If it doesn't explode on the way, I'll tell you all about it on Sunday.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
From Holland to Paris - April 19th, 2009
We're off to Paris tomorrow via this monster:
If it doesn't explode on the way, I'll tell you all about it on Sunday.
If it doesn't explode on the way, I'll tell you all about it on Sunday.
Monday, March 16, 2009
Istanbul - March 16th, 2009
Hey, it's warmer today in London than in Turkey.
I guess spring has riz, all the wild flowers have invaded our primply manicured parks and threaten to overthrow all the careful planning.
Anywho, just a quick note for all ye out there in Edmonton, I'll be home for the summer, and I would love to have the job thing sorted out before July. Anyone with a connection that is just sitting around rusty, and thinks they somehow need much, much more Nick in their daily lives, let me know, I'm all in.
Found out yesterday there are 60 applicants for every single job in my burough. You want to bag groceries? Get in line my friend...
N.
I guess spring has riz, all the wild flowers have invaded our primply manicured parks and threaten to overthrow all the careful planning.
Anywho, just a quick note for all ye out there in Edmonton, I'll be home for the summer, and I would love to have the job thing sorted out before July. Anyone with a connection that is just sitting around rusty, and thinks they somehow need much, much more Nick in their daily lives, let me know, I'm all in.
Found out yesterday there are 60 applicants for every single job in my burough. You want to bag groceries? Get in line my friend...
N.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Dust and Boulders - March 14th, 2009
[PAN IN]
-INT. Mr. Roger's Living Room
(MR. ROGERS IS ASLEEP UNDER BENCH, HE YAWNS)
"Yaaaaawwwwn."
And that, I think, would about sum it up.
Back again? I think so, or at least the recently delivered latte beeps in agreement. Mister Andrew Fanning, of the well-known Fantastics, has just left London for his adventures in Paris, and his two-day visit helped provide a much-needed spark to the occurances here. Jess and I are heading to Amsterdam to visit our friend Natalja in mid-April, and after that apparently are going to cycle to Paris ourselves. (see: here) Hmmm...
I'm going to do some more Wwoofing in May, which for those of you who remember our Jungle Slavery period of Bolivia, means working on farms in return for room and board, but those farms being in wildly awesome places. In this instance I'm heading to Ireland, where there are a couple of farms that look cool, namely those on tiny islands off the west coast. I have to say, it's really charming when Irish people try to warn you about Atlantic weather, and you try to explain Newfoundland.
Plans within plans aside, I am also gloriously returning to Canada for the summer. The glory being most assuredly not mine, but the sense of home I cannot wait to revel in. I'm visiting my grandmother in Toronto in June (Sarah, prepare yee thine liver), and then coming to E-Ville for the summer. Anyone with a heads-up on a cool job for me should definitely hold forth, and no, jokes that involve mayonnaise will not be considered original or helpful.
In September there are options aplenty, if Mister Ian French chooses to pursue his own ill-fated education, then I am most probably going to Tokyo for a year, otherwise our wandering of mountains appears assured. Those plans however are just too far away to consider temporal.
Also in life: I have melted a laptop with the Great Linux Experiment of 2009, and have a very lovely plastic space-brick that does a remarkable job of holding down papers in the wind. I'm about to wrap up my Arabic lessons, and while I can doodle people's names in cool letters, I am still unable to conjure up such complex sentences as "I am making toast", and "You are wearing my pants", leaving my command of the language futile. I got totally boned by the BBC a few weeks ago, where I endured hours of the most horrible social awkwardness I can imagine, and they didn't even end up paying me. But if the show ever airs, 'll let you know.
London is filled with new-born flowers, the days slowly soften from black to grey, and I am typing into the sunrise.
Nick.
-INT. Mr. Roger's Living Room
(MR. ROGERS IS ASLEEP UNDER BENCH, HE YAWNS)
"Yaaaaawwwwn."
And that, I think, would about sum it up.
Back again? I think so, or at least the recently delivered latte beeps in agreement. Mister Andrew Fanning, of the well-known Fantastics, has just left London for his adventures in Paris, and his two-day visit helped provide a much-needed spark to the occurances here. Jess and I are heading to Amsterdam to visit our friend Natalja in mid-April, and after that apparently are going to cycle to Paris ourselves. (see: here) Hmmm...
I'm going to do some more Wwoofing in May, which for those of you who remember our Jungle Slavery period of Bolivia, means working on farms in return for room and board, but those farms being in wildly awesome places. In this instance I'm heading to Ireland, where there are a couple of farms that look cool, namely those on tiny islands off the west coast. I have to say, it's really charming when Irish people try to warn you about Atlantic weather, and you try to explain Newfoundland.
Plans within plans aside, I am also gloriously returning to Canada for the summer. The glory being most assuredly not mine, but the sense of home I cannot wait to revel in. I'm visiting my grandmother in Toronto in June (Sarah, prepare yee thine liver), and then coming to E-Ville for the summer. Anyone with a heads-up on a cool job for me should definitely hold forth, and no, jokes that involve mayonnaise will not be considered original or helpful.
In September there are options aplenty, if Mister Ian French chooses to pursue his own ill-fated education, then I am most probably going to Tokyo for a year, otherwise our wandering of mountains appears assured. Those plans however are just too far away to consider temporal.
Also in life: I have melted a laptop with the Great Linux Experiment of 2009, and have a very lovely plastic space-brick that does a remarkable job of holding down papers in the wind. I'm about to wrap up my Arabic lessons, and while I can doodle people's names in cool letters, I am still unable to conjure up such complex sentences as "I am making toast", and "You are wearing my pants", leaving my command of the language futile. I got totally boned by the BBC a few weeks ago, where I endured hours of the most horrible social awkwardness I can imagine, and they didn't even end up paying me. But if the show ever airs, 'll let you know.
London is filled with new-born flowers, the days slowly soften from black to grey, and I am typing into the sunrise.
Nick.
Friday, January 23, 2009
From whence I went - January 23rd, 2009
Hello all, from a brief respite.
Halfway through all the blabbing of travels the wind kind of went out of me, perhaps, and I presume so, drawn out by the routine drifts of a rapidly returning ascent to normalcy here in London.
As I've seen before, the dreaded 9-5, (or 5-10, as it may be in my case), leaves little urges to record splendor, or see the interesting amidst the interring, but of course that is a theme for the greater coursing masses anyways, and I'll take my rain cheque on the philosophy.
It's late January now, the wicked wanders of the season have moved a bit within memories, from invigorating to nostalgic, a bit like turning possibility into fantasy, from aqua into unda. Meanwhile my work has dried up a bit as we enter the slower season, leaving what could be ample opportunities for free-space, that I must admit have turned to forgotten days under my watch. I'm in classes for Arabic, violin, and a choir (ha!), but it always sounds a mite more engaging in a list, and less so in the reality of eastern scribbling and D flats. (Oh, there are many, many of those.)
Plans are being made heartily with Monsieur Ian French (of the recently engaged), to travel this summer, east and east again, so the future is very open. Financially daunting, but open. Kind of like a Planet Organic, exotic and forbidden.
Off to the Tate Modern again this afternoon. Meh, it's free.
As the documents of the days come before me I shall post them on the cork, I promise.
Nick.
P.s. This is a photo of my theatre:
The cardboard box I sleep in is behind Row W.
Halfway through all the blabbing of travels the wind kind of went out of me, perhaps, and I presume so, drawn out by the routine drifts of a rapidly returning ascent to normalcy here in London.
As I've seen before, the dreaded 9-5, (or 5-10, as it may be in my case), leaves little urges to record splendor, or see the interesting amidst the interring, but of course that is a theme for the greater coursing masses anyways, and I'll take my rain cheque on the philosophy.
It's late January now, the wicked wanders of the season have moved a bit within memories, from invigorating to nostalgic, a bit like turning possibility into fantasy, from aqua into unda. Meanwhile my work has dried up a bit as we enter the slower season, leaving what could be ample opportunities for free-space, that I must admit have turned to forgotten days under my watch. I'm in classes for Arabic, violin, and a choir (ha!), but it always sounds a mite more engaging in a list, and less so in the reality of eastern scribbling and D flats. (Oh, there are many, many of those.)
Plans are being made heartily with Monsieur Ian French (of the recently engaged), to travel this summer, east and east again, so the future is very open. Financially daunting, but open. Kind of like a Planet Organic, exotic and forbidden.
Off to the Tate Modern again this afternoon. Meh, it's free.
As the documents of the days come before me I shall post them on the cork, I promise.
Nick.
P.s. This is a photo of my theatre:
The cardboard box I sleep in is behind Row W.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Markets and Kasbahs- January 11th, 2008
Well I hope everyone is doing cool out there in the January snows, except Andrew in Colombia, he can go screw himself.
Anyways, I was rambling last time about the beginnings of our sojourn to Morocco, and I figure I might as well continue in that vein, at least until the photos or duty-free liquor runs out.
Jess and I landed in Marakkech, and the rambling medina and promised bazaars greeted us under the crescent moon, dangling so perfect in the starred sky I half-expected Jess had ordered it just for us.
Our first hotel set the tone for the kind of beauty we'd come to expect in our budget sleeping arrangements, with an intricate detail unexpected for traveler's prices. Everything we touched, or person we met outside of our comfy confines however, resulted in us paying a fee. Directions? Pay. Smiling? Pay. Standing still for four seconds? Oh, you gotta pay.
The vibe in such a heavily traveled country is somewhat... extortionist.
Anyways, we had our first chance to finally wander the alleys and tunnels of an Arabic market, narrow and winding labyrinths where color and confusion pour forth into suddenly new born eyes. A place where concepts like Orange, or Green, are sourced to fuel the rest of the world.
Continuing the blitz we grabbed a bus to Ourzazate, and in a stunning display of audacity, Jess rented a car and agreed to drive as far south as we could, although our plans were somewhat dented when it was discovered the car ran not on happy times and sugar dates, as we hoped, but on gasoline, which is some sort of black goo that is crazy expensive, and most definitely does not taste like sugar dates, which I can assure you of.
Anyways, we drove to an old abandoned desert castle/house called Ait Benhaddou, which, despite featuring in movies like Gladiator and The Mummy, contained neither golden treasures or Russell Crowe. (Okay, Crowe was there, but he was pretty annoying and kept trying to hawk postcards and dvds of Master and Commander, and so most of us just ignored him.)
I feel this post becoming unglued, so I'll wrap up for today. But before I start to feel too snazzy, I should include this self-depricating moment. I would like to state that I was just tossing my head, and Jess took a photo at a really bad time, but I know my pleading would fall on deaf ears, because I look like a cross between a Head & Shoulders commercial, and a dude with a fraggle in his pants.
Until later,
Nick
Anyways, I was rambling last time about the beginnings of our sojourn to Morocco, and I figure I might as well continue in that vein, at least until the photos or duty-free liquor runs out.
Jess and I landed in Marakkech, and the rambling medina and promised bazaars greeted us under the crescent moon, dangling so perfect in the starred sky I half-expected Jess had ordered it just for us.
Our first hotel set the tone for the kind of beauty we'd come to expect in our budget sleeping arrangements, with an intricate detail unexpected for traveler's prices. Everything we touched, or person we met outside of our comfy confines however, resulted in us paying a fee. Directions? Pay. Smiling? Pay. Standing still for four seconds? Oh, you gotta pay.
The vibe in such a heavily traveled country is somewhat... extortionist.
Anyways, we had our first chance to finally wander the alleys and tunnels of an Arabic market, narrow and winding labyrinths where color and confusion pour forth into suddenly new born eyes. A place where concepts like Orange, or Green, are sourced to fuel the rest of the world.
Continuing the blitz we grabbed a bus to Ourzazate, and in a stunning display of audacity, Jess rented a car and agreed to drive as far south as we could, although our plans were somewhat dented when it was discovered the car ran not on happy times and sugar dates, as we hoped, but on gasoline, which is some sort of black goo that is crazy expensive, and most definitely does not taste like sugar dates, which I can assure you of.
Anyways, we drove to an old abandoned desert castle/house called Ait Benhaddou, which, despite featuring in movies like Gladiator and The Mummy, contained neither golden treasures or Russell Crowe. (Okay, Crowe was there, but he was pretty annoying and kept trying to hawk postcards and dvds of Master and Commander, and so most of us just ignored him.)
I feel this post becoming unglued, so I'll wrap up for today. But before I start to feel too snazzy, I should include this self-depricating moment. I would like to state that I was just tossing my head, and Jess took a photo at a really bad time, but I know my pleading would fall on deaf ears, because I look like a cross between a Head & Shoulders commercial, and a dude with a fraggle in his pants.
Until later,
Nick
Friday, January 9, 2009
Moroc - January 10th, 2008
Monkeys.
When one does not perhaps know where to begin, one should always begin with one's best, which is, normally, monkeys. And in the relating of the last week of traveling through Morocco, that just so happens to be the end of the tale, and so from there I must admit, all things spiral outwards and downwards. (So if you find yourself in the reading suddenly lost, or rather, unfound, then think back to the beginning, and let the primative power carry you hence.)
As I mentioned before, Jessica gave me a trip to Morroco for Christmas, a stunning gift made possible only by audacity and EasyJet. (See: Discount Air Lines) With a week to spend traversing an entire country, we were excited at the prospect of abandoning our usual hardened travel routines, in some cases, that meant cultural sensitivity, but in most, it meant soap.
Giving in to the blitzkrieg style of backpacking that is often seendesecrating decorating international hostels, we wolfed down a formidable chunk of Moroccan highway during our visits to Marakkech, Ouarzazate, Zagora, Fes, Tangiers, and Gibraltar. In so returning to our frost-bitten London, I come to terms with the fact that I have not bathed since the year two thousand and eight. Which, I mean, come on, was a pretty banner year in hygiene for everyone.
Tomorrow morning I'll start the story in it's proper place, but for tonight, as the evening inches into the dawn, I'll content myself with chipping the sand and dirt from my skin, fumigating my clothes, and welcoming to my flat the growing menagerie of African skin tics I have no-doubt brought across the Mediterranean.
Araka fi ma ba'ad,
Nick.
When one does not perhaps know where to begin, one should always begin with one's best, which is, normally, monkeys. And in the relating of the last week of traveling through Morocco, that just so happens to be the end of the tale, and so from there I must admit, all things spiral outwards and downwards. (So if you find yourself in the reading suddenly lost, or rather, unfound, then think back to the beginning, and let the primative power carry you hence.)
As I mentioned before, Jessica gave me a trip to Morroco for Christmas, a stunning gift made possible only by audacity and EasyJet. (See: Discount Air Lines) With a week to spend traversing an entire country, we were excited at the prospect of abandoning our usual hardened travel routines, in some cases, that meant cultural sensitivity, but in most, it meant soap.
Giving in to the blitzkrieg style of backpacking that is often seen
Tomorrow morning I'll start the story in it's proper place, but for tonight, as the evening inches into the dawn, I'll content myself with chipping the sand and dirt from my skin, fumigating my clothes, and welcoming to my flat the growing menagerie of African skin tics I have no-doubt brought across the Mediterranean.
Araka fi ma ba'ad,
Nick.
Friday, January 2, 2009
Abroad - January 2nd, 2008
Hey all,
Well, Sarah has just grabbed her train to Manchester, and with her goes all the photographic evidence of our liver-busting escapades the past few days. New Year's Eve started with men in kilts and kids in rubber pants, and finally round down dozens of hours later with Phil, the Nigerian Prince. With any luck Miss Robertson will be able to get some of her photos to me so I can display the circus.
Anyways, I'm writing this from Gatwick airport right now, as Jess and I are about to board our flight to Marakkech. We'll be spending the next week in Morocco, and then taking a ferry across the Strait of Gibraltar to catch our flight home. I expect to be back on the 9th, and I don't have any worries, seeing as I've mastered what I feel is a wide grasp of the Arabic language, including sentences about how I'm doing, how you're doing, how he/she is doing, and if today is, in fact, Monday. (Of course, for all these questions the only answer I have is "No No, too expensive.")
With any luck I'll get some Sahara in my socks, so wish me well,
Nick
Well, Sarah has just grabbed her train to Manchester, and with her goes all the photographic evidence of our liver-busting escapades the past few days. New Year's Eve started with men in kilts and kids in rubber pants, and finally round down dozens of hours later with Phil, the Nigerian Prince. With any luck Miss Robertson will be able to get some of her photos to me so I can display the circus.
Anyways, I'm writing this from Gatwick airport right now, as Jess and I are about to board our flight to Marakkech. We'll be spending the next week in Morocco, and then taking a ferry across the Strait of Gibraltar to catch our flight home. I expect to be back on the 9th, and I don't have any worries, seeing as I've mastered what I feel is a wide grasp of the Arabic language, including sentences about how I'm doing, how you're doing, how he/she is doing, and if today is, in fact, Monday. (Of course, for all these questions the only answer I have is "No No, too expensive.")
With any luck I'll get some Sahara in my socks, so wish me well,
Nick
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