm and breezy summer evening. Warm cappuccino in hand, cute blonde guy rowing the boat telling me and one other passenger all sorts of interesting trivia about the town. It had me thinking that sometimes a simple singular day can feel like an entire holiday -- and this was one of those days. But then again, I think “holiday” is really just a state of mind.

I had woken up unusually early that morning and wasn't in the mood for my usual weekend lie-in. So I got myself ready and walked down to Charing Cross Station and jumped on a train to Canterbury, about a 1.5 hour train ride southeast of London. The trip out was really nice. Quiet. Lots of pretty English country and scenery to enjoy as it whizzed by. My favourite parts were the golden fields with perfect rolls of hay positioned throughout -- the sunlight reflecting off the newly shaved ground making it seem almost illuminated. The colours in England are really so vibrant and beautiful. Guess it's all the rain....anyway, very ethereal and otherworldly at times.

I arrived at Canterbury and made a beeline to the great cathedral. The thing that grabs you about Canterbury as you walk through the cobblestone streets is how old it is. There are still remnants of various ancient civilizations built upon each other...from the Roman walls to the medieval gates through which you enter the old city -- it's amazing to see it all still there, mixed among the modern town of double-decker busses and red phone booths.

The cathedral is a wonder of grey stone and stained glass. In AD 597, missionaries from Rome converted the king of Kent (the region where Canterbury is located) to Christianity. Augustine, leader of the mission, was consecrated as Archbishop and his cathedra (official seat) was established there. The Cathedral has been the home of Anglicanism and the seat of the Archbishop ever since. For a born and bred Episcopalian like myself, this is all very cool.

I spent three hours inside, it was mesmerising. The tomb of St. Thomas is in the church...Thomas Becket, the real-life man, was actually murdered in that very cathedral, and on the spot where he was killed, there is a Martyrdom to which people have made pilgrimages for hundreds of years to pray. The windows go up and on forever and ever, I tried to see as many as I could and read their stories. My particular favourites were the Tree of Jesse window in the Jesus Chapel; a modern window made from old glass depicting St. Thomas; four windows by Hungarian refugee and artist Ervin Bossanyi themed around peace and salvation; The Christopher Whall windows depicting the Nativity, the Agony in the Garden, and the Resurrection; a jewel-like window depicting medieval pilgrims on the road to Canterbury placed immediately overhead an old Roman sarcophagus which is the tomb of Archbishop Hubert Walter; and a small window showing Mary fleeing Egypt with the baby Jesus on a donkey. There were about 50 other windows that had me captivated as well, but I have a feeling to go on about them may cause this entry to get boring fast ("too late" you say?).

There is a wonderfully atmospheric and expansive crypt below the cathedral, with one particular chapel that I loved, called St. Gabriel's Chapel, with a smattering of the remnants of 12th-century wall paintings as well as a Romanesque column. Also a main attraction is the elaborately ornate "Black Prince's Tomb," the burial spot for Edward, Prince of Wales (d. 1376). The tomb depicts him resting in all his splendid armour. There is also a glass case holding his funeral achievements.

The Cathedral boasts peacefully lovely Cloisters surrounding a grassy green. Around the Cloisters there is the large Chapter House (c.1300) with a gorgeous intricate vaulted oak ceiling. This is where Margaret Thatcher and French President Francois Mitterand signed the Channel Tunnel treaty in 1984. During the old days of the monastery, the Chapter House is where the Prior would read out the rules of St. Benedict (there is also an impressive Chapter House off the Cloisters of Westminster Abbey).

The cathedral grounds include the ruins of the old monestary -- its gothic arches, windows and gateways still hauntingly beautiful. There is a well-kept garden in the back perfect for quiet respite. The whole place is a tranquil and layered jumble of stone, glass, colour, art, ruins and a spirit of magnificent beauty.

I left the Cathedral and headed to the very dated Canterbury Tales exhibition (Canterbury is, of course, the subject of Geoffrey Chaucer’s many stories as told by pilgrims and travelers as they made their journeys to Canterbury). This was just downright creepy. Anyone who has read my post about my visit to the Polish salt mine knows I DO NOT like scary fake mannequin people. And the Canterbury Tales exhibit is FULL of them. And it's dark. And to make matters worse, I was alone on the tour -- it was like a haunted house! When you enter, they give you an audio headset and you walk your way through a very dark, musty building -- entering room after room after room where you stand or sit among scary fake mannequins that have not been dusted since 1952. At some points, the audio tour was warped, making it a garbled freak show. It took every bit of nerve and guts I had not to run screaming from the building. After 40 minutes in fright land, I was safely out the back door and into the light of day. I can't tell you much of anything about the Tales I heard, I was too busy focusing my breathing and trying not having a panic attack.

After the scary Canterbury Tales, I wandered around and did a little browsing in the shops. Then I stopped in a Vietnamese Bistro and had a light bite and wrote some postcards. I did some more shopping (stumbled across a neat little health food market where I bought tea) and then thought I might make my way to the train station around 6pm to go home. But while crossing a small bridge, I came across the rowboat tours and the (cute) guy trying to get people on them, so I signed right up. There was a 15-minute wait, so that's when I went into the coffee shop next door and got the cappuccino which I took on the boat with me. The boat ride lasted about 40 minutes down small, lush green waterways surrounded by old stone buildings and gardens. We went under old stone bridges so low that we had to duck with our heads practically in our laps so as not to knock ourselves out.

It was heavenly out, and our guide was interesting and witty. He gave us great little tidbits about the town....like how the French Huguenots settled in Canterbury after fleeing persecution in the Channel Islands, setting themselves up as master weavers (the Cathedral still offers Huguenot services in French at 3pm on the weekends); how many buildings in England feature bricked-up windows from a time when Prime Minister William Pitt (the youngest Prime Minister in England’s history I beleive) implemented the "window tax" that charged citizens for each window they had in their home (so you could tell people’s economic status by looking at a house and seeing who could afford windows); and how there was an old flour mill at the end of the canal that burned to the ground. What's interesting about this is that there is an old pub next door (The Miller's Arms) that also caught on fire, and apparently the firemen had to choose between saving the mill or the pub. The pub is still standing -- although I'm not sure how people could afford a beer at the pub after losing their job at the mill…

After the boat ride, I walked around some back streets of the town, following the old Roman wall and eventually ending up at the Catholic Church of St. Thomas of Canterbury, where I sat in the small garden full of flowers and read my book for awhile as a Saturday evening service took place inside. Then, walking back toward the train station, right outside the medieval gate, I stopped for dinner in a nice little Mexican restaurant.

The train ride back was nice. I was tired and happy as I watched an elaborate pink and periwinkle sunset morph over the fields until darkness fell and we pulled into the city.

Some days here in England are really, really good. Most days, life is good. Especially if there’s a cappuccino involved.

Modigliani and His Models

A couple Fridays ago, I spent the evening at the Royal Academy of Arts (my new favourite hangout) to see the "Modigliani and His Models" exhibition. It is so beautiful. I love (Amedeo) Modigliani (1884-1920), and this collection of some of his most famous portraits is really something to behold. The attached picture is my favourite of his. That's Jeanne Hebuterne, his last lover, who he often painted. She jumped out a window, 9 months pregnant, to her death at the age of 21 a few days after he died (they already had a daughter together). Ok, NOT a happy story, but his paintings are so lovely. Soft colours....cornflower blues, warms reds, rich golds. The people he particularly liked were painted with a warmth and tenderness about them. The people he wasn't so fond of always seem to have empty, hollow and vacant eyes, but are nonetheless pretty.

Modigliani was a maniac though...your basic drug abusing, alcoholic, crazy, schitzophrenic, angry, jealous, insecure, woman-beating guy. Unfortunately, most great artists seemed to be tormented and tainted. Why is that? Where are all the HAPPY, well-adjusted artists?

Random Modigliani story: When I moved into my London flat, I was immediately taken by the print of Jeanne hanging over my sofa (the one above). I did not realise at the time it was a Modigliani and I would often tell guests that I loved the picture because it "looked like a Modigliani." Many made the same comment or agreed. It never occured to me, for about the first 7 months looking at this painting hanging in my living room, to take a closer look at the clearly scribed signature in the top corner, becuase it WAS a Modigliani. After a few cocktails one evening with friends, I climbed up on the sofa and (loudly) made the discovery (there were laughs). I was excited to see the original at the exhibition -- it's even prettier than the print on my wall...much warmer colours.

Anyway, the pictures themselves are a treat to take in, but the stories behind his subjects (friends, prostitutes, art dealers, lovers, strangers), told on the audio tour are equally interesting and some, sadly amusing. For example, one painting is of ex-lover and art critic, Beatrice Hastings (pictured below right). She was wealthy and many years his senior. She also had a violent temper and was jealous. Apparently, she would ocassionally find him out with another woman and throw bottles and such.

The collection is nice becuase it is not too big and is all quality so you can really enjoy and savour it. You get a very intimate feel for the subjects and their stories. With the exception of one or two portraits, I honestly loved almost EVERYTHING on the walls....even the nudes which some critics at the time considered to be soft porn (which I don't agree with, by the way).

Anyway, I joined the RAA as a "friend" and expect I'll spend many other lunches and late evenings there (it is right around the corner from my office on Picadilly so I can get there quick when an art fix is needed). I plan to go back for one more visit to Modigliani before the exhibition departs.

Oh, there's also a new book by Jeffery Myers that just came out called Modigliani: A Life. If you're interested, click here.