I’ve concluded that in my travels, at least, I can either see people or I can see things – but usually not both. On my last trip to London I went to the Old Operating Museum and the Tower of London and roamed all around the city, but I missed out on seeing nearly every person I knew there. This time I managed to see a lot of the people I love across the pond, but I didn’t so much get a chance to visit any of the places I had hoped to see.

I had wanted to get back to the Tate Modern, where I haven’t been in years. I had wanted to see a play or a show, and head back to the British Portrait Gallery. And I was ready, with a passionate vengeance and a freshly dry-cleaned glittered bodysuit, to spend a better part of a week at the newly-opened ABBA museum.

But none of that happened.

Because this entry is not a guide to London. And yet it includes some of the best reasons I can think of for visiting. (more…)

A few months ago, we went to London so Rand could get some work done, and I could roam around the city and do fuck-all.

My life is good.

Our lovely friend Ben was with us, as he works with Rand, and their London colleagues needed him to reach things on the top shelf. No, wait. That wasn’t it. No. They needed Ben to provide the sort of unique and brilliant insight only he can offer. Besides that, he is very tall. Behold:

The title of this photo is "Tiny Everywhereist, Tall Ben"

Okay, fine, so maybe, just maybe, I’m crouching in the above photo for dramatic effect. Ben isn’t quite that tall, but when you see the real photo of me standing next to him, it isn’t that dramatically different:

I like how he's looking down at me, somewhat bemused. "HOW'S THE WEATHER DOWN THERE? HA HA HA HA."

(more…)

Cat-calling, I’ve found, is somewhat universal. At least, from my experiences it is (whether or not the Amhara of Djibouti experience this phenomenon is unknown to me). It varies a bit across countries, like sit-coms: the Italian ones are cheesy, the Americans are a bit vulgar, the English ones are kinda lame, and the German ones are non-existent.

At home, I kind of don’t have a problem with it. Or, rather, if I have a problem with cat-calling, I know how to deal. Once, while walking through Westlake Center (a mall and courtyard in downtown Seattle), a huge, imposing man (he must have been at least 6′2″ and pushing 300 pounds) leaned in and said, well …

Let’s just say he complimented my reproductive organs.

And I might have freaked out. While I can’t precisely remember what I said (or I can, but don’t want to repeat it), it was something about how he should be fruitful and multiply (with himself), and that I doubted his opinion on female reproductive organs, because he probably hadn’t seen any but his own mother’s. (more…)

The Old Operating Theater in London is the museum equivalent of peeling back a bandage on a skinned knee to see what’s underneath. It’s gross and icky but you can’t look away because it’s just so cool.

(I am going to sit back for a minute and hope the rest of this blog post writes itself, because, seriously, I just peaked with that analogy.

Hmm … it seems that my website is not yet self-aware, and requires me to do all the work, so I suppose I’ll just tell you about it.)

Rand had been to The Operating Theater Museum once before, and since he had a meeting with colleagues in the general area, I went by myself. This made the entire experience exponentially more creepy, though on the plus side, I was able to wander around much longer than I could have with Rand “I think three hours in a museum is plenty” Fishkin. (more…)

The continuing saga of how I made it to see John Harrison’s clock. Don’t forget to read Part 1.

In the past, I’ve gotten very stressed out while traveling, particularly when things don’t go as planned. Since starting the blog, though, I’ve found that even the mishaps are worthwhile. Though it’s completely contrary to my prepare-for-anything Type-A personality, I actually find myself to be the sort of person who sits back and laughs when things go awry, thinking, “Well, at least this will make a great blog post.”

Or so I like to tell myself. In truth, there’s still a little voice in the back of my head screaming, “YOU ARE GOING TO GET KILLED BECAUSE YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHERE YOU ARE GOING!” (okay, so maybe it’s not so little a voice). But  I can’t very well listen to it, because if I did, I would just sit in my hotel room panicking all the time. So I blindly head out, determined to explore a city, and not let anything hold me back.

This occassionally backfires. The morning that I decided to go see Harrison’s clocks, I may have neglected to actually look up where it was. Someone told me to go to North Greenwich, so I hopped on a tube from Tottenham Station. I transfered at Waterloo, and took a second tube to North Greenwich, feeling rather proud of myself. (more…)

This post marks 1 month (four weeks) of consecutive posting. So I figured this entry had better be a doozy. And considering that it began more than 10 years ago, I suppose it is.

It begins with a clock.

No, wait. No, it doesn’t.

It begins with a book.

No, no that’s not right, either.

Let’s just begin with a chimp. Because all great stories begin with chimps. (more…)

I feel like I need to start this off with some sort of caveat about my complex and often contradictory feelings towards vegetarians. Some of my closest friends eschew flesh, which I personally find insane but acknowledge it as a legitimate lifestyle choice for others (sort of like skinny jeans). After all, it literally leaves more meat for me. By pure definition of being my friends, the vegetarians in my life are understanding and non-judgmental (I seek out in others the characteristics I lack) and consequently would not dream of giving someone a hard time for being, say, an indiscriminate, blood-slurping carnivore.

It is the judgmental vegetarians with whom I have a problem. The holier-than-thou, that-thing-you’re-eating-was-once-alive, I’m-cranky-because-I-don’t-get-enough-protein jerks who I have had the occassional misfortune of encountering. Those vegetarians suck.

I would gladly take one of those vegetarians to Borough Market, because they would FREAK THE HELL OUT.

Oh, how they would freak out. Because Borough Market is a carnivore’s dream come true. An endless stream of meats culled from all sorts of magically delicious animals, prepared in every way imaginable, and served up piping hot. For a girl like me, raised on tripe and pig’s feet, and all manner of offal that I assumed everyone else ate, it’s like the lovechild of Disneyland and a slab of bacon.

In other words, if you are in London, go, go, GO. (more…)

The Tower of London, and most specifically, its warders, have been in the news a lot lately. In 2007, the first woman, Moira Cameron, was appointed to the post of Yeoman Warder (a.k.a., Beefeater) at the Tower. The warders guide visitors around the Tower, and tend to its ravens (as it’s believed that should the ravens ever leave the Tower, the Tower and the Kingdom will collapse). It’s a fairly prestigious gig, and you get to live on the Tower grounds. All in all, fairly awesome, especially if, like me, you are all for women busting up the glass ceiling.

Unfortunately (there always seems to be an “unfortunately” doesn’t there?) two Beefeaters were recently suspended, and a third is under investigation, for bullying and harassing Yeoman Cameron. Allegations include vandalizing of her locker and uniform, as well as the “defacing” of her Wikipedia page. That latter bit fascinated me, because it is, as my friend Rachel would say, ”a first-world problem of the now.”

The point is, the whole thing sucks, and I feel for Yeoman Cameron, and wouldn’t mind giving those three Beefeaters a kick in the sirlions. But all of this sexist harrasment aside, the Tower of London is awesome, and I sincerely suggest a visit. I know, I know – it’s touristy and crowded, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t go. (more…)

photo courtesy of Darren Copley, via flickr.com

This post was originally about 4 different “Dick Moves!” but that was good for no one, and particularly not for my sense of love towards my fellow man.

I was a bit down this afternoon, frustrated with the rude folks I’ve encountered while traveling, frustrated with myself for not handling things better. I felt burnt out from the last few weeks of travel, and it might very well be that I’d lost my sense of enthusiasm and patience somewhere along the way. Quite possibly somewhere in Newark Airport. (more…)