Oxford 0 - 6 The other lot
Early kick off at 8:30pm this week, and the leap forward extended to the Oxford team. At least, it did in terms of performance, though not in number. The fact that Adna, our first choice centre-forward lives in an area too dangerous to drive through at nights rules him out this week, so we started a man down.
What followed was a gritty defensive performance, and an Oxford side with genuine shape. OK, we only managed a couple of shots on goal, having deployed a Kevin Davies-esque stand in forward with no ball control skills (me), but we defended stoutly, with Wisconsin born Ben again impressing in only his third game. Are you watching Alexei Lallas?
Anyway, on to next week and perhaps, even more impovement...
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Monday, February 16, 2009
Antigua & Volcano Climbing
So, I have something exciting to report: on Saturday I left Guatemala City for the first time! Actually, I'd left it before, apparently our football pitch is just outside the city limits. But this was an extended time outside doing exciting stuff, so in a frightening break from what you've been used to on The Guat Phone, here's something interesting.
Is this a good idea?
Essential volcano climbing equipment: Marshmallow, Stick
Yep, that's a jet of superheated steam and molten rock spurting from the top of my head.
Guatemalan volcano dog. Species: unknown. Diet: Sandwiches, Muffins, Chocolate. Possibly rabid.
After Saturday classes we got a lift with our director, Bryant, over to the neighbouring town of Antigua. Antigua is a little different to Guatemala. For one, it doesn't have a population of 3 million people. For two, it has things that you might want to see, and for three, you can walk about at night with only a negligible risk of someone trying to shoot you. Antigua was the old Spanish colonial capital until 1776 when the people got fed up with their homes being completely flattened by earthquakes and so gave nascence to my beloved(?) Guatemala City instead. Anyway, it's everything Guate is not: relaxed, pretty with an excellent nightlife. It feels a bit like cheating sometimes though, as it's far too easy to get around not speaking any Spanish at all. Anyway, here are some pictures of it:
The old colonial palace. Not sure who the chap doing The Bartman in the foreground is though.
The fountain in Parque Central.
If you go to Antigua you have to take a picture of this arch. Its like, the LAW.
We didn't really do that much in Antigua, just aprpeciated being able to walk around and breathe without choking on bus fumes. We had a couple of beers in Monoloco (Crazy Monkey) which was very touristy, then a burger at a Tex Mex place, then went to Cafe No Se (Cafe I Don't Know), which is an entertainingly arty self-proclaimed "dive-bar". It's OK, though I think it tries a little too hard, and the Gaelic folk band covering 'Losing My Religion' was trying to say the least. It does publish an excellent free arts magazine though, called La Cuarda. I decide to leave trying their "Illegal Mescal" until next time though, as we'd booked a tour to the Pacaya volcano leaving at 6am.
So, at the appointed hour, Andrea, Tamara and I climb bleary eyed into a minibus and set off in search of hot stuff. The drive to Pacaya is twisty and we probably go up and down several thousand feet. At one point, on the opposite carriageway we see an BMW on its side dangerously close to the edge of a steep drop into the valley below. It looks like it has been in collision with a "chicken-bus". Having seen Guatemalan driving first hand, I suspect this is not uncommon. We turn off the road onto an unmade track winding up through coffee plantations and tiendas (there is seemingly nowhere without one in Guatemala) until we reach the entrance to the national park. We are told our group is called Panteras (will they call the next one Sepelturas I wonder?) and that our guide is called Karina. She doesn't speak any English, which I would have said was fairly essential for guiding tourists through a rapidly shifting landscape of molten rock, but hey ho, up we go.
The climb starts winding up through a forest. There's surprisingly little wildlife here, apart from the dogs which accompany tour groups up the volcano in search of snack foods. Although the forest is quite dense, there's little birdsong or rustlings. Maybe it's a bit high for them, we're about 2,000 metres above sea level here. After this the forest clears out and we are faced with a view of about twenty mobile phone masts. Ah, the romance of the mountains. A few hundred metres on though, and we are faced with our first view of Pacaya. A scorched, black, lifeless landscape which sweeps up to the cone, which is busy belching steam into the sky. We walk down onto the black plain, formed of tiny, lightweight gravel type rocks. The going gets tougher as it's rather like walking through sand. My walking shoes are webbed and quickly fill up with black dust. As we start to ascend, the rocks gradually become bigger and the effect is more like being in a ball-pit. Every step sets off a mini landslide, so you are forced to avoid rocks being dislodged by people in front, as well as trying to keep your footholds. I find, due to my 'scrabbling' technique, that volcanic rock is pretty sharp. Fairly soon there's a fair amount of blood on both hands, but I carry on nonetheless. The guide leads us on to a lava flow, which gets hotter and hotter the further we climb. I wonder what the working tempreature of my soles might be. Eventually though, we reach a point where we can actually see the lava. The heat is searing, robbing the breath from your lungs, but I stand there for long enough to point a camera at it, then escape to a safe distance. This is what we came for.
After a drink and a snack (shared with the dogs) we head back down. This proves to be even more difficult than getting up. A technique which combines surfing, jumping, running and falling over seems to be the choice of most people. I do further damage to my hands, but escape relatively lightly compared to some, who sport quite nasty gashes to the legs. Life tip: If you're climbing a volcano, take gloves and don't wear shorts.
So all in all, a short, but satisfactory expedition. We get the "chicken bus" back to the city and are home eating a resorative salad by 2pm. For my next trick, I plan to climb the highest volcano in Guatemala over Easter...
Is this a good idea?
Essential volcano climbing equipment: Marshmallow, Stick
Yep, that's a jet of superheated steam and molten rock spurting from the top of my head.
Guatemalan volcano dog. Species: unknown. Diet: Sandwiches, Muffins, Chocolate. Possibly rabid.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Futbol Mundial Numero Dos
Oxford 2 - 10 Some other Guatemaltecos
So, once again we wind up out of the city into the hills toward Pradera Concepcion for gameweek 2 of the Oxford season. Confidence is high(er) tonight. Rumours of not only a full team, but a substitute as well abound. Personally I'm more confident tonight, having managed to eat something in the two days preceding this week's game. No rum either, as we're running late - all in all the omens couldn't be better...
On arrival, I'm presented with a slip of paper detailing my 20Q fine for last week's (scandalous) yellow card. 20Q is about 2 quid, forex fans, but gets you a cooked lunch, drink and change in one of the local comedors here. I promise to pay next week and wonder what the Spanish for 'appeal' might be.
With a full team the opening exchanges of the game are quite even, you might even say that Oxford are shading it, particularly when my speculative affort (left-footed too) crashes against the bar and out. Then, unfortunately, a shot finds a way through a throng of bodies and nestles itself in the bottom corner. How will Centro de Idiomas respond to this setback? Very well, as it turns out, as impish striker Adna robs a dithering defender and slots into the top corner. Turns out this was a bit of a false dawn though, as the opposition quickly rack up another three goals to go 4-1 up. Just before half-time some neat Oxford passing brings just, if ungraceful reward as your correspondent shins in a volley for 4-2.
The half-time team talk consists of lots of heavy breathing and imbibing of water. Someone wheezes "we're still in this". And we are, matching the opposition blow for blow for the first 10 minutes of the second half. Then, disaster: goalkeeper Hergil, in attempting to save a corner, succeeds only in turning the ball back to the lurking striker, who rolls into the empty net. Oxford hearts break, and knees start to give way. Truly, playing at altitude is no fun at all; you feel permanently breathless, unable to recover any energy whatsoever once its gone. I find myself praying for just a couple of gulps of good old Sussex air, but there is none. The last fifteen minutes is a parade for the opposition, slotting in six more. After the game, training is half-heartedly discussed, and dismissed. Better luck next week I guess - I'm off for a run.
So, once again we wind up out of the city into the hills toward Pradera Concepcion for gameweek 2 of the Oxford season. Confidence is high(er) tonight. Rumours of not only a full team, but a substitute as well abound. Personally I'm more confident tonight, having managed to eat something in the two days preceding this week's game. No rum either, as we're running late - all in all the omens couldn't be better...
On arrival, I'm presented with a slip of paper detailing my 20Q fine for last week's (scandalous) yellow card. 20Q is about 2 quid, forex fans, but gets you a cooked lunch, drink and change in one of the local comedors here. I promise to pay next week and wonder what the Spanish for 'appeal' might be.
With a full team the opening exchanges of the game are quite even, you might even say that Oxford are shading it, particularly when my speculative affort (left-footed too) crashes against the bar and out. Then, unfortunately, a shot finds a way through a throng of bodies and nestles itself in the bottom corner. How will Centro de Idiomas respond to this setback? Very well, as it turns out, as impish striker Adna robs a dithering defender and slots into the top corner. Turns out this was a bit of a false dawn though, as the opposition quickly rack up another three goals to go 4-1 up. Just before half-time some neat Oxford passing brings just, if ungraceful reward as your correspondent shins in a volley for 4-2.
The half-time team talk consists of lots of heavy breathing and imbibing of water. Someone wheezes "we're still in this". And we are, matching the opposition blow for blow for the first 10 minutes of the second half. Then, disaster: goalkeeper Hergil, in attempting to save a corner, succeeds only in turning the ball back to the lurking striker, who rolls into the empty net. Oxford hearts break, and knees start to give way. Truly, playing at altitude is no fun at all; you feel permanently breathless, unable to recover any energy whatsoever once its gone. I find myself praying for just a couple of gulps of good old Sussex air, but there is none. The last fifteen minutes is a parade for the opposition, slotting in six more. After the game, training is half-heartedly discussed, and dismissed. Better luck next week I guess - I'm off for a run.
Monday, February 9, 2009
My So-Called (Guatemalan) Life Pt. 1
So, I’m yet to really say much about things here. In between bouts of New-York related lexical diahorrea (and some bouts of the more real kind) I’ve been too busy to write much about what I’m actually doing here. Over the next thousand words or so I’ll try to put that right.
I’ve now been here for about two and a half weeks, though it feels quite a lot longer than that. My weeks have taken shape now and its clear that I’m going to be very, very busy over the next year. I did point out to people before I left that I wasn’t going on holiday, but to have to be up before 7am six mornings a week was rather unexpected. I’m up to teaching about 21 hours per week, to a mixture of young and old, Korean and Guatemalteco at the school and at two local companies. Once you factor in lesson planning as well as six hours of Spanish per week, then you can see I have a pretty packed schedule. The good news is that I do really enjoy it. Most of my classes are a joy to teach and we have a great deal of fun. It also means that I’m going to have more disposable income than I’ve ever had, and absolutely no time to spend it. I’m beginning to think that some traveling after this may well be in order.
The school itself is great. A large, cool building set in a tropical looking garden. We get hummingbirds feeding on the flowers just outside the windows I’m looking out of, which was tremendously exciting when I first noticed it. The people here are lovely and we are well looked after. The Spanish speaking receptionists also make sympathetic conversation partners for learners like me.
Similarly, our house is a joy. I live with three other teachers in a terracotta brick house with marble floors. It’s so huge that we don’t use half of downstairs, though this is also partly due to the current lack of furniture. We have a lovely back patio with built in barbeque, ideal for parties for the half of the year when it’s not raining (see photo in previous post). The house is set in a ‘residencia’, a gated community which is staffed by shotgun wielding guards. They are terribly efficient at stopping anyone unless they are ogling a pretty ‘chapina’ walking past, in which case all and sundry are allowed to enter. While I feel slightly guilty about locking myself away from the city, it is a relief when I pass through the gates. Everyone here lives behind some form of security – I’m afraid that it is a necessary evil. Anyway, we do walk to school through the local neighbourhood, which is more than most of our neighbours do.
In terms of going out and doing stuff, I’ve done fairly little here so far. The truth is it’s not very safe to go out after dark, and most of us are too tired after school anyway. We have had one epic night out around ‘Las cien puertas’ (The hundred doors) in Zona 1 but we were chauffered there and back. Our plans to escape the city at weekends have been scuppered by the fact that either myself or one of my housemate’s has been ill almost continuously. I think it’s due to adjusting to the food, and the recent cold snap that saw temperatures fall as low as 13C! I am plotting escapes at the weekends, though having just given most of my cash to Banco America Central only to be told I can’t access it for 8 working days, I may have to put those plans on hold. The good/bad news is there’s no such thing as ‘going to the pub’ here really – the closest we get is strolling to our local taco stand and buying a couple of litres of ‘Gallo’ from the shop next door to drink with our meal. Last time the owner sent his infant son to get our beer for us - I don’t think there’s much in the way of licensing laws here. The food is great here. We buy fresh vegetables on our way home and eat an awful lot of salad (I know, how the carnivorous have fallen) and it’s heartening to know that anything you eat has been picked within a few miles, rather than flown across several oceans and then polished to within an inch of its life. Local comedors (eateries) provide most of our meals out, often eating there is cheaper than cooking yourself - a meal and a drink will set you back no more than 20Q (about $3).
So that’s really it, in a nutshell. I get up at about 5:50am, usually get back about 8pm and go to bed soon after that. I’ve not been shot or stabbed as of yet. As I’ve said before, I think I’m more likely to get run over. Expect news on any adventures soon, hasta pronto!
I’ve now been here for about two and a half weeks, though it feels quite a lot longer than that. My weeks have taken shape now and its clear that I’m going to be very, very busy over the next year. I did point out to people before I left that I wasn’t going on holiday, but to have to be up before 7am six mornings a week was rather unexpected. I’m up to teaching about 21 hours per week, to a mixture of young and old, Korean and Guatemalteco at the school and at two local companies. Once you factor in lesson planning as well as six hours of Spanish per week, then you can see I have a pretty packed schedule. The good news is that I do really enjoy it. Most of my classes are a joy to teach and we have a great deal of fun. It also means that I’m going to have more disposable income than I’ve ever had, and absolutely no time to spend it. I’m beginning to think that some traveling after this may well be in order.
The school itself is great. A large, cool building set in a tropical looking garden. We get hummingbirds feeding on the flowers just outside the windows I’m looking out of, which was tremendously exciting when I first noticed it. The people here are lovely and we are well looked after. The Spanish speaking receptionists also make sympathetic conversation partners for learners like me.
Similarly, our house is a joy. I live with three other teachers in a terracotta brick house with marble floors. It’s so huge that we don’t use half of downstairs, though this is also partly due to the current lack of furniture. We have a lovely back patio with built in barbeque, ideal for parties for the half of the year when it’s not raining (see photo in previous post). The house is set in a ‘residencia’, a gated community which is staffed by shotgun wielding guards. They are terribly efficient at stopping anyone unless they are ogling a pretty ‘chapina’ walking past, in which case all and sundry are allowed to enter. While I feel slightly guilty about locking myself away from the city, it is a relief when I pass through the gates. Everyone here lives behind some form of security – I’m afraid that it is a necessary evil. Anyway, we do walk to school through the local neighbourhood, which is more than most of our neighbours do.
In terms of going out and doing stuff, I’ve done fairly little here so far. The truth is it’s not very safe to go out after dark, and most of us are too tired after school anyway. We have had one epic night out around ‘Las cien puertas’ (The hundred doors) in Zona 1 but we were chauffered there and back. Our plans to escape the city at weekends have been scuppered by the fact that either myself or one of my housemate’s has been ill almost continuously. I think it’s due to adjusting to the food, and the recent cold snap that saw temperatures fall as low as 13C! I am plotting escapes at the weekends, though having just given most of my cash to Banco America Central only to be told I can’t access it for 8 working days, I may have to put those plans on hold. The good/bad news is there’s no such thing as ‘going to the pub’ here really – the closest we get is strolling to our local taco stand and buying a couple of litres of ‘Gallo’ from the shop next door to drink with our meal. Last time the owner sent his infant son to get our beer for us - I don’t think there’s much in the way of licensing laws here. The food is great here. We buy fresh vegetables on our way home and eat an awful lot of salad (I know, how the carnivorous have fallen) and it’s heartening to know that anything you eat has been picked within a few miles, rather than flown across several oceans and then polished to within an inch of its life. Local comedors (eateries) provide most of our meals out, often eating there is cheaper than cooking yourself - a meal and a drink will set you back no more than 20Q (about $3).
So that’s really it, in a nutshell. I get up at about 5:50am, usually get back about 8pm and go to bed soon after that. I’ve not been shot or stabbed as of yet. As I’ve said before, I think I’m more likely to get run over. Expect news on any adventures soon, hasta pronto!
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Futbol Mundial con Grev
El Centro de Idiomas Oxford 5 - 15 Some Guatemaltecos
Well, it is the global game I suppose, but still I was surprised and delighted to discover that the language school had a football team - and not the American kind either. Having been handed my kit I headed for the mall with my extremely limited Spanish to try to buy a pair of football trainers. Guatemalan people are on average smaller than the average westener and the lady in the shoe shop looked at me mystified when I asked for a pair of US size 12's. After about ten minutes rummaging in the back of the shop she finally came back with what may be the only pair of size 11.5 trainers in Guatemala. With little choice, reader, I bought them.
Early signs for the game weren't good. We had 5 definites for a 7-a-side game, with two Guatemalan possibles (that's pretty much a definite no show in any other country). One of the 5, Ben, had never played football before either. Our chances of improving our 1-21 record were not looking great.
Still, I kitted up and went around to our team meeting point, the house of team stalwarts Hergil (GK) and Joe (DF). "You'd better have a drink then," said Joe, handing me a tot of white rum. "Sorry, it's not very nice and we usually try to have more. It tends to numb the pain of defeat though." Well, it beats stretching and running I guess. By this point one of the Guatemalans has shown up, but the mood is still not hopeful.
We wound out to the south of Guatemala City up the kind of road usually seen leading to Alpine passes. Climbing ever higher out of the city I begin to wonder whether this is a good idea. Even down in the city centre we're 1,502m above sea level (that's more than Ben Nevis is) and we're adding another couple of hundred here I'm sure. That, allied to the fact that I've been violently ill and haven't eaten a square meal in two days makes me wonder whether I'll be able to keep the pace.
Still, we pile out of the cars and onto the pitch. The Guatemalans are already there, taking great pleasure in hitting the ball with supreme power and no accuracy whatsover into the advertising hoarding above the goal. A ball rolls to my feet. Time to demonstrate a bit of European sophistication I figure, picking out a spot in the top corner and plotting the precise, graceful curve that will take it there. Naturally, the ball slices high and wide nowhere near the net. I jog over to retrieve it and find myself breathless and sweating. Oh dear.
So the game kicks off and it feels like thousands of tiny Guatemalans swarm around my ankles, much like the thousands of tiny dots swarming in front of my eyes. I'm going to claim the altitude and the illness and not the fact that I haven't broken out of a waddle for about two months, save to dash for my life across Guate's highways. Within a few minutes we are three nil down, and lucky it's only that. Then I get booked for the tiniest clip on an opposition shin (seriously, I really didn't deserve this) which angers me sufficiently to rob one of the midfielders and run half the length of the pitch to score our opening goal. Sadly, this feat renders me inoperative for the rest of the half and we go in 8-1 down.
The second half is markedly better though. Some rugged defending from debutant (in football, ever) Ben makes the oppo think twice about coming anywhere near him. I score again on a rare foray upfield before director Scott slams in a long range hat-trick. Sadly, the goals have been trickling in at the other end and the oppositions never ending supply of substitutes sashay onto the pitch poised and ready. Eventually, the end comes at 15-5 against us.
The overall feeling was not too bad, a bit fitter and with some key players back we might be able to make a bit of a go of it. I promise that I will do some running and possibly climb a volcano before the next time that we play. Oh, and if you're looking for a football team in Guatemala, please give us a call, yeah?
Well, it is the global game I suppose, but still I was surprised and delighted to discover that the language school had a football team - and not the American kind either. Having been handed my kit I headed for the mall with my extremely limited Spanish to try to buy a pair of football trainers. Guatemalan people are on average smaller than the average westener and the lady in the shoe shop looked at me mystified when I asked for a pair of US size 12's. After about ten minutes rummaging in the back of the shop she finally came back with what may be the only pair of size 11.5 trainers in Guatemala. With little choice, reader, I bought them.
Early signs for the game weren't good. We had 5 definites for a 7-a-side game, with two Guatemalan possibles (that's pretty much a definite no show in any other country). One of the 5, Ben, had never played football before either. Our chances of improving our 1-21 record were not looking great.
Still, I kitted up and went around to our team meeting point, the house of team stalwarts Hergil (GK) and Joe (DF). "You'd better have a drink then," said Joe, handing me a tot of white rum. "Sorry, it's not very nice and we usually try to have more. It tends to numb the pain of defeat though." Well, it beats stretching and running I guess. By this point one of the Guatemalans has shown up, but the mood is still not hopeful.
We wound out to the south of Guatemala City up the kind of road usually seen leading to Alpine passes. Climbing ever higher out of the city I begin to wonder whether this is a good idea. Even down in the city centre we're 1,502m above sea level (that's more than Ben Nevis is) and we're adding another couple of hundred here I'm sure. That, allied to the fact that I've been violently ill and haven't eaten a square meal in two days makes me wonder whether I'll be able to keep the pace.
Still, we pile out of the cars and onto the pitch. The Guatemalans are already there, taking great pleasure in hitting the ball with supreme power and no accuracy whatsover into the advertising hoarding above the goal. A ball rolls to my feet. Time to demonstrate a bit of European sophistication I figure, picking out a spot in the top corner and plotting the precise, graceful curve that will take it there. Naturally, the ball slices high and wide nowhere near the net. I jog over to retrieve it and find myself breathless and sweating. Oh dear.
So the game kicks off and it feels like thousands of tiny Guatemalans swarm around my ankles, much like the thousands of tiny dots swarming in front of my eyes. I'm going to claim the altitude and the illness and not the fact that I haven't broken out of a waddle for about two months, save to dash for my life across Guate's highways. Within a few minutes we are three nil down, and lucky it's only that. Then I get booked for the tiniest clip on an opposition shin (seriously, I really didn't deserve this) which angers me sufficiently to rob one of the midfielders and run half the length of the pitch to score our opening goal. Sadly, this feat renders me inoperative for the rest of the half and we go in 8-1 down.
The second half is markedly better though. Some rugged defending from debutant (in football, ever) Ben makes the oppo think twice about coming anywhere near him. I score again on a rare foray upfield before director Scott slams in a long range hat-trick. Sadly, the goals have been trickling in at the other end and the oppositions never ending supply of substitutes sashay onto the pitch poised and ready. Eventually, the end comes at 15-5 against us.
The overall feeling was not too bad, a bit fitter and with some key players back we might be able to make a bit of a go of it. I promise that I will do some running and possibly climb a volcano before the next time that we play. Oh, and if you're looking for a football team in Guatemala, please give us a call, yeah?
Monday, February 2, 2009
Further New York burblings
Two posts in a day? Amazing scenes. Here follows another thousand words or so on me doing comparatively little in New York. Probably best to ignore it...
I should address the issue of a hotel room without a ceiling. Basically, each room on the corridor is made of concrete walls which create each room (cell? hutch?). The problem is that for some reason these walls stop a foot from the ceiling, and a wooden lattice is placed across the top of each one. I’d love to know the reason for this. Perhaps it’s a new fangled architectural principle, in which not joining the walls to the ceiling improves the core strength of the building. Maybe they just ran out of bricks and mortar with a foot to go. Whatever the answer, it makes the Whitehouse a marvellous place to stay if you are a) a very heavy sleeper or b) unnaturally interested in the sleeping habits, personal hygiene and bowel movements of your fellow guests. That’s right, not even the toilets have ceilings. As I’m neither of these things, it seems as if I’ll be spending the money I saved on my $36 per night room on drink to attempt to anaesthetise myself sufficiently to get some shut-eye. OK, objection sustained, I would have done this anyway but it still seems like a bit of a false economy.
Having arrived, as I always do, with no plans whatsoever, I scan the guidebook for something to do. I check the attractions in the locality and hit upon the Housing Works Used Book Shop & Café, 2 blocks down and two west of the hotel. A nice little acclimatiser for a green New York explorer. I’ve been looking for a cheap copy of War and Peace to accompany me on my trip, something tells me English reading material won’t be too commonplace in Guatemala, so a weighty tome like that should see me right for a while and a used book store’s bound to have a copy, right? I find the café without any problem at all, and head in. It truly is an amazing place. Anyone of a vaguely literary persuasion would surely dream of running a place like this. The walls stacked with books on every subject all around the room, while trendy people drink fair-trade coffee, type on Macbooks and discuss poetry. There’s no Tolstoy though, which is disappointing. Why does no one ever give away their copy of War and Peace? Is it just that great, or do you all just leave it on your bookshelves because it looks impressive?
OK, at this point please forgive me a quick departure into indie frippery. Those of you not fond of over-earnest, scholarly guitar combos may want to just skip this paragraph. Fair warning I think, for those of you still with me, here goes: I think in the HWUBS&C I may have discovered the beating-heart of trendy New York. Think of every Wes Anderson movie ever made, it’s all here. In browsing the titles in the fiction section I twice spot book titles which have been appropriated by two of my favourite bands for their lyrics (That’s The National and Okkervil River, fact fans). Eventually I grab a copy of Saul Bellow’s Herzog and buy a lemonade from the pretty girl with the nose piercing in the café. I sit down, sharing a table with a girl in a purple scarf and big glasses, who thumbs photography books with her oriental-looking boyfriend. Another girl sits down next to me and hums along when “Your Ex-Lover is Dead” by Stars drifts over the speakers. Hmm, I think, My Life Is Not a Mumblecore Movie or Maybe… actually not though, because just at that moment a woman asks us to vacate the table as it’s been reserved for a reading later on. I buy the Saul Bellow, reasoning that reading the ramblings of a deranged Jew might just make my own writings seem a little less odd.
I take a walk up Broadway as far as Union Square, pausing to take what I thought was quite a nice photo of Grace Church. There’s a free Palestine demonstration going on there, and lots of police. I figure that it’s better not to get caught up in it, married to the fact I know far too little about Middle Eastern politics to form a proper opinion, and so I turn back south and decide that it’s high time that I had my first beer in New York. St. Mark’s Ale House, just off 4th Ave. looks like a nice spot, so I head in. I order an Anchor Steam that turns out to be a strong flavoured, dark lager. It’s not bad actually, I sit down at a table in front of a screen showing archive Premiership footage and start writing this journal (ooh, reflexive!). I’m heartened to hear Ben Folds singing Song for the Dumped over the speakers. New York really does have the market in playing good music when you least expect it cornered, right to the end of my stay I’m treated to some great music, including the entire Vampire Weekend album at LaGuardia airport. There’s not much going on in the bar though, so I head back out into the snow and return to the Whitehouse.
Bowery’s Whitehouse Hotel – 3:30pm ET (ish)
I pay and am handed the keys to room 243: “Upstairs. Door on your right.” I heave my belongings up the stairs and locate 243. After initially turning the key the wrong way (apparently American locks work backwards), I unlock the door and push it open to reveal… a wall. And no ceiling. Ok, not quite, but the room is the length of the bed, which is indeed a shelf, with about three feet of space on the near side to stand in. A rudimentary wardrobe is built into the wall at the head end of the bed, but it’s not blessed with a hanging rail so is next to useless anyway. It strikes me that this is the sort of floor space that would have sold in Kensington for about £200,000 last year, and is now worth about 10% of that. I also note that by the condition of the sheets, the Whitehouse’s laundry system isn’t too efficient either. Still, I can’t say I wasn’t forewarned I suppose.
I pay and am handed the keys to room 243: “Upstairs. Door on your right.” I heave my belongings up the stairs and locate 243. After initially turning the key the wrong way (apparently American locks work backwards), I unlock the door and push it open to reveal… a wall. And no ceiling. Ok, not quite, but the room is the length of the bed, which is indeed a shelf, with about three feet of space on the near side to stand in. A rudimentary wardrobe is built into the wall at the head end of the bed, but it’s not blessed with a hanging rail so is next to useless anyway. It strikes me that this is the sort of floor space that would have sold in Kensington for about £200,000 last year, and is now worth about 10% of that. I also note that by the condition of the sheets, the Whitehouse’s laundry system isn’t too efficient either. Still, I can’t say I wasn’t forewarned I suppose.
My room at the Whitehouse, taken from as far into the opposite corner as I could get. Apologies for the feet, they're for perspective purposes.
I should address the issue of a hotel room without a ceiling. Basically, each room on the corridor is made of concrete walls which create each room (cell? hutch?). The problem is that for some reason these walls stop a foot from the ceiling, and a wooden lattice is placed across the top of each one. I’d love to know the reason for this. Perhaps it’s a new fangled architectural principle, in which not joining the walls to the ceiling improves the core strength of the building. Maybe they just ran out of bricks and mortar with a foot to go. Whatever the answer, it makes the Whitehouse a marvellous place to stay if you are a) a very heavy sleeper or b) unnaturally interested in the sleeping habits, personal hygiene and bowel movements of your fellow guests. That’s right, not even the toilets have ceilings. As I’m neither of these things, it seems as if I’ll be spending the money I saved on my $36 per night room on drink to attempt to anaesthetise myself sufficiently to get some shut-eye. OK, objection sustained, I would have done this anyway but it still seems like a bit of a false economy.
Having arrived, as I always do, with no plans whatsoever, I scan the guidebook for something to do. I check the attractions in the locality and hit upon the Housing Works Used Book Shop & Café, 2 blocks down and two west of the hotel. A nice little acclimatiser for a green New York explorer. I’ve been looking for a cheap copy of War and Peace to accompany me on my trip, something tells me English reading material won’t be too commonplace in Guatemala, so a weighty tome like that should see me right for a while and a used book store’s bound to have a copy, right? I find the café without any problem at all, and head in. It truly is an amazing place. Anyone of a vaguely literary persuasion would surely dream of running a place like this. The walls stacked with books on every subject all around the room, while trendy people drink fair-trade coffee, type on Macbooks and discuss poetry. There’s no Tolstoy though, which is disappointing. Why does no one ever give away their copy of War and Peace? Is it just that great, or do you all just leave it on your bookshelves because it looks impressive?
OK, at this point please forgive me a quick departure into indie frippery. Those of you not fond of over-earnest, scholarly guitar combos may want to just skip this paragraph. Fair warning I think, for those of you still with me, here goes: I think in the HWUBS&C I may have discovered the beating-heart of trendy New York. Think of every Wes Anderson movie ever made, it’s all here. In browsing the titles in the fiction section I twice spot book titles which have been appropriated by two of my favourite bands for their lyrics (That’s The National and Okkervil River, fact fans). Eventually I grab a copy of Saul Bellow’s Herzog and buy a lemonade from the pretty girl with the nose piercing in the café. I sit down, sharing a table with a girl in a purple scarf and big glasses, who thumbs photography books with her oriental-looking boyfriend. Another girl sits down next to me and hums along when “Your Ex-Lover is Dead” by Stars drifts over the speakers. Hmm, I think, My Life Is Not a Mumblecore Movie or Maybe… actually not though, because just at that moment a woman asks us to vacate the table as it’s been reserved for a reading later on. I buy the Saul Bellow, reasoning that reading the ramblings of a deranged Jew might just make my own writings seem a little less odd.
I take a walk up Broadway as far as Union Square, pausing to take what I thought was quite a nice photo of Grace Church. There’s a free Palestine demonstration going on there, and lots of police. I figure that it’s better not to get caught up in it, married to the fact I know far too little about Middle Eastern politics to form a proper opinion, and so I turn back south and decide that it’s high time that I had my first beer in New York. St. Mark’s Ale House, just off 4th Ave. looks like a nice spot, so I head in. I order an Anchor Steam that turns out to be a strong flavoured, dark lager. It’s not bad actually, I sit down at a table in front of a screen showing archive Premiership footage and start writing this journal (ooh, reflexive!). I’m heartened to hear Ben Folds singing Song for the Dumped over the speakers. New York really does have the market in playing good music when you least expect it cornered, right to the end of my stay I’m treated to some great music, including the entire Vampire Weekend album at LaGuardia airport. There’s not much going on in the bar though, so I head back out into the snow and return to the Whitehouse.
My Grace Church photo.
Some Photos...
I thought you all might like to see one or two photos of Guatemala. I haven't taken too many as it's a bit of a risk to take the camera anywhere (the basic rule here is never leave the house with anything you can't afford to lose), so these are all from within the confines of our little gated community...
This is part of the inside of the house - putting phtographs up of the whole thing would take a while because it's absolutely huge. The effect is heightened by the fact we're somewhat lacking in furniture, but I'm assured that this is being worked on.
This is the back garden, and very nice it is too. Note the walls which mercifully provide a bit of shade for pasty folk such as I. Also note the built in barbeque, tasty.
Our residencia backs on to the 'barranco' (ravine), one of several which run through the city. This goes all the way to the airport, which you'd think would might provide a handy shortcut for travelling folk, but apparently to go down into it 'would be suicide'.
Looming over the barranco is the volcano, Fuego, which sits just outside the city. It's still active, but not really in the erupting sense (I hope). It is pretty impressive though, we plan to climb a different volcano (Pacaya) in the forthcoming weeks.
This is 21-80 (our house number) crew (well, three of us at least). From left to right are Andrea, me and Alice who all live together, plus Mike, who teaches in our sister school up in Coban. Here, we are pretending to be gangsters, a useful skill in a city like this. Come on, really, would you mess with us?
This is part of the inside of the house - putting phtographs up of the whole thing would take a while because it's absolutely huge. The effect is heightened by the fact we're somewhat lacking in furniture, but I'm assured that this is being worked on.
This is the back garden, and very nice it is too. Note the walls which mercifully provide a bit of shade for pasty folk such as I. Also note the built in barbeque, tasty.
Our residencia backs on to the 'barranco' (ravine), one of several which run through the city. This goes all the way to the airport, which you'd think would might provide a handy shortcut for travelling folk, but apparently to go down into it 'would be suicide'.
Looming over the barranco is the volcano, Fuego, which sits just outside the city. It's still active, but not really in the erupting sense (I hope). It is pretty impressive though, we plan to climb a different volcano (Pacaya) in the forthcoming weeks.
This is 21-80 (our house number) crew (well, three of us at least). From left to right are Andrea, me and Alice who all live together, plus Mike, who teaches in our sister school up in Coban. Here, we are pretending to be gangsters, a useful skill in a city like this. Come on, really, would you mess with us?
In terms of what I'm doing with myself, I'm actually working pretty hard. I teach 13.5 hours a week at the school but there's a lot of planning involved with that and I also have 6 hours of Spanish classes a week. I had my first experience of bad reaction to food or water on Saturday and was violently ill, but seem to be fully recovered as I write this on Monday morning. Very strange. That's about it for now, I'll write more soon.
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