On behalf of the Dins, I would like to say that we promise we still love and care for this temporarily stagnant blog. Unfortunately, it is 2:30 A.M. in Osaka, Japan, where we are staying for the next two days, and so neither I nor any of the rest of us has the energy to give the blog a much needed juicy post at the moment.
BUT STAY TUNED!!!!! A GOLDIN OPPORTUNITY to read the blog is just around the corner!
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Food, Oh-So-Glorious Food
Now, for those of you expecting deep philosophical musings and/or reports of places unknown, I’m sorry to say that you won’t find them in this particular post. Instead, I thought I’d make this short segment an ode to that oft-underrated, and on this blog, too often underrepresented, hero of any world tour (and of life as a whole): food. Yes, that wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles which, for me, condenses all the many-splendored joys of travel into a single bite. That is the topic of this little discourse.
Those of you who’ve seen me eat know that over the course of a day, I can get through a fair amount. Some would say that that’s an understatement, but I’ll leave it at that for now. Anyway, suffice it to say that this tour hasn’t exactly been a diet as far as I’m concerned -- though I’m perfectly happy with the ubiquitous Doner Kabob stands when I want a midnight snack (chicken or lamb, sliced off the spit in front of you, all wrapped inside a deliciously crispy piece of pita bread with lettuce, onions, and a creamy garlic sauce) the local food is so consistently delicious that it’s too good to pass up.
In Strasbourg, for instance, we stopped at a local café, where the grand total of four menu items were presented to us on a blackboard. I was lucky enough to choose the gnocchi au gratin: while Dillon’s vegetable pastilla (pictured in Dillon’s post) was delicious, with its delicate and crispy exterior surrounding green vegetables scented with cinnamon and nutmeg, the gnocchi were truly memorable.
The first thing you notice as the waiter brings the dish to your table is the still-bubbling cheese on the outsides of the plate. The dish is piping hot, and the smell of cheese whets your appetite. As for the gnocchi themselves, resting underneath the layer of cheese and cream, I think Brett described them best as “pillows.” They’re light and fluffy, but with a firm texture. The single perfect bite was one from a corner of the dish -- a piece of burnt cheese, one of the said pillows, a piece of cashew nut, a caper or two, and a small piece of tuna. The texture was wonderful, and the saltiness of the capers, along with the nuttiness of the cashews, made for a perfect combination of flavors. For me, a near-perfect dish.
Later that same day, after a short walk, we came across a café with somewhere between 20 and 30 kinds of gelato. The day was hot, and that was exactly what we were all craving, so I had two scoops, one rose-flavored, and one violet-flavored. Not the most macho of all possible choices, maybe, but it was too tempting and unusual a combination to pass up. (And, for those wondering, the nicely manicured hands below are not my own.)
The rose was creamy and sweet -- I didn’t know that a taste could be so similar to a smell, but if you could taste rose-scented perfume, that would be the taste of that gelato. Not my favorite, overall. But the violet-flavored scoop was really something else: tangy, flowery, sweet, but not too sweet -- on a hot day, it was the perfect refresher.
The next day, Brett and I sat by the foot of Strasbourg’s imposing cathedral for dinner. For my meal, I ordered a tarte flambee, which was described to me as a sort of quasi-pizza. That was indeed what it was -- a pizza minus the sauce and cheese.
In place of those was a light cream sauce with onions and ham atop a paper-thin crust. Lighter on the stomach than a typical pizza, it hit the spot as we watched the sun set on the magnificent cathedral.
The next day, we were headed off to Berlin. Exhausted from the day’s travel, I was not in the best of moods. But as my parents know quite well, the surest way to stop me from being cranky is to feed me. And feed myself I did. Dillon and I shared an enormous -- truly massive -- platter of grilled meat, French fries, and vegetables.
The meat came in all shapes and sizes, ribs, steaks, chicken breasts -- we had our work cut out for us. But, in the most literal sense, we cleaned up. With food on the sides of my mouth, I wasn’t exactly looking my best, but I was certainly satisfied, and I know Dillon was, too. So, all in all, the meal was a resounding success.
Best of all, those meals are just the tip of the iceberg (and I’m sure it reflects something about me that at this moment, that expression just makes me think of lettuce). I could go on about the delicious schnitzel all through Germany, or the superb pork and sauerkraut in Austria, or the surprisingly tasty “boiled mush” here in Slovenia, but this entry’s already gone on a while longer than anticipated, and I can’t expect everyone to be as enthralled by food as I am. Still, maybe these descriptions can give those not traveling with us one more aspect -- a taste -- of this incredible world tour.
Those of you who’ve seen me eat know that over the course of a day, I can get through a fair amount. Some would say that that’s an understatement, but I’ll leave it at that for now. Anyway, suffice it to say that this tour hasn’t exactly been a diet as far as I’m concerned -- though I’m perfectly happy with the ubiquitous Doner Kabob stands when I want a midnight snack (chicken or lamb, sliced off the spit in front of you, all wrapped inside a deliciously crispy piece of pita bread with lettuce, onions, and a creamy garlic sauce) the local food is so consistently delicious that it’s too good to pass up.
In Strasbourg, for instance, we stopped at a local café, where the grand total of four menu items were presented to us on a blackboard. I was lucky enough to choose the gnocchi au gratin: while Dillon’s vegetable pastilla (pictured in Dillon’s post) was delicious, with its delicate and crispy exterior surrounding green vegetables scented with cinnamon and nutmeg, the gnocchi were truly memorable.
The first thing you notice as the waiter brings the dish to your table is the still-bubbling cheese on the outsides of the plate. The dish is piping hot, and the smell of cheese whets your appetite. As for the gnocchi themselves, resting underneath the layer of cheese and cream, I think Brett described them best as “pillows.” They’re light and fluffy, but with a firm texture. The single perfect bite was one from a corner of the dish -- a piece of burnt cheese, one of the said pillows, a piece of cashew nut, a caper or two, and a small piece of tuna. The texture was wonderful, and the saltiness of the capers, along with the nuttiness of the cashews, made for a perfect combination of flavors. For me, a near-perfect dish.
Later that same day, after a short walk, we came across a café with somewhere between 20 and 30 kinds of gelato. The day was hot, and that was exactly what we were all craving, so I had two scoops, one rose-flavored, and one violet-flavored. Not the most macho of all possible choices, maybe, but it was too tempting and unusual a combination to pass up. (And, for those wondering, the nicely manicured hands below are not my own.)
The rose was creamy and sweet -- I didn’t know that a taste could be so similar to a smell, but if you could taste rose-scented perfume, that would be the taste of that gelato. Not my favorite, overall. But the violet-flavored scoop was really something else: tangy, flowery, sweet, but not too sweet -- on a hot day, it was the perfect refresher.
The next day, Brett and I sat by the foot of Strasbourg’s imposing cathedral for dinner. For my meal, I ordered a tarte flambee, which was described to me as a sort of quasi-pizza. That was indeed what it was -- a pizza minus the sauce and cheese.
In place of those was a light cream sauce with onions and ham atop a paper-thin crust. Lighter on the stomach than a typical pizza, it hit the spot as we watched the sun set on the magnificent cathedral.The next day, we were headed off to Berlin. Exhausted from the day’s travel, I was not in the best of moods. But as my parents know quite well, the surest way to stop me from being cranky is to feed me. And feed myself I did. Dillon and I shared an enormous -- truly massive -- platter of grilled meat, French fries, and vegetables.
The meat came in all shapes and sizes, ribs, steaks, chicken breasts -- we had our work cut out for us. But, in the most literal sense, we cleaned up. With food on the sides of my mouth, I wasn’t exactly looking my best, but I was certainly satisfied, and I know Dillon was, too. So, all in all, the meal was a resounding success.
Best of all, those meals are just the tip of the iceberg (and I’m sure it reflects something about me that at this moment, that expression just makes me think of lettuce). I could go on about the delicious schnitzel all through Germany, or the superb pork and sauerkraut in Austria, or the surprisingly tasty “boiled mush” here in Slovenia, but this entry’s already gone on a while longer than anticipated, and I can’t expect everyone to be as enthralled by food as I am. Still, maybe these descriptions can give those not traveling with us one more aspect -- a taste -- of this incredible world tour.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Speaking Chinese in La Petite France
Making our way from one country to the next, any given Din may hurdle over, crash into, or run away from language barriers. Each one of us brings his own special skill set. As for me, I studied four years of French before selling my soul to Mandarin. Yet, we have but a few Francophone stops before heading to Asia. I knew not what to expect for the lands of my personal linguistic ignorance.
Aside from their great skin and astonishing bone structure, the people of Iceland possess another beautiful quality: nearly all of them speak perfect English. This of course did not stop Dave Sawicki from learning Icelandic for fun, which amused the linguistics major to no small end. As much as I wished for some delightfully confounding miscommunications in London, I left England without such pitfall. And though we were in Amsterdam for but a day, the Dutch seem to take after Scandinavians in their mastery of English. In Luxembourg the gears of French began to turn. I grew frustrated as it would take me a good five minutes to construct a grammatically unblemished sentence only to lapse into Chinese if my conversation continued any further. But even with my tongue and my mind on different continents, I survived easily.
Our stay in Saarland put the spotlight on Dave once again. From song intros at concerts to disgruntled cab drivers on the side of the road, Dave handled all our official German business While our English song introductions fall of ears deaf to English, Dave's German humor had the Saarland audiences calling for two or three encores every night. No language can stop Dave, and I cannot imagine us surviving Germany without him. That is, until I had to. On our last night, which we spent in Saarlouis, the Dins split up into six different homestays, all organized by German-American friendship groups. Although we had the comfort of meeting in the town square with several bilingual members, not every host family could speak English.
Kirk and I stayed with one such family. Their teenage daughter Susanna spoke conversational English, but she soon had to leave for a theater rehearsal, leaving Kirk and me at home with a vocabulary of "Danke schön," "Auf Wiedersehen," and "Weis bier." Using hand signals, we decided to eat a quick bite before our evening concert. Yet, the time did not pass idly, and our host made jokes about the inferiority of French sausage. An untainted happiness lingered about her, as she laughed after most every one of her sentences. Maybe she was thinking of the fact that we could not understand a word of what she said. Still, I used a map to show her where Kirk and I live, as well as Boston and our tour itinerary. She then made it clear she wanted to come along with us in Kirk's gargantuan suitcase, which during the easyJet crisis was nicknamed "The Star Destroyer." After our concert, our party met up with Lee and Justin at their homestay for a delicious meal in the cool summer night. Our host mom let us know that she would speak English the next time we came to Saarlouis. We reciprocated the offer, vowing to learn German before our next visit.
In Strasbourg, I could feel my French improving. Still, anything close to rapid fire would send my mind into Mandarin mode, as I blabbered mutant sentences that have confused grammar and a collusion of vocabularies. What a mess. After our expedition to the top of the gothic cathedral, we headed to a small café for lunch in the shade. I did my best to help our table order, but I cannot recall the name of this delicious vegetarian dish I ordered. It did taste divine, though.
After leaving the café, I heard a tongue all to familiar. "哈佛?" A Chinese-speaker had read the text on my crimson t-shirt, which is a translation for Harvard. The man, leader of a Taiwanese tour group, soon struck up conversation with me as well as Sam Galler, who has impeccable Mandarin. As the tour group slowly coagulated around us, we heard calls for a song, as Sam never wastes the opportunity to mention we are members of an a cappella group. Defying convention, we gave an impromptu curbside performance. Exactly half of us had no idea what was going on, as our group of eight included all four Mandarin-speaking Dins. After the 3:30 minute song, we endured what seemed like several hours of picture-taking.
In the end, the tour guide exchanged business cards with us and invited us to Taiwan, offering to pay for all our accommodations. But soon it was back to choppy French, and now in Berlin I am once again at a loss for how to say anything at all. But these stories would mean nothing if we all understood each other perfectly. And so, while I may work towards improving my powers of communication, I am deeply thankful for the colorful shortcomings.
Aside from their great skin and astonishing bone structure, the people of Iceland possess another beautiful quality: nearly all of them speak perfect English. This of course did not stop Dave Sawicki from learning Icelandic for fun, which amused the linguistics major to no small end. As much as I wished for some delightfully confounding miscommunications in London, I left England without such pitfall. And though we were in Amsterdam for but a day, the Dutch seem to take after Scandinavians in their mastery of English. In Luxembourg the gears of French began to turn. I grew frustrated as it would take me a good five minutes to construct a grammatically unblemished sentence only to lapse into Chinese if my conversation continued any further. But even with my tongue and my mind on different continents, I survived easily.
Our stay in Saarland put the spotlight on Dave once again. From song intros at concerts to disgruntled cab drivers on the side of the road, Dave handled all our official German business While our English song introductions fall of ears deaf to English, Dave's German humor had the Saarland audiences calling for two or three encores every night. No language can stop Dave, and I cannot imagine us surviving Germany without him. That is, until I had to. On our last night, which we spent in Saarlouis, the Dins split up into six different homestays, all organized by German-American friendship groups. Although we had the comfort of meeting in the town square with several bilingual members, not every host family could speak English.
Kirk and I stayed with one such family. Their teenage daughter Susanna spoke conversational English, but she soon had to leave for a theater rehearsal, leaving Kirk and me at home with a vocabulary of "Danke schön," "Auf Wiedersehen," and "Weis bier." Using hand signals, we decided to eat a quick bite before our evening concert. Yet, the time did not pass idly, and our host made jokes about the inferiority of French sausage. An untainted happiness lingered about her, as she laughed after most every one of her sentences. Maybe she was thinking of the fact that we could not understand a word of what she said. Still, I used a map to show her where Kirk and I live, as well as Boston and our tour itinerary. She then made it clear she wanted to come along with us in Kirk's gargantuan suitcase, which during the easyJet crisis was nicknamed "The Star Destroyer." After our concert, our party met up with Lee and Justin at their homestay for a delicious meal in the cool summer night. Our host mom let us know that she would speak English the next time we came to Saarlouis. We reciprocated the offer, vowing to learn German before our next visit.
In Strasbourg, I could feel my French improving. Still, anything close to rapid fire would send my mind into Mandarin mode, as I blabbered mutant sentences that have confused grammar and a collusion of vocabularies. What a mess. After our expedition to the top of the gothic cathedral, we headed to a small café for lunch in the shade. I did my best to help our table order, but I cannot recall the name of this delicious vegetarian dish I ordered. It did taste divine, though.
After leaving the café, I heard a tongue all to familiar. "哈佛?" A Chinese-speaker had read the text on my crimson t-shirt, which is a translation for Harvard. The man, leader of a Taiwanese tour group, soon struck up conversation with me as well as Sam Galler, who has impeccable Mandarin. As the tour group slowly coagulated around us, we heard calls for a song, as Sam never wastes the opportunity to mention we are members of an a cappella group. Defying convention, we gave an impromptu curbside performance. Exactly half of us had no idea what was going on, as our group of eight included all four Mandarin-speaking Dins. After the 3:30 minute song, we endured what seemed like several hours of picture-taking.
In the end, the tour guide exchanged business cards with us and invited us to Taiwan, offering to pay for all our accommodations. But soon it was back to choppy French, and now in Berlin I am once again at a loss for how to say anything at all. But these stories would mean nothing if we all understood each other perfectly. And so, while I may work towards improving my powers of communication, I am deeply thankful for the colorful shortcomings.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
If Only Every Day Could Be National Day...
Here I sit in our EXTREMELY comfortable hotel in Strasbourg, France, looking back on what an amazing week I've just had. But really, to have had an amazing week is just in keeping with the overall pattern of our tour so far: we seem to go from one phenomenal stop to another--finding it impossible all the while to determine what our favorite stop has been.
After our super fun day at the Stowe School in England, we relaxed at a hotel nearby--where the School treated each Din to his own room for the night! Incredible. Needless to say, that generous rooming situation gave all of us a well-needed comfortable night of sleep...which it turned out we would need if we were to have any chance to weather the next day. Read Lee's post for the details, but all I can say is that if easyJet were to cease to exist, I'd feel not very poorly at all. Forcing the Dins to separate into two groups of six, the airline inadvertently created an adventurous two-day journey for each group. While those who stayed at the airport bought their tickets to Amsterdam, the six of us who made it onto the easyJet plane--Rashid, Galler, Lee, Kirk, Dave, and myself--flew to Dusseldorf.
(Here, I'm looking very upset next to
easyJet's false claim of "Speedy Boarding.)
After eating there and checking out the city, we took a train to Luxembourg. The train ride was awesome. The Dins have first class tickets for our EuroRail trips, so the six of us cosily packed into a first class train suite (which I had never experienced in real life--only seen on the Hogwarts Express in Harry Potter). It was a blast to travel with these five very chill Dins and to watch the beautiful scenery pass by.
It was pretty late by the time we got to Luxembourg, so while Dave, Rashid, and Galler went to their homestays, Lee, Kirk, and I settled into our youth hostel. It was a very nice place, complete with a great cafeteria and lobby area to watch soccer--an asset we took advantage of several times over the next few days.
The next day, the six of us stuck together and went out exploring the city--which was fantastic. We listened to some early morning
live jazz at a cozy little club (after we took pictures of the ridiculously beautiful landscape that surrounded our hostel). Then we got some food at a music festival in the central square, then headed to the Luxembourg City History Museum. The Museum was great, but was, at least in my opinion, far overshadowed by what we did next--which was borderline life-changing. We found a place called CHCO, which specialized in all things chocolate. Their most popular item: individually wrapped wooden spoons with chocolate on the end, which you could dip into steamed milk and make your own AMAZING hot chocolate. The spoons came in a plethora of different flavors--ranging from mundane to really unsual. The six of us each picked the spoon that most attracted us, ordered a glass of steamed milk, and sat upstairs in anticipation. What ensued was no short of chocolate bliss. It was so good that we ended up coming back with most
of the Amsterdam Dins two days later. Alright, chocolate
spoons may not actually
be life changing, but what an amazing idea. I'm sure we have it somewhere in America, but none of the Dins had heard of it, which was enough to pretty much freak out over it.
Afterwards, our mini-group of Dins went out an amazing Italian dinner. It was not light on the old wallet, but it was certainly worth it. We knew that this was the last big thing we'd be able to do as the six of us--the Dusseldorf crew, so to speak--so this dinner was especially fun. Late that night, the Amsterdam crew of Dins arrived in Luxembourg, and it was very good to see them and exchange stories.
The next day, a group of five Dins (Kirk, Lee, Schoenberg, Dave, and I) decided to head to Trier--the oldest city in Germany for a daytrip. We saw ruins from the Roman Empire which probably constituted some of the oldest buildings I've ever seen in person. After hitting up most of the other big sightseeing hotspots, including a very impressive Amphitheater from the days of the Roman Empire, we decided to visit the house where Karl Marx was born. The house served as a museum of his life and legacy, and served an extremely interesting museum on a man that I had previously known little about. All in all, the Trier trip was really fun and well worth the visit, considering it's only a cheap 45 minute train ride away from Luxembourg.
The next day, after taking a bigger group of Dins to CHCO, the five babies had a rehearsal to learn new music that the rest of the Dins already know. The five of us call ourselves Tonix (not really sure where that came from, apart from a shortening of Din & Tonics), and it's always a pleasure to sing as a baby quintet. We quickly got "I've Got My Fingers Crossed" and "Georgia On My Mind" to a gig-able state, which is great (always refreshing to be able to add new songs to our repertoire). After that, the Dins had our first and only performance in Luxembourg, at an upscale restaurant that fed us an incredible meal. We sang throughout the night, and ended up doing quite a few additional songs as a private encore for a group that especially liked us. After finally leaving the restaurant, we went back and prepared for National Day--the event we plan our Luxembourg dates around. National Day in Luxembourg is an amazing holiday and quite a spectacle--the population of the city triples for the festivities, which include fireworks, live music all over the streets, and general celebration. It takes a pretty involved effort just to walk a short distance, since every street is absolutely packed with people. I stuck with Galler, Rashid, Lee, and Brett, and we had a great time walking all over the city, dancing, and enjoying the music. It turned out to be an amazing night, and I loved hearing about the adventures of the Dins I split up from once we got back.
(Galler and I loved National Day.)
The next morning, we boarded a train for Saarbrucken. It was sad to leave such an amazing stop, but I knew from experience that the next stop would probably be equally incredible, albeit in a different way. And I was right. For the Saarland stop, we stayed in a different city each night (never actually Saarbrucken, ironically. We just call the stop that since it's the biggest city in Saarland). Each city consisted of a two-hour performance at night and a dinner given to us by our hosts for that city. We were in St. Wendel on the first day, Beckingen on the second day, and finally in Saarlouis--which was particularly awesome because we were split up into homestays with great hosts. I was with Lee, and we absolutely adored our host. Her meals for us for delicious, her house and garden were beautiful, and she even left us with goody bags full of food and chocolate for after we left. That reminds me, I really need to go devour the rest of my goody bag. Right now. Moral of the story: tour is ridiculous and awesome. And DST, somehow.
(Lee and I at our homestay. It had one of the most
amazing gardens we had ever seen. We were sad to
leave!)
Sunday, June 20, 2010
It's A Small World After All
It’s hard to believe that only nine days ago, the Dins were having a sleepover in my apartment back in New York. Since that time, we’ve crossed the Atlantic, had two incredible stops in Iceland and England, and given some great performances. And as we traveled those thousands of miles and hours of plane rides, the last thing I expected to discover was just how small the world really is.
But as I began running into friends everywhere – in the Tube, a restaurant, a pub, a jazz club – it became clear that the Harvard gods were watching over us, purposefully setting up small-world experiences. Even crazier was bumping into an alumnus of my high school, now a Harvard grad, at our final gig in the UK, at the Stowe School, hours outside London. And as if that weren’t enough, his friend, who was also there, studied under my high school band director when he was in (a different) high school.
Yesterday, however, some of us learned how small the world is a bit more literally. When we encountered some difficulties on our flight from London to Dusseldorf (en route to Luxembourg) on the ironically-named EasyJet, half of us ended up flying to Amsterdam. Suddenly, the world seemed to fit in the palm of our hand, and in a hop, skip, and a jump, we were in the Netherlands.
After dropping our bags at the hostel in Amsterdam, we headed into the heart of town, grabbing some dinner and walking through the Red Light District. The canals were beautiful by moonlight, and the energy on the streets was contagious.
Starkly contrasting the EasyJet attitude, the people in Amsterdam were wonderful. Two small examples: (1) the bus driver let us ride for free to the hostel since he saw we were struggling with our bags; and (2) a woman on a bicycle rung her bell as she passed, looked back, and smiled. Today we took a great walk around the city, admiring the canals, passing through an outdoor market, and ending at the Van Gogh Museum (where, by the way, we bumped into some more of our Harvard friends!).
Now, as I sit on the train to Luxembourg, the last 24 hours are a bit of a blur. The globe, as I’m sure I’ll learn first-hand over the next two months, is enormous. Yet, as the first nine days of tour (and Disneyworld) have taught me, it’s a small world after all.
p.s. A very happy Fathers Day to all our Din Dads!
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Stompin' at the Stowe, and a Not-So-easyJet
Having slept for perhaps 4 hours the night before, I was out cold for the entirety of our bus ride from jolly old London to the Stowe School in Buckingham. Just a few hours before, we’d been singing Puttin’ on the Ritz at Ronnie Scott’s, the jazz club we’d visited two days ago (the performance, by the way, was a lot of fun). That made it all the more surreal to wake up to the sight of Stowe’s stately façade.
Since I hadn’t the slightest idea what to expect, my first thought was that I was in the midst of some BBC-special-induced dream. It dawned on me soon enough, however, that the Stowe School -- what I had imagined as an urban, brick music school of some sort -- was actually an immense, prestigious, and, what’s more, extremely beautiful institution.
I would be lying if I said I wasn’t a little intimidated: in my t-shirt and jeans, I felt more than a little underdressed compared to the smartly uniformed students walking about. Still, we received a very warm welcome, and we were soon whisked away to the south portico, where we enjoyed a delightful champagne lunch and looked out onto the vista before us, which was, just like everything else about Stowe, as grand and impressive as could be.
We proceeded to stroll around the grounds for an hour, thinking about what exactly Harvard life would be like if the Yard were replaced by Stowe's lakes and meadows. It would certainly be a bit of a change from the Harvard I know.
Among the many other impressive structures housed by the sprawling grounds was a little Chinese house, standing just where you’d least suspect it.
Incongruous though it was, the Oriental flourishes on the walls and the Chinese characters on the sides of the building (clearly written by someone entirely unacquainted with the writing system) made the stop one of my favorites on the tour.
Also, it was extremely gratifying to me to see a real live specimen of a so-called “folly,” a distinctly British architectural idea that I thought I’d only ever encounter in Agatha Christie novels (to those of you who‘ve read them, you’ll know which one I’m talking about!).
Our next stop was a master class for one of Stowe’s a capella groups. We had a few suggestions for them after their renditions of Don’t Stop Believing and Mack the Knife, but overall, they sounded great. A little while later, it was time for our real performances -- the venue was an august marble hall, whose acoustics were some of the best I’ve ever had the pleasure of singing in. After two 45 minute sets, however, it certainly was a welcome relief to get to dinner … and what a dinner it was! Chicken liver pate with crostini, tender beef fillets with a mushroom leek cream sauce, and a lemon tart with fresh passion fruit. The guests, all decked out in their best dress, were also a sight to behold. I myself discussed with my neighbor the poetry of Hopkins as well as the intricacies of afternoon tea. I sure did feel cultured, I can tell you.
After all was said and done, I think it’s safe to say that we all walked away from the Stowe School quite satisfied. And, to top it all off, the school gave us each our own rooms in a nearby hotel: a luxury of luxuries. SG told me today that he pondered for quite some time last night whether he should sleep on the double or single bed, since most of our rooms had one of each. If that were the hardest decision we ever had to make on this tour, I can’t say I would be too terribly upset.
But, as it’s turned out today, tour can’t remain quite as easy as all that. We woke up at 7AM this morning to catch an 11:30 flight from London’s Gatwick airport to Dusseldorf, Germany, where the plan was to catch a train to Luxembourg. Before we got to the airport, there were some faint stirrings of the misfortunes to come -- Brett warned us that our airline, easyJet, had some strict luggage policies. I was ever so slightly worried, but I thought, oh well, at the very worst we’d have to pay a few more pounds. Hah. A few. As it turns out, easyJet is the most inappropriately-named airline in recent memory. Or in distant memory. Or ever. First of all, their check-in area was a disorganized mob, a throng of impatient passengers milling about rather than standing in an orderly line. But that, alone, wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t for the airline’s absurd luggage policy. Besides charging 10 pounds for each kilogram of checked baggage above 20 kilograms, they allow only one carry-on item. In other words, Dins with two carry-on bags and a 50+ pound check-in bag were going to have to pay 20 or 30 pounds for the overweight check-in bag, plus 18 pounds to check an extra bag, plus 10 pounds for each kilogram that extra bag weighed. That could easily add up to 100 pounds or more, which is certainly more than three times the price of the plane ticket. Furthermore, the manager we spoke to refused to give us any help whatsoever, saying that there was nothing he could do. And, to put the icing on the easyJet cake, they chose to capitalize only the J in easyJet, an affront that I strongly believe was targeted directly at me. So, all in all, I hereby wish a plague upon all that is easyJet.
In any case, the six of us who could get on the flight without incurring any luggage charges made it on, and the other six found that it would actually be cheaper to buy new tickets to Amsterdam than to fly with us to Dusseldorf, silly as that may be. So at this moment, six Dins are staying the night in the wilds of Amsterdam while six of us have successfully made it to Luxembourg.
For the end of the story, I can only tell the Dusseldorf side, but we arrived safely in Germany and explored the city immediately around the train station, sampling the local Turkish food (mmm…. schwarma) and potato pancakes (mmm…. grease and applesauce). All that was left was to board the train to Luxembourg, which we did in style. Sitting in first-class seats and watching the German countryside pass by, illuminated by the evening light, is truly an experience unlike any other. There, I took what was certainly one of the most contented (and, after the stresses of the morning, I think well-deserved) nap I’ve taken in quite some time. And thus, finished with our first little trial by fire, we Dins lay ourselves down to sleep. Somewhere out there, our counterparts in Amsterdam are probably getting ready to do the same. I will say, despite our run-in with the patent evil that is easyJet, the day was an enjoyable one. Without a few of these little excitements, what kind of adventure would this tour be, anyway?
Since I hadn’t the slightest idea what to expect, my first thought was that I was in the midst of some BBC-special-induced dream. It dawned on me soon enough, however, that the Stowe School -- what I had imagined as an urban, brick music school of some sort -- was actually an immense, prestigious, and, what’s more, extremely beautiful institution.
I would be lying if I said I wasn’t a little intimidated: in my t-shirt and jeans, I felt more than a little underdressed compared to the smartly uniformed students walking about. Still, we received a very warm welcome, and we were soon whisked away to the south portico, where we enjoyed a delightful champagne lunch and looked out onto the vista before us, which was, just like everything else about Stowe, as grand and impressive as could be.
Among the many other impressive structures housed by the sprawling grounds was a little Chinese house, standing just where you’d least suspect it.
Incongruous though it was, the Oriental flourishes on the walls and the Chinese characters on the sides of the building (clearly written by someone entirely unacquainted with the writing system) made the stop one of my favorites on the tour.
Also, it was extremely gratifying to me to see a real live specimen of a so-called “folly,” a distinctly British architectural idea that I thought I’d only ever encounter in Agatha Christie novels (to those of you who‘ve read them, you’ll know which one I’m talking about!).
Our next stop was a master class for one of Stowe’s a capella groups. We had a few suggestions for them after their renditions of Don’t Stop Believing and Mack the Knife, but overall, they sounded great. A little while later, it was time for our real performances -- the venue was an august marble hall, whose acoustics were some of the best I’ve ever had the pleasure of singing in. After two 45 minute sets, however, it certainly was a welcome relief to get to dinner … and what a dinner it was! Chicken liver pate with crostini, tender beef fillets with a mushroom leek cream sauce, and a lemon tart with fresh passion fruit. The guests, all decked out in their best dress, were also a sight to behold. I myself discussed with my neighbor the poetry of Hopkins as well as the intricacies of afternoon tea. I sure did feel cultured, I can tell you.
After all was said and done, I think it’s safe to say that we all walked away from the Stowe School quite satisfied. And, to top it all off, the school gave us each our own rooms in a nearby hotel: a luxury of luxuries. SG told me today that he pondered for quite some time last night whether he should sleep on the double or single bed, since most of our rooms had one of each. If that were the hardest decision we ever had to make on this tour, I can’t say I would be too terribly upset.
But, as it’s turned out today, tour can’t remain quite as easy as all that. We woke up at 7AM this morning to catch an 11:30 flight from London’s Gatwick airport to Dusseldorf, Germany, where the plan was to catch a train to Luxembourg. Before we got to the airport, there were some faint stirrings of the misfortunes to come -- Brett warned us that our airline, easyJet, had some strict luggage policies. I was ever so slightly worried, but I thought, oh well, at the very worst we’d have to pay a few more pounds. Hah. A few. As it turns out, easyJet is the most inappropriately-named airline in recent memory. Or in distant memory. Or ever. First of all, their check-in area was a disorganized mob, a throng of impatient passengers milling about rather than standing in an orderly line. But that, alone, wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t for the airline’s absurd luggage policy. Besides charging 10 pounds for each kilogram of checked baggage above 20 kilograms, they allow only one carry-on item. In other words, Dins with two carry-on bags and a 50+ pound check-in bag were going to have to pay 20 or 30 pounds for the overweight check-in bag, plus 18 pounds to check an extra bag, plus 10 pounds for each kilogram that extra bag weighed. That could easily add up to 100 pounds or more, which is certainly more than three times the price of the plane ticket. Furthermore, the manager we spoke to refused to give us any help whatsoever, saying that there was nothing he could do. And, to put the icing on the easyJet cake, they chose to capitalize only the J in easyJet, an affront that I strongly believe was targeted directly at me. So, all in all, I hereby wish a plague upon all that is easyJet.
In any case, the six of us who could get on the flight without incurring any luggage charges made it on, and the other six found that it would actually be cheaper to buy new tickets to Amsterdam than to fly with us to Dusseldorf, silly as that may be. So at this moment, six Dins are staying the night in the wilds of Amsterdam while six of us have successfully made it to Luxembourg.
For the end of the story, I can only tell the Dusseldorf side, but we arrived safely in Germany and explored the city immediately around the train station, sampling the local Turkish food (mmm…. schwarma) and potato pancakes (mmm…. grease and applesauce). All that was left was to board the train to Luxembourg, which we did in style. Sitting in first-class seats and watching the German countryside pass by, illuminated by the evening light, is truly an experience unlike any other. There, I took what was certainly one of the most contented (and, after the stresses of the morning, I think well-deserved) nap I’ve taken in quite some time. And thus, finished with our first little trial by fire, we Dins lay ourselves down to sleep. Somewhere out there, our counterparts in Amsterdam are probably getting ready to do the same. I will say, despite our run-in with the patent evil that is easyJet, the day was an enjoyable one. Without a few of these little excitements, what kind of adventure would this tour be, anyway?
Thursday, June 17, 2010
I Hear Music in London
In one sense, our stay in London has been a flashback to my past. Since I lived here for three years when I was three to six years old, it was fun to revisit the sites: Buckingham Palace, Big Ben (above), the "Eye of London," and St. Paul's Cathedral, for instance.
Of the few memories I have of London, some of the most vivid are of my old home and school. Tuesday's afternoon stroll to Sloane Square brought me back to my roots -- it was surprisingly easy to stumble upon Grosvenor Cottages (above), a small, charming side street which dead-ends at the gated home I once called my own. The school where I first learned multiplication and took up piano lessons is just around the corner (and, as we found, a short walk from the site of Chopin's London concert debut 162 years ago almost to this day). Take a look.
Besides nostalgia, London has also provided me with a first: going to a jazz club. When the Dins gathered in Leicester Square on Tuesday evening to find some fun, it was challenging to figure out exactly where to go and what to do. We ended up at Ronnie Scott's, a well-known jazz club, and spent the night grooving to the soulful sax and snazzy scat. Here in London, I feel I've been able to see my life from a distance - where I have been, where I am headed - and it somehow always involves music.
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