Southend; proper name: Souf-end

Southend on Sea is the more popular, more well-known sister to my own tiny Leigh-on-Sea. She is no London, to be sure; she isn't even a Birmingham. But as a child, she was the exciting city just around the corner; one with a theme park (however ramshackle) and a pier (however windswept). So on Boxing Day, we decided to take our post-dinner stroll there, only a short car-ride away.


And Southend, too, has changed. The waterfront, especially, looks different; it is cleaner, sleeker, and of course, a much nicer place for money to exchange hands. It doesn't really bother me, I suppose. Just past this spaceshippy pier front entrance, there are the same familiar, grungy streets full of shoddy arcades, fluorescent chip shops, and poorly carpeted trinket shops.

How I have missed ye, Adventure Island!

Farewell, Southend. I hope I'll see you again sometime; I feel that our visit was incomplete. We were foiled in our attempts to walk along your pier, which turned out to be closed at dusk. We could only stare nostalgically at the Adventure Island sign. Most of the shops on High Street were already closed. Things in England don't stay open past the setting of the sun, which, here, usually comes at around 4 in the afternoon.

But I already have you preserved in my mind, perfectly- your freshly fried doughnuts at the end of the pier, dusted in sugar; the open square above the Odeon cinema where we could chase pigeons; and your beautifully tacky, colorful theme park where we would be set free for an afternoon, until dusk fell and everything would close, exactly on time.

Home Sweet Home: in which I return to the abode of my childhood

At the tender age of 11, almost a decade ago now (pardon my involuntary shudder; it is still shocking to me that my life can now be separated into decades) this was my home. As a family, we willingly transplanted ourselves from sunny California- the Golden State, the land of ocean and vineyards and hippies and mountains and pine- to Essex, proud patron of the "Essex girl" jokes, the mud flats of the retreating Thames, and marshes. However, as I was barely into my double digits, all I saw was that we were on an adventure.

For the holidays, my sister Mimi came to visit, which was an absolute delight. Despite my utter lack of what some would euphemistically call spirituality, Christmas has always been important to me. It is the rituals: the baking of the cookies, the cutting of the tree, the same songs sung every year, the huge, sprawling family parties. So knowing that I would be away from home, I fretted. I wondered how I would fill that void where all of the old traditions would normally be. And then Mimi announced that she was coming over for the holiday. It was a relief, to say the least; wherever we went at least I had family with me. 

And so we went to Leigh-on-Sea, to visit the family in whose house we lived for a year. 

As the Thames tide withdraws, it leaves behind it acres of mudflats and stranded boats. Often we would see children playing footy in the mud, hundreds of feet out into the flats.

I don't want to be cruel, but the juxtaposition of that sign and the beach itself is sad, in a hilarious way. 

That Gatsby-esque green light is actually a fish and chips cafe, featuring the logo of a chef bumblebee.

Most of you probably haven't heard about the death of Woolworth's, popularly known as Woolie's. It is, or was, a UK store chain that sold everything from candy to toasters to hair dryers to movies. And now it has gone broke, and shall be no more. It saddens me; we came upon this Woolie's in the town centre and I felt a faint wash of melancholy. It was a staple of High Streets across England; not fancy or posh, but sturdy. 

Things change, I suppose, even in England. The church graveyard was no different; the tombstones didn't seem to have drunkenly slouched over any more than they had before. The Leigh Library was the same; I could see into the dark room on the top floor of what was once a Vicarage, into the room where we would sit for hours on hard wooden benches, reading French comic books. I remember, with a clarity that surprises me, being a young girl looking at an extravagant ivory wedding dress in the windows of a shop on the corner near the bakery where we would buy chocolate haystacks; now, if it is not the very same dress still in that window, it is certainly its doppelganger. 

But the house that we used to live in changed; there were new carpets and the shed in the garden was different. The room that Mimi and I slept in had a new set of closets, and the attic that had seemed so haunted at the time was now just small, dark, and ordinary. We had left a decade ago, and now were interlopers in a place that had been gradually changing without us there to notice it. 

Barcelona III: Everything Else, and: Up Another Mountain

The Sagrada Familia was initially a sad sight; it was past dusk and the spires had disappeared into the black sky by the time we arrived. Disappointed, we wandered around the stalls on the neighboring street, picking through the scarves and magnets and souvenir lighters. Then, just as we were about to wander off, the lights at the base of the cathedral suddenly switched on, flooding the building with light. 

The Fairy Bar. When I first heard the name, I assumed it was actually the Ferry Bar, and was underwhelmed; but upon stepping through the doors, I quickly realized my mistake, as the entire place has been transformed into a magical indoor forest. Tiny lanterns dangle from the fake tree limbs, the ceiling dimly sparkles with stars, and miniature waterfalls into rocky pools. Overpriced drinks, of course, fill the menu. 

The KFCs here have truffles on the menu

One night, we attended the lights show at the fountain at the foot of the mountain. We'd heard about it; although none of us were quite sure what exactly is was. "It" turned out to be a huge fountain that at night becomes a magical stage for musical medleys and softly shifting lights. The first song mix was, incongruously, a medley of Disney songs; in Spanish, of course. The colors shining through the water were nothing if not carefully planned; "Under the Sea" featured a vast array of blues and greens. The next medleys were bombastic and fabulous: movie themes, and then classical. It was oddly mesmerizing. 

We then wandered off into the nighttime streets. 

The next day, we decided we would accomplish things. We would go places, see people, take pictures. So early in the morning (please remember that "early" is a relative term) we set off to conquer Mount Juic. But not on foot. 

I adore trams. Something about them just sparks my plug; they seem such a 60s throwback for some reason, with their sleek futuristic design and promise of a world where honest citizens will never have to hike up any mountain ever again. 

Everything looks nicer on top of a mountain

We left Barcelona the next morning, at the ungodly hour of seven in the morning. This, of course, meant that we had to leave the city proper at 2:30 in the morning, to catch the taxi that would take us to the bus station where we waited for the bus to take us outside the city to the airport. Travel isn't usually fun, now that the novelty has worn off. But it has to be worth it. Why, otherwise, would we keep doing it?

Wining and Dining Barcelona

I won't blabber too much. I shall let the vittles and potables speak for themselves. 

All of the previous are from an indoor market in Los Rambles. There were also skinned pigs' heads, but I was too disturbed to take a picture. They seemed to be gazing at me reproachfully, although, of course, they shouldn't have been, at least not at me. I would not harm one hair on your formerly hairy  chinny chin chins, I wanted to protest. 

Longingly gazing through the window of a patisserie

Oh, gelateria, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways: Hazelnut. Catalan Creme. Tiramisu. 

And if you thought I would leave Spain without a taste of sangria, you are very much mistaken. 

Barcelona II: A trek up a mountain to see Gaudi

The next day, we slept until 12:30. Our alarm was set for 8:30. In retrospect, we were entirely too optimistic for people who were functioning on a few hours' sleep on an airport floor. By the time we left the house, it was closer to 2, but we were refreshed and ready to tackle any tourist-trap that beckoned to us. 

Parc Guell is a park that sits atop a hill, designed by famed Spanish architect Antoni Gaudi for a wealthy patron; it is endearingly excessive, dotted with bright tile human-sized lizards, undulating walls, and rustic pavilions and walkways. It was a good thing we were so abundantly rested, as the hike up the city streets turned into a hike up what seemed like a mountain to someone who, yet again, decided to wear heels. (Which one of us am I talking about? It is a puzzler, to be sure, unless you've ever met me before.)

Some graffiti-ed catci on the way up

Beyond this slithering wall, there are stunning views over the city. However, I have so many upcoming panoramic photos I'll spare you for the moment. In the neighboring plaza, there were shacks selling ice cream and wandering visitors and enterprising vendors who had spread out blankets covered in trinkets, scarves, and jewelry. I had my eye on some of their wares, but by the time we returned, the urban guardians (or, as most would call them, the po-po) had shut them down. (Note to parents: po-po means police.)

I like how the columns look like spindly, pigeon toed legs.

Be careful, Hansel and Gretel

The weather was beautiful, once more, the air crisp, and the architecture whimsical and delightful. It was almost a shock to descend once more to the bustling, earthbound streets of Barcelona.

And onto Barcelona

If having a rocky start to a trip is a guarantor of good times to come, then we were practically fated to have an incredible weekend. We arrived at the airport after several hours of buses and trains and tubes (we were flying out from Stanstead, which is further afield than Heathrow) and got there at 5:02 for a 5:40 flight. We knew we were cutting it close, but transportation is complicated and we didn't know any way to get there sooner. 

Well, as you've probably guessed, they wouldn't let us through. The apathetic woman at the counter informed us that their check-in had closed at 5:00. We pleaded with her, but she was unmovable and unmoved. In fact, every person we came in contact with as we tried, desperate and increasingly furious, to figure out some way to get us out of this country was bored and disinterested to the point of being comatose. 

I've heard that everyone must, at some point in her life, spend a night in an airport. I hope I've gotten my night out of the way, as it was a strange, dreadful 15 hours that seemed like some sort of limbo. The bookstores closed, most cafés shut down, and we were left sans reading material with 12 more hours to while away. We slept on chairs. I napped in the 24 hour pizza and pasta joint. I brought out my pack of cards, ever present in my purse (thanks for the tip, Mom). I went to Boots, and got a free magazine, with a little sweet-talking. Finally, at 3 am, we curled on the icy tile floor in a corner, huddled under our coats, and drifted off to sleep. Ten minutes later, the fire alarm went off. 

I've never been happier to board a plane, which we eventually did, at 8:05 am. Luckily, our pains were worth it. 

Los Rambles was one of my favorite parts of Barcelona. It's also incredibly tourist-y, so I suppose it's also everyone's favorite part of Barcelona. There's not anything specific to do there, but just walking up and down the very pedestrian-friendly street and seeing the shops, stalls, and sights is enough. 

The opposite side of this plaza was filled, bench to bench, with pigeons, moving about like a many-celled mass of feathers and greed. 

We had meandered to the waterfront by around sunset, with only a few instances of middle aged men saying things to us that I could only assume were uncouth. While searching for a place for dinner that had a few non flesh-based options (quite a task) we stopped at the sandy beach. It was strangely alien in the pearly grey dusk-light, and the sand was smooth and flat. 

We ended up going to bed at around 10:30, exhausted and running on about 4 hours of sleep that we'd managed to grab while on the plane and the airport lobby floor. Luckily, we had two more days to explore. 

London Part 3: I'm Done This Time, I Promise

The West Wing of the Highgate Cemetery was bizarrely compelling and fascinating. This had to do in no small part with our tour guide, an enthusiastic retiree. This was only his twelfth tour, but he peppered our walk with the kind of stories and historical anecdotes that I always want to know when wandering alone between tombstones: that this one was the very first grave in the cemetery, that this one is one of the few stones that describes cause of death (fire; a 19 year old woman); that this one has a statue of a lion because the man was London's first entrepreneurial zookeeper. He wore a "Free Tibet" shirt under his windbreaker. Here is is, the lovely man:

This is the Egyptian mausoleum, built by Egypt-mad Victorians. It turned out, surprisingly, to be quite unpopular, or at least quite difficult to fill with bodies; apparently the love of the exotic did not extend to the afterlife, which should be highly Christian and respectable. 

Proper Christian burial grounds. Each door is a family plot; like a friendly, suburban neighborhood of dead people. 

Our guide left us with a delightful story about his enormous mausoleum, resting place of a wealthy merchant and his daughter, who died very young. (That part isn't relevant to this tale, but I found it perversely fascinating how few people lived to grow out of the childrens' sizes. Or, if they managed that, how few lived to retirement age. Strange how we don't see what luck we have to be alive.) 

This man was a merchant, and a wealthy and successful one, but for all that he was never truly accepted in the upper social circles. There were a few strikes against him: he was a German emigré, he was a merchant (so he was not born into his wealth and was therefore inferior) and, last of all, he was Jewish.  So when he began building his family mausoleum, he had resentment to spare. He selected a spot near the top of the hill, and made the building about 25 feet tall. The spot he chose was right in front of the very popular promenades well-frequented by the well-to-do, who would take strolls there to have fresh air and views over the entire city. Well, up to the point when a towering mausoleum was erected directly in the way. The cross on top was also a nice touch-he converted in the later years of his life in order to be allowed into the cemetery at all; it is highly doubtful that it was a sudden belief in our saviour Jesus Christ that spurred this. 

At this point, the intimidating and domineering grande dame in charge of the High Gate tours radioed our guide to inform him that our tour was running late. He took us the long way back, stopping to talk about a few more of his favorite headstones, while confessing that he was somewhat frightened of the mistress of High Gate. He also made faces while he was talking to her on the walkie. Did I mention we all loved him?

London: Part 2 1/2

This is London, Trip Three, Day Two, Part 2 1/2, to be sure, but to be even more specific, this is London's High Gate Cemetery, East Wing. (Part 3 will be West Wing.) High Gate is London's oldest cemetery, and was well worth the multiple pounds that were milked out of us for the privilege of looking at carved stones and tumbling memorials. 

Okay, this is from just outside the cemetery, but I like it. How many is too many chimneys? Not possible!

Again, we're not quite in the cemetery proper yet, but we loved this park. The sun was thin and there was a needling wind, but it was green and lush in the right places, but also terribly English in other, equally right places. There were families with tots scrambling on the gentle lawns, and solitary old gents with wizened terriers. It was perfect.

I hope when I die, I have as good of a sense of humor as this fellow. Yes, his tombstone reads "DEAD". 

And finally, the main draw to the East Wing for a lot of tourists: Karl Marx's grave. A bit overwhelming, no? The one I feel sorry for is that modest little grave to the left there; how would you like being buried right next to Karl Marx? At least he seems to be coping; Marx doesn't have any bluebells on his tomb. 

We took turns dancing on his grave. Okay, no, we didn't, but we seriously thought about it. 

Yet another weekend in London: Day Uno

I told you I couldn't stay away from London. This time, it was a spur-of-the-moment response to an invite for the weekend, and I couldn't say yes fast enough. (Well, perhaps there were a few moments of shilly-shallying as I tried to figure out my schedule.) We all stayed in a charming hostel in the Swiss Cottage district; don't feel ashamed if you've never heard of it. I hadn't either, but it proved to be nicely central and adequately busy. 

Our hostel was friendly and competent; I slept in a room filled with bunk beds. I was on the top bunk, which made me strangely nostalgic for my childhood. Of course, my lovely little sister was a far better bunk companion than my latest one; she snored and was in bed by 10pm, making it very uncomfortable every time I needed something in my room before going out. I don't like having to tiptoe. 

Trafalgar, of course. This was our first stop, since there is a wealth of museums and galleries surrounding the square, and we were in the mood to inundate ourselves with culture. We went to the National Gallery, chock-full of classics, as well as several lesser known delights, such as a nude gentleman having his face bitten off by a dragon. These are the paintings that should be taught in schools.

The Portrait Gallery, not far from there, was fascinating. Like most people, I find portraits among the most interesting things to simply look at; it's like indulging in voyeurism in a socially acceptable way. So I loved it; it was mostly modern pieces depicting both the famous and the anonymous.

A friendly, animatronic Italian just rolling his barrel, over and over and over...when I said "friendly" I may actually have meant intensely creepy. Still, it did make me want to visit that restaurant. 

We also managed to find time to visit the Natural History Museum, sit down to some delicious Indian cuisine (is there any other kind of Indian food, really?) and have a night on the town. I also managed to spend what seemed to me to be a ridiculous sum of money. But c'est la vie, and c'est London. 

  More to come, I promise. I leave for Barcelona tomorrow afternoon, so you may have to wait. I'm sure you're on the edge of your seat.