My stay in Newcastle has been alternately fascinating and lonely the perfect balance of sentiments whilst traveling, I believe.
It feels as though theyve been working me harder here, which I dont necessarily mind, because it means I can leave earlier. Now, if I just had the UKs 4-5 weeks vacation to look forward to, Id be a subtitling machine.
The sad part about working all day, though, is the underlying desire to go out and explore, although it appears as though every time I have a chance to do just that, I tend stay in bed watching BBC, drinking gallons of tea.
Thursday evening is the big shopping night here in the UK stores stay open until 8:00pm rather than the usual 6:00pm. So this past Thursday, this bargain huntress went armed with quids and quids, accompanied by two lovely Geordie lasses who served as buying barometers, in search of steals themselves. I had just purchased three pairs of socks, two wallets, a pair of little boys aviator sunglasses (for me, of course) and a darling beige purse all for the equivalent of about $14. I was riding high on retail bliss when I stopped at an ATM machine to withdraw cash. Just as the pound notes were being dispensed by the ultra-polite machine, a bird saw fit to shit on my freshly-washed hair. Until this point, I had hoped I would manage to avoid such misfortune over the course of my life, but alas not. Thank God for Wet Wipes and understanding English girls. Its good luck, they said. But what else does one say after such an unlucky happenstance? I pretended it was true, and soldiered on.
We were to have a nice, pleasant Italian dinner afterwards, but obviously my appetite flew away with the evil bird. I managed to feed myself some risotto, albeit feeling sick halfway through the course of the meal.
Once home, I attempted to wash my hair, but the shower in my room only splashed out scalding hot water, so I was forced to use the community bathroom down the hall. Turning on the public shower, water sprayed all over the room as the detachable showerhead flew around in a frenzy like a snake hopped up on angel dust. I managed to stabilize it, but not before the shower control (what the hell does one call that thing?) came off into my hands and I had to stand there, figuring out how to reattach the damn thing. I finally managed to wash the bird caca from my head, and it was all I could do to walk the few paces back to my room and fall asleep, exhausted.
The next day I couldnt get out of bed. The bird seemed to have infected me with something more than just shame. I called in sick and went back to sleep, until I was awakened by the day caretaker, knocking gingerly on my door at 3:00pm.
"I'm sorry, I'm not very well. I don't need my room cleaned," I called from my bed, where I was resting my heavy head.
"Right," she said, in her charming Geordie accent, "But I've some flowers for you. They're downstairs; I'll bring them up."
I stood waiting at my door, wondering what that funny, blessed man across the ocean has gone and done now.
The caretaker came bearing the most delightful arrangement of yellow flowers; roses and their yellow friends. They smelled like summer. "Here," she said, "These should brighten your day. They're gorgeous, aren't they?"
Brighten my day, they did - my week, and my life. They are on my nightstand where I can be reminded about beauty and love.
How did he know I would be sick that day, lonely and sad, magnetized to my bed? I stopped wondering and gazed endlessly at the bouquet instead.
It feels as though theyve been working me harder here, which I dont necessarily mind, because it means I can leave earlier. Now, if I just had the UKs 4-5 weeks vacation to look forward to, Id be a subtitling machine.
The sad part about working all day, though, is the underlying desire to go out and explore, although it appears as though every time I have a chance to do just that, I tend stay in bed watching BBC, drinking gallons of tea.
Thursday evening is the big shopping night here in the UK stores stay open until 8:00pm rather than the usual 6:00pm. So this past Thursday, this bargain huntress went armed with quids and quids, accompanied by two lovely Geordie lasses who served as buying barometers, in search of steals themselves. I had just purchased three pairs of socks, two wallets, a pair of little boys aviator sunglasses (for me, of course) and a darling beige purse all for the equivalent of about $14. I was riding high on retail bliss when I stopped at an ATM machine to withdraw cash. Just as the pound notes were being dispensed by the ultra-polite machine, a bird saw fit to shit on my freshly-washed hair. Until this point, I had hoped I would manage to avoid such misfortune over the course of my life, but alas not. Thank God for Wet Wipes and understanding English girls. Its good luck, they said. But what else does one say after such an unlucky happenstance? I pretended it was true, and soldiered on.
We were to have a nice, pleasant Italian dinner afterwards, but obviously my appetite flew away with the evil bird. I managed to feed myself some risotto, albeit feeling sick halfway through the course of the meal.
Once home, I attempted to wash my hair, but the shower in my room only splashed out scalding hot water, so I was forced to use the community bathroom down the hall. Turning on the public shower, water sprayed all over the room as the detachable showerhead flew around in a frenzy like a snake hopped up on angel dust. I managed to stabilize it, but not before the shower control (what the hell does one call that thing?) came off into my hands and I had to stand there, figuring out how to reattach the damn thing. I finally managed to wash the bird caca from my head, and it was all I could do to walk the few paces back to my room and fall asleep, exhausted.
The next day I couldnt get out of bed. The bird seemed to have infected me with something more than just shame. I called in sick and went back to sleep, until I was awakened by the day caretaker, knocking gingerly on my door at 3:00pm.
"I'm sorry, I'm not very well. I don't need my room cleaned," I called from my bed, where I was resting my heavy head.
"Right," she said, in her charming Geordie accent, "But I've some flowers for you. They're downstairs; I'll bring them up."
I stood waiting at my door, wondering what that funny, blessed man across the ocean has gone and done now.
The caretaker came bearing the most delightful arrangement of yellow flowers; roses and their yellow friends. They smelled like summer. "Here," she said, "These should brighten your day. They're gorgeous, aren't they?"
Brighten my day, they did - my week, and my life. They are on my nightstand where I can be reminded about beauty and love.
How did he know I would be sick that day, lonely and sad, magnetized to my bed? I stopped wondering and gazed endlessly at the bouquet instead.
VIEW 10 of 10 COMMENTS
magxc:
a man did once try to tell me that the birds in newcastle were well filthy. don't think that was quite what he meant though... 
allyn:
I should be free Sunday if you still want to meet up....