The Amalfi Coast: Day 1

Wednesday April 2nd:

London Gatwick Airport to Ravello, Italy.

After a bit stressful of a morning (we thought we might miss our morning flight and ran a mile to the gate only to find out that the airline was running late), we arrived in Naples airport. It was pretty nice to pass the Naval base and see where I might have spent part of my childhood. The city itself, though, was just your average city. I was so happy to be in the land of palm trees and ocean (yay! Seagulls!) I didn't notice all the graffiti and sketchy people on our warm bus ride from Naples airport to Naples train station. The wind would catch the little patches of trash and swirl them around into a litter-tornado. It felt kind of like L.A. or NYC. After thirty minutes on the bus, we had a short walk over to the train station to get our train tickets to the Amalfi Coast.

We got off the bus, and immediately I hear a bright, friendly voice say:
"Hi- do y'all mind if I walk with you to the train station?"
I turn to my left and see a bright, friendly face to match the bright, friendly voice of a woman about my age, dragging a suitcase and carrying an admittedly cute Yorkshire terrier. Caught a little off guard by this girl, I said "uhh sure! I guess the train station is this way? Anyway, we'll find it together!"

Turns out, she is in the US Navy and stationed in Naples, all alone, and just needed a human connection. I can't blame her. I need desperately to have someone to talk to, and when I go an afternoon alone I begin to go crazy. It's definitely no accident that I was born in a big family. It's bad, and I have tried to work on loving being alone. But I can't. I do not like it, Sam I am.

So this gal was on her way to the train station to go on a trip up to Venice. She had a "grit your teeth and bear it" sort of attitude to her loneliness. She is stationed here, she might as well travel. Her last post was Jacksonville Florida. I've never been there. After we chatted and walked to the station I introduced her to Max, who was walking just a step ahead of us. She nodded her head towards me and said "I just needed to see a friendly face and talk to someone nice and she looked like the right person to talk to!"



Well, glad I could help. We chatted a little longer, wished each other well and parted ways.

After an hour wait for the (late) train in Naples, we arrived in Salerno, Italy. This is on the coast. We bought two bus tickets for Amalfi, then patiently waited for the (late) bus. This is when I realized Italians can be very impatient people. They stamp their feet and pace the ground and look at me darkly-- as if it's MY fault!
--Gosh Mary, way to make the train late
--if it weren't for you, I would be halfway to my home by now!



I imagined them growling these thoughts as they stared at me through their narrowed, dark eyes... Perpetual scapegoat that I am, I was tempted to bow humbly and acquiesce to the irritated attitudes of those around me. But I suppressed this. It's definitely a stereotype that your transportation never runs on time, people! Don't even get me started on the joke that getting the trains to arrive on time was Mussolini's kindest act of service to this country. (*note: this is a gross exaggeration of what was probably one old lady who actually looked at me angrily about the lateness of the transportation, looking more for empathy than a person to blame)

Anyway, trains, buses, flights- they are all going to be late, and it does not bother me one bit. Because why? Because ITALY.

We drove on tiny streets that hugged the sides of cliffs in our bus. I have so much respect for that driver. Anytime we came round a corner, he had to blast the horn so that other cars could stop for us. We meandered up the mountainside to Amalfi, and then changed buses and continued on to Ravello, our first overnight stop on our journey through the coast.


The Church in Ravello, in the town square:








Ravello is up on the mountain, and it has been a destination for celebrities in the past, such as Greta Garbo and Richard Wagner (who gained some inspiration here for his opera Parsifal), and current celebrities like Justin Timberlake/Jessica Biel (when they were a thing, are they a thing? Who knows).

We stayed in a gorgeous little B&B called B&B I Limoni:




When we got off the bus, it took us a while to find out which direction to go in. The maps are oriented south to north, not north to south, and no compass or directional key to speak of. What's up with that?
We were stopped by an ancient Ravello (Ravellian?) man with a grocery bag and a cane, he stooped and despite being born and raised in this small town, he spoke fairly good English:



"Where are you going?" he asked pleasantly.



"B&B I limoni" we responded with a plea- help us find Via Gradoni!


"Ah, well, limoni- they are...they is...everywhere!" he offered with a smile. He grabbed my blurry, printed page with the map on it. The page got wrinkly in his tight but wobbly grip, and he seemed reluctant to ever give this piece of paper back to me. He happily told us: "Ah! Limoni! ....you just go to....there...and then here [he drew a square on the ground with his cane, meaning town square] you buy…limon- lemon! All thing with lemon. Sometimes there is a boy in the square with lemons. Ah, but he was not there today. But there is always limoni here. Just go...left. Yes, go left."His hazel eyes looked up at us. He looked like he might fall over with the exertion of telling us where to buy lemons! I think I muttered "hotel limoni" but he didn't hear me. I also could've sworn he meant go right, not left, since we had a vague notion of where the town square was.



"Dextro?" I added helpfully, with what I thought was a winning smile. This means right, and you have to go right to get to the square.


He looked at me with a furrowed brow, like he didn't know who I was, or why he was standing there on the warm cobblestones, talking to us, at that precise moment. Is it possible he had some form of dementia?? He spoke remarkably good English for a man who had no idea what he was talking about. Then he smiled. Oh well, then. We thanked him profusely, I managed to wrench the map out of his startlingly strong grasp, and we walked on.


Welcome to Ravello! That was mightily awkward!


We asked a few more people and finally managed to find Via Gradoni, where our place was located. It is actually not a "via" at all, it's JUST steps which meet the road. Hundreds of steep stone steps. And it was about halfway down the mountain, between the upper town square and the sea. So we scurried down and went through the gate.





"Sorry we're a bit late" Max said apologetically to the owner Rosalba after we introduced ourselves. She looked cheerfully at us and said "sorry, no English. Italiano??" To which we shook our heads. "Français?" She asked hopefully. All I remember is Max looking at me and saying "err she knows a little French" and suddenly I was saying things like "je suis désolée, nous sommes trop tard!" And she replied "pas de problème! Voici votre chambre...vous voulez quelque chose??" Rosalba is from Rome but studied French for a while and spent some time in southern France. Her husband Luigi who runs the B&B also was born and raised in Ravello, and he barely spoke English, and other than that it was Italian for him only.

This is how I ended up speaking French during the first few days of our trip to southern Italy. I love it when a brief, non-fluent relationship with a language becomes so entirely USEFUL. I know how to ask for more water and toilet paper! I know how to say her homemade cake is delicious and the sky is blue today despite the forecast of rain!

The world can be so full of possibilities.


Our room was nicely decorated:



This is me, rummaging, and it shows our big open doors out on to the terrace and the pretty stucco walls:












And this was the view from our terrace area:







B&B I Limoni is conveniently located closer to the ocean...towards the bottom of the mountain...below the town of Ravello...put it all together and it means yes, lots of descent and ascent. As kind, sweet Rosalba said:


Living towards the bottom is kind of a problem (with a wink).

Yo- massive understatement!


The tiny, steep corridors of steps are a marvel, to say the least. We have to climb 257 steep stone steps just to get to the first available paved road! Beyond that, it's another 350+ to get to the town square. On top of this is the sheer fact that hiking anywhere in Amalfi means hours straight of steps, steps, steps. It never ceased to amaze me how much strength the locals must have had, especially back in the days before the roads were built. Getting your daily tasks accomplished was made infinitely more difficult by the steps involved, I can imagine. But the locals know they wouldn't give it up for the world.


We wandered up to Ravello.


We ate our first night at Cumpa' Cosimo. We were seated, given water, then nonna came up to us.
"We have a bean zuppa, a good bean zuppa, and would you like pasta or fish?"
Keep in mind we have full menus in front of us and had started mulling over our own choices before she came up to us, thank you very much. Yet, her soft, warm gaze and pleasant attitude somehow made us hang on to every word and follow each suggestion with a smile and nod. In a bright floral apron dress, her once black hair now greyed pulled back tightly by a teal hairpiece, wearing those sensible tan stockings and 2-inch comfortable shoes that only older Italian ladies wear, she ruled the joint and definitely was in charge of the menu.



"Ok, I do bean zuppa, lasagna to share and grilled fish with potatoes"



Who could argue with that? We obediently passed her our menus and answered "Bianco" to her wine inquiry. The meal was incredible. The simple tomato-y bean soup was so good, she asked if we would like more when she came to check on us. It was tempting, but we decided not to imbibe just in case. Her son (in his late 30s early 40s) was helping out that evening. We sprinted through that meal. The main plate was tender sea bass cooked to perfection and served with potato and local lemons. They filleted the fish right in front of us before dishing up, and after we had finished we were offered limoncello. I am only sorry that I was so exhausted, I didn't think to take photos of our meal!

Limoncello is the local specialty. I have heard that some people love it and some, quite simply, don't. Well I LOVE it. It's an after dinner liquor ("digestive") and the shot of it comes in an icy chilled shot glass. Since there are so many lemons in this region, they have limoncello everywhere. It has a strong lemon peel flavor, and so is slightly bitter even though it's very sweet. So the whole experience is like a sweet lemon ice, only insanely alcoholic.

The waiter asked us both if we would like some. Having never tried it, I nodded eagerly. He looked at Max, who was on the path to refusal ("I'll just have a little taste of hers" he was saying) and the waiter said "I bring you both some, she is not going to leave any for you to try."



Very wise man indeed. I had my shot of it, and liked it though I was startled by the taste at first. It's so lemony! Then Max had a tiny taste of his, and he is not a fan, so I finished it. Then the waiter brought another shot for me! (Good thing I can hold my alcohol, I thought. A lesser individual would have gone silly at this point, but I inherited the iron constitution of somebody back in my ancestral line.) There were no flower pots nearby to dump it in and plus, I liked the stuff. I rallied. Following my third after-dinner shot, I hoped and prayed he wouldn't bring me another one, regardless of my alcohol holding abilities.


We paid our bill (we felt that she undercharged us) and said goodbye.

We walked back to our B&B, pondering what life was like for these people back in the day. People like 'nonna' of Cumpa' Cosimo. They had long days working in the vineyards and tending their gardens, walking up and down all of those steps with groceries. What about the pregnant ladies? Or the kids who learnt to walk on these uneven, steep pathways? It must be some inherited strength, we thought. As if their bodies pass on an evolutionary advantage to withstand steepness until the end of time.

Update

That's right, everyone. I am officially dusting off the old laptop screen and getting the little grey cells moving in order to bring you thoughts from my most peripatetic journey yet: the Amalfi Coast of Italy! I know you probably couldn't hear it, but that was me applauding…admittedly slow-clapping, for myself. To myself. I know. Sometimes, I can get a little bit self-focused. But when you live between suitcases, cities, and countries you have to learn self-preservation. For me, this meant taking a step back from writing. Mostly because nothing interesting was happening. But also because I decided 'less musing, more doing'. My own version of 'keep calm and carry on', albeit less catchy, and…it probably won't end up emblazoned on your coffee mugs.

This writing break also happened because I spent 2.5 months away from England in order to prove to them (that is, the U.K.) that I was NOT going to be an overstay. It is awful to be away from your partner-in-crime for so long, especially after being together non-stop for almost 2 years. (Wow. Almost at our second wedding anniversary. Be still my heart!). Yet I am pleased to report that if I had to leave England and my hubs due to visa restrictions, then I got to enjoy my time in exile doing productive things with really good people. I worked hard, played hard, and got much closer to these beautiful people in my life I am blessed to call family and friends. The quirks, the shadowing in the ICU, the 9pm sushi making with my younger brother, honestly it was great. You all know who you are, and I'm so thankful for the time I got to spend with each and every one of you. Thank you for making my time away from England so memorable!

Before I cry, continue reading on. Because exciting and interesting things have happened, and now I get to write about them! Namely, our 2 1/2 week adventure to the Amalfi Coast of Italy and the Cinque Terre.

Rome Part 1

Roma. The Eternal City. Rome. Whatever you choose to call it,  whether it is a great big mess of chaos and cars to you, or ruins and long rolled rrrrrr's, Rome has an incredible ability to make one feel at home. Even if you aren't Italian in the slightest, it is quite possible that you might feel Italian in Rome. It is so easy to sink into their routine.

Normally, I like my breakfasts BIG and my coffee PRESSED (yes, I like-ah the French-ah Press-ah). BUT, I began skipping breakfast and knocking back a solo cappuccino like I was born there. Surprisingly, I made it until lunch. Which was a long, involved affair and often left us feeling so stuffed we never thought we would eat dinner. Siesta time? Yeah, that definitely happened. We lounged in the hotel room, feeling like stuffed beach balls, for the duration of the afternoon hours. If we had not taken the time to rest after the miles and miles of walking, sightseeing, and eating, then I think we might have died. Then, we ventured out once again, and, when 8:30pm rolled around, we considered eating dinner. This is the Italian way, and I never thought I could gel with it, but I did. Gelato, almost twice daily, was the ice cream on top of the cake which is Italian living.

Day 1: Arriving at Rome Fiumicino Airport, in which the highlight of the trip occurred:

Friday we arrived. Big deal. Well, we grabbed our luggage and started following signs to the central train station at the airport. See, we heard that taking the Leonardo Da Vinci express train from the airport to Termini Station (only a mile from our hotel) was a good idea. And it was. It is the cheapest option, at €14 per person. But there was a woman guarding a tourist booth right at the entrance to the train station, and she talked us into a private shuttle that would take us right to the front door of our hotel for only €1 more. So we chose this option, and it ended up being faster and well worth it.

The highlight of the beginning of our trip involves the tourist booth woman. She was located near the entrance to the train station, and everyone who walked through those doors got pegged by this lady, because she tried to greet everyone in the language she thought they would understand best. A few people after us looked American, so she said "hello!". Another couple that came out later looked German or something (they ended up being Norwegian), but the tour guide lady said "Guten Tag" (or however you spell it).

So what did she say to me and Max when we walked through, you ask?

"Bonjour!"

I almost died. She thought we were French. No wonder those Parisians never spoke English with me. Even if I butcher their language on occasion or stare blankly at them when I don't understand their pithy comments or that they are making a joke, they think I am one of their own! Just a pathetically dimwitted and rude one of their own. But I can deal with that. So anyway, we were greeted with <<bonjour>> at the Italian airport. Day = Made. If for no other reason than because I feel Italians respect the French because of their similar culinary feats.

Dinner: On day 1, we went to a restaurant called Il Gabriello, fairly close to the Spanish Steps:

We ate ricotta with fresh honey and walnuts // steak with balsamic glaze
buffalo mozzarella with tomatoes and basil














Day 2: Trastevere neighborhood, Campo de' Fiori, etc.

We stayed at the Eurostar International Palace (hahahah) on Via Nazionale, near the Repubblica Metro stop. On the morning of Day 2, we scampered around after a quick cappuccino and saw a bunch of different neighborhoods and landmarks, starting with the Campo De' Fiori. It's a square in which there is a statue of this guy, Bruno, who was condemned as a heretic and burned at the stake on this very spot. For some reason I cannot find my picture of the square, but here is the statue of Bruno:

Who do you think I am, Rick Steves? (Please, don't say yes- he is like the biggest dork ever). I am not going to give the history lesson for each and every Roman landmark, so suffice it to say that everything I will mention is a must-see, because it's cool, and because if you ever go you'll regret not seeing it. I'll leave it to you to discover the myriad of facts and details of every landmark, because it's better that way. In a nutshell, this statue of Giordano Bruno is pretty interesting. The guy dabbled in cosmology and other sketchy things so the Vatican condemned him to death. The Church has formally apologized for the deaths of anyone in the Inquisition years. It was a scary time to be alive for everyone. Since the creation of this statue, Bruno has been in a permanent staring contest with the Vatican (yes, he faces them), as if in defiance of the fact that he was executed.

We also toured the Piazza Navona, which has the Church of San Agnese (St. Agnes). St. Agnes was beheaded for being a Catholic in the early 300s. It is said that even Pagans cried at her death. Her head (skull) is in this church in the Piazza Navona:

Ignore the great big obelisk.

Interesting side-note, all of the obelisks had ancient Egyptian writing on them. Oh yeah, I mean hieroglyphs. I thought it was fascinating that in the midst of all this classical Christian architecture there is a tribute to Egypt with these obelisks, which were taken from there and brought to Rome way back in the day. 

We saw the Capitoline Hill on Day 2 as well.

This square on Capitol Hill (aka Campidoglio aka Capitoline Hill) was designed by Michelangelo. He did a fancy design with the marble inlay on the ground to distract the viewer from the fact that it is not a square Square, but because of the nature of the hill and time and non level building structures, it is a trapezoid. 

Capitol buildings

We saw a bride and groom who got married in the Capitol building on Capitol Hill, and watched as they walked (with dignity and poise) down the hill to take photos over the Forum area. Yep. "Lucky Bleepity Bleeps" is exactly what I was thinking as well.

The best part was watching certain tourists who followed the bride and groom and snapped pictures (and recorded videos, we all know who those tourists were) the whole time the couple was around. Like this was somehow part of the Roman experience. While we're on the subject, I may or may not have asked Max to take a photo of me with them in the background...And how did this photo end up here?

Lunch: On Day 2, we walked to the Trastevere neighborhood to eat lunch at Sora Lella. It is a little gem of a restaurant that has been around forever. Trastevere is the traditionally poorer part of Rome, so they are incredibly creative with the parts of animals they use in their cooking. Intestine is common, for instance. All I know is that the food was incredible. Highly recommend this place. Especially the Suppli (risotto that has been formed into balls and cooked further with cheese and/or meats inside):

One of them didn't even make it into the photo-- but hey! We were hungry!

The bridge over the Tiber (Tevere), which you cross in order 

to enter the Trastevere neighborhood  

We saw this sign on the way to Sora Lella: perfect.

The church of Santa Maria di Trastevere

"You know, there really isn't enough art in Rome" -said no one ever.

Dinner: On day 2, we were so exhausted and worn out that we decided not to try and make reservations and eat at a nicer joint. So, we walked back to the Campo area. Between that square and the "Largo di Torre Argentina" (the spot where Julius Caesar was murdered, apparently),  there is an amazing little spot that specializes in baccala, Italian for fried cod. It sounds so simple, and it is. But the combination of fried cod, white wine, and a traditional Roman anchovy salad (did I mention you get a side of fried potatoes as well?) is pure heaven. This place was cheap, casual, and really, really good.  With what heart I have left beating in my body after consuming so much fried goodness, I heartily recommend Filetti di Baccala. 

What a pleasant way to end day two! Up next, days 3 and 4: in which we visit St. John Lateran and I go up the Spanish Steps on my knees... 

To tip, or not to tip?

That…is the question.

Wow, almost a month with no posts! Mea culpa, mea culpa! The passing of time has been alternating between molasses-in-January and whizzing past, and my husband's demanding essay writing schedule has consumed every ability of mine to use our computer. I could post via mobile, but ain't nobody got time for dat. (Which is my way of saying the small phone screen hurts my eyes after a while).

So anyway, today I have been musing on the phenomenon of tipping -you know, waiters and such- and how the attitude towards it is among some of the striking differences between living in one place or the other. Something you can encounter in a peripatetic life is how drastically different each culture is with respect to giving people free money. Funny, really, that in a capitalistic society such as America we give people more free money (via tipping) than in the socialist countries of Europe. Anthony Bourdain, on a recent episode of his show The Layover, exclaimed: "no way, I'm a 20% tipper no matter where I go" while reading an Italian guidebook out loud, in the section where tipping was discussed. Yes, right, and I am sure the Europeans just love him, don't they? No wonder he has so many cool friends everywhere to visit in his shows.

But it's not that easy. We are not all Anthony Bourdain (praise God- what a terrible world that would be), and we cannot all afford to tip 20% whenever and wherever, unless it is the social norm and we are expected to do so. But is it the social norm? Who, what, when, how much? That remains to be seen. 

I was looking forward to living in Europe, where [I thought] some, if not most, things would be exceptionally clear and uncomplicated. Now that I have revealed my unrealistic and excessive optimism to you, it is safe to say that I was WRONG, and as an American abroad there are complications and subtle differences to find at every societal turn. No surprises there, now that I think of it. 

I did think that living in an English-speaking country abroad would be easier than the alternative, and it has been true. But one of the reasons I let a blissful sigh trip delicately from my lips while contemplating life in England was because of tipping. After spending August in Switzerland (where there actually is no tipping ever), I sat at a table doing something-or-other, let out said blissful sigh, and thought: "oh, how easy England will be." I was looking forward to not needing to worry about tipping extra, to whom, and how much. It is just one of those things that made life simple in Switzerland. I don't even know why I care so much about this subject, but it really illustrates one of the key differences in cultures, so it is worth dwelling on for us peripatetics.

In America, we really like to give away money. What other reason can we give for the fact that we tip everything that moves? If a hotel employee so much as looks at you, he gets a tip. I will always remember my grandma Barb telling me that whenever she went to NYC, she armed herself with an arsenal of $10's, $5's and $1's. Because you just gotta be a good tipper. There's the cabbies, the doormen, the bellboy, room service peeps, not to mention waiters, bartenders, and whether or not you get any Spa services done - Lordy be, the list is endless! 

In America, we tip the people from whom we get takeout, too. Now this really doesn't make sense to me. Unless there's delivery in the pouring rain involved, why should I give extra money to someone who pushes a button at the register and assembles some food products? Because he gave me extra napkins, duh! And didn't screw up my takeout order! (Let's all face it, this is rare- the takeout order seems doomed to be messed up in some way, always). So, OK, if you get your takeout all in one piece, with all of the correct components, please do throw some cash at those people, because they got it RIGHT. 

And, granted, I should not be complaining. I have been a Barista for years and enjoyed being on the receiving end of America's over-tipping for just as many of them. As a Barista in America, I got cash. On top of getting a completely fair wage (well above the minimum), we would get $3-$4 extra per hour in tips alone. And everyone loved (LOVED) the Christmas tipper, who would fling a casual Ulysses or Benjamin ever-so-nonchalantly in the tip jar, because it's Christmas time, and well, because COFFEE. Hello, we made amazing coffee. Not gonna lie. If there is one thing I will miss in my future medical life, it is that, at the end of the week, there isn't a fat wad of cash with a clip that has my name on it, sitting preciously in a little box at the coffee shop, awaiting my arrival. (Not to mention the free coffee).

An entirely different angle to this discussion is that I truly wish waiters in America would just get a decent wage and not have to rely on tips only. Getting $2 an hour? Forget about tips, there is just something in that base pay that seems inhumane. What if the restaurant is slow for the evening? Or if you get a bad tipper, then there goes your money for breakfast the next day. Or if you get a table of Europeans? Bahh- I can't even think about it. This is another topic entirely, and it is definitely something that needs to change.  

In Switzerland, since it is completely untouchably awesome and still has its eyes set on retaining the old-school European values that once made Europe unforgettable, there actually is no tipping, as I mentioned before. Further, there is some aspect of insult to it as well. They would think "Why are you giving me this money, do you think I need your small change? Who do you think I am? Poor?" They get paid enough and their currency is strong, so just do not bother. 

But I now turn to the problem with the U.K.

In America, we tip EVERYONE. In Switzerland (and France, too), you tip no one. The U.K. is a really confusing blend of both camps, and I seriously do not even know what to do. 

A simple google.co.uk search on tipping will reveal people saying OPPOSITE THINGS. Who do you trust? I know it's a cold, hard world out there, but seriously I couldn't find a col, hard number or percentage from anyone. Some say tip 10%, some say not at all, some say leave a little something on the table, some say really, don't tip, it's insulting. How am I to know who gets a fair wage and who needs or does not need a tip? That doesn't even begin to cover salon and spa services, which we always tip for in America. When I was looking on message boards I discovered that in England you definitely tip for haircuts and at hair salons, but no one had a percentage- just "5 pounds or so" (this could be 10%, realistically, but it may also be 5%- who knows). However, you do not tip for spa services like massage and waxing. What about the salons that offer both hair and other beauty services? They aren't spas, per se, but they don't simply do hair. It is discombobulating. And it feels so wrong for me to enter any sort of salon and not leave a gratuity. 

If there had to be a scapegoat, I would blame it on the increasing American influence on European culture. Especially for English speaking European countries like England, there have been a lot of pieces of the puzzle here that are starting to reflect "America". One of those things might be tipping.It's natural, sure, and not necessarily a bad thing. But the consequence is that I end up living in these confusing times. I would imagine that 15-20 years ago there was no tipping here like in the rest of Europe. But Americans kept coming and tipping, or something, and people were all like "heeyy- free money!" (who wouldn't like that? Seriously that's why I don't understand the people who get insulted by it) and by and by it is starting to be the norm here. I don't know what the average waiter salary is in the UK though, perhaps some people more familiar than I can remark on this. I also know that pub culture in England has a different standard for tipping than American bars. In fact, doing the same google search on tipping in pubs revealed a heated argument on the discussion boards, which amused me to no end! I still don't know what to do about that though. From what I read through tears of laughter at how trivial people can be, I divined that you either a) tip the barman/woman b) offer to buy him/her a drink c) don't do anything, and shrink away from the bar sheepishly? Who knows. One lad online tried to divide pub tipping into categories of "whether or not you sat at the bar and conversed with the barman vs. sat a table and didn't talk to the barman". 

Even as I write this, I am looking at a gift voucher we received for the Trout Pub in Oxford. They are supposed to have good food and a nice view of the river. On the back of this voucher in bold lettering are the words:

"Please don't forget to leave a gratuity"

Alright England, you've thoroughly confused me. To avoid ruining someone's day, I may as well be the American tipper and take a leaf out of Mr. Bourdain's book if I'm not sure. Until next time! 

Blenhiem Palace

Oh, holy of holies! Be not discouraged! This week has been SO sunny!

Accordingly, I wanted to take advantage of this beautiful sun we've been encountering lately. So, early on in the week, despite the gripping wind (results of the "storm of the century" that supposedly happened last weekend) I promptly took a cycling ride up north to the town of Woodstock, and in so doing, found myself at Blenheim Palace. Wind is much easier to deal with than rain, so it really was no issue. I had a feeling I would get cold on the ride up, so I prepared well by using the GLOVES my mother got me for Christmas this past year. Thanks Mom! They saved my life.

Ready to go:

Note rain jacket sleeve- because you NEVER know (it didn't, though)

Also discovered that the bike I got (aka Gladys, aka The Peugeot, aka BBE- Best Bike Ever) has a LION KING bell, which makes me happy:

The ride up north to Woodstock was…interesting. The road is called "Woodstock Road" and it goes north to Woodstock (duh). At a certain point though, it turns into "Oxford Road" because, well, it also goes south to Oxford, no? Roads are named like this all over the place. London Road, going east turns into Oxford Road at a given point. I'm burning with curiosity to know who decided the exact place where the name would switch. Obviously, there is the issue with traveling north on Oxford road and south on Woodstock road, didn't they think about this? You would think one side of the road would be named differently, but no, they didn't go that far. Clearly, I spend way too much time thinking about things that don't matter (ask my husband, it's true, he'll tell you the stories). 

Enough of that trivial digression. 

The ride was "interesting" because I was basically on the side of a highway most of the time. A turnpike, you might call it. Although it was smaller (more English version) of the huge American ones I'm used to, but still. GONE are the romantic images I had of England, that it was all charming cobblestones and village inns and vicarages. I mean, I saw a STARBUCKS AND A HOLIDAY INN EXPRESS AND A KENTUCKY FRIED CHICKEN!!! For crying out loud! "Where the bleep am I?!?!" Ran across my mind, practically tripped off the tongue as well (I've been known to utter angry things out loud whilst cycling, because I get nervous and everyone -pedestrians, cars, fellow cyclists- make me feel like they are about to kill me at any given moment). 

But still. Starbucks. Holiday Inn Express, Kentucky Fried Chicken. What?? They were all in a cluster off the highway, just as you would see in America, like a truckers stop or for a traveling family's comfort. It confused me, to say the least. Keeping calm and pedaling on, I moved onward and eventually saw this old 16th century pub (sinking roof and all) called the Turnpike: 

Just think, it was there when this highway road was no more than a dirt footpath, with the occasional horse and buggy, most likely. It looks older in real life. And you can tell mainly because you can see how short the doors are and how small the windows are, which is difficult to capture in a person-less photo.

Following the traumatic Americana event, the cool old pub, and other interesting sights. I came across this field of sheep on my left. The sun was shining, the clouds were puffy, and it just all looked magical. Faith in English charm restored, I snapped this photo:

Sheep friends. And in the distance you can make out a stone tower through the trees, I knew I was getting close to my destination.

After gazing at the sheep and the green fields for a few minutes, I pushed forward and turned left off of the busy highway and went down a country road, eventually arriving at the gates of Blenheim:

I talked them into giving me the student discount for entry (it wasn't hard, I was on a rusty bike with a lion king bell), and proudly cycled around the grounds in the bitter cold (but sunny!) weather. I was happy I had to take my bike, because only one other person was cycling around, and all the other poor souls had to walk because they drove here, in cars (no pity). The grounds are vast, and it would have taken forever for me to walk to all of the destinations. I had a half day to see all that Blenheim Palace had to offer, so I cycled up the path to the grassy knoll that led up to the Column of Victory, which you can barely make out in the distance here: 

This is the left front side of the Palace:

These are the front gates. The sun was not my friend (rather, its angle wasn't):

But here is a better one:

Whizzing on from the front gates, I went toward the Column of Victory (as mentioned) and went over the bridge and river:

And here is that bridge I was on from further away, at a different entrance to the Palace grounds (Palace on the far left):

I watched out for pheasants:

I decided to park Gladys and continue on foot to the Column of Victory:

Wow, I trod on so much poop to get to this column of victory thing, it was almost traumatic. I went through a veritable mine field of fecal matter to get to this place, thinking the whole time that this old memorial to some pompous, wealthy, Churchill ancestor and his battle victories BETTER be worth it, because my Toms might never recover from this horror. I turned and snapped a photo of the criminals responsible for such a mess:

I looked down at one point and saw a smudge of something brown on my ankle. Please be dirt, I thought. And moved on. The Column got closer, as I dodged more and more of the mines (by the way, I was always terrible at the game minesweeper, I don't know why):

Closer:

Finally, I arrived at the base of it! 

All of this writing is just to say that a dude back in 1705 won a great battle victory for the Queen, the Queen was happy, gave the dude title of Duke, Duke gets to build Blenheim Palace (after the name of the battle he won) and so on and forevermore is the 1st Duke of Marlborough (the 11th currently resides here):

Me at the base of the Column:

There is a Julius Caesar figure at the top, for victory I guess:

On the trudge back, couldn't help but glance at these fellows again, thanking them for the experience. It was a ball, really. Doing the poop-avoidance dance up to the column of victory was definitely in the cards for such a beautiful Tuesday. Thanks, sheep. (I think I made lamb for dinner that night, I really showed them).

Column of victory-ing over, I decided to get into the Palace and get warm:

Yep, then she happened:

It was inevitable, I suppose. But she actually gave a pretty amusing tour, and I joined in for part of it. She was in character as one of the old 18th century housemaids of the Palace, and all about ghosts and scaring the little kids. At one point, she was talking in a whisper about some previous Duke being dead and haunting one of the bedrooms, and then she let out a blood curdling shriek right in the middle of it, interrupting her own whisper-speech, and a kid watching fell to the floor. Needless to say, it made my day. 

A ceiling in the foyer, they spared no expense and the Palace took 25 years to build I think, and even then it wasn't finished:

A cool directional clock:

More from the foyer:

I found myself in the room where Winston Churchill was born: 

There was a tableau outside the bedroom with paraphernalia, including his honorary American citizen passport and letter from John F. Kennedy, which I looked ruefully at, wondering why I couldn't be good enough to be given honorary citizenship somewhere. Oh right, it's Winston Churchill we're talking about. 

Moving on:

I loved all of these rooms, and their blatant excess. This tapestry was actually really cool, and one of the historians said it took 200 men EIGHT YEARS to complete, and it was so tightly woven that it looks like a painting (it is depicting the battle of Blenheim, in Germany I think, where the first Duke won the victory that gave him dukedom and the palace):

One of the Duchesses rocked two or three of her babies in this cradle, can you imagine? It's like solid gold and modeled from a famous one in Italy:

Library:

It's pretty sad to see books caged, but there were some valuable ones so it makes sense:

This library room was my favorite room. Very long, big, and open, with tall ripply glass windows on the left looking out into the gardens. There real reason it was my favorite, though, is because it was this room that was converted into a hospital and convalescent home during WWI, and that era is so fascinating to me. They even had a photo on the wall that was taken during the War, to show how many beds there were. I looked all over the wood floors and noticed the scratches where the iron beds would have been placed and moved, not to mention a few dark stains that could have been dried blood from long ago. It almost gave me chills- so fascinating!

View from library out to gardens:

More library, from the other side of the room:

The organ in the library:

Caged philosophy books:

After walking the length of the library, you exit and walk through a breezeway over to the chapel.

Statue in the chapel:

Chapel:

View from upstairs in the foyer, because I had to go through the Palace a second time!

Following a second tour around the Palace, just in case I missed anything, I collected my bike and rode through the town of Woodstock. It sits nestled in the shadow of the grand palace, and probably gets its name because yeah:

They are stocks, and they are made of wood…But Wikipedia disagrees! Since the town was established before the 1300s, it says that the name Woodstock came from the words for "clearing in the wood" (wodestock).

This town was apparently the birthplace of Edward, the Black Prince, in 1330. 

It is also smaller and cozier here than Oxford, without so much to-do with the University. So it has a really nice, calm atmosphere. I want to go back at some point. It also has the Museum of Oxfordshire which I didn't have time to see, so there is another reason to go back. 


I have a deep respect and fondness for a town with cool alleys (Fredericksburg VA excels at this). But so does Woodstock! Such cool old little stone buildings and alleyways galore, I could get lost roaming around this tiny town for hours. 

Literary nerd moment:

The church and a building covered in vines, bid me adieu on my way out: 

 All in all, a nice time at Blenheim and Woodstock. Heartily recommend. Adios!