Archive for the ‘Passport Required’ Category

Old Friends.

December 20, 2011

When Ben and I planned our itinerary for the England trip this fall, most of our destinations had to do with the people we’d see. London had Elen, Sam and Sarah; Leeds was home to his sister Maria and Cambridge had Ben’s college roommate, Nate. The entire trip was a perfect vehicle to catch up with folks we hadn’t seen in ages.

While seeing Nate was the purpose of our one-day visit to Cambridge, we found ourselves wishing we’d scheduled more time to see the city, itself. It was pure joy to see history coinciding with every day life. Just one walk through made me want to spend days exploring every college, every path along the canal and, of course, every restaurant on its stone streets. (Stay tuned for a picture-only post of the sights of Cambridge.)

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The Road To Peas.

December 7, 2011

I’m cursed. Every time I’ve traveled outside of Ohio in the past few years, I break my camera lens. The first time it happened, I was in the Philippines. Maya and I had to take a side trip to a mall in Manila for me to “barter” for a new lens. I dropped said lens in Asheville, North Carolina a year and a half later when trying to carry too much Indian food. For this most recent trip, I prepared myself. No longer would I schlep my camera around in a knapsack; if I want nice things, I have to take care of them. A blog post from Columbus photographer and design house, Genre Creative inspired me to look into carrying my beloved camera in a protective bag. Robin even lent me hers to try out for the trip.

I honestly don’t know what happened. Perhaps I opened the bag at a table to grab my journal to write something down, and failed to close it properly. Perhaps, after a little too many large glasses of wine (alcohol is legally required to be measured in England; as a result – large and small glasses of wine) I stood a little too close to a fellow bus rider who helped themselves to the contents on my back. Either way, my heart stopped when, while walking back to our friend’s place in Shoreditch, I heard my camera crash to the concrete, lens breaking away from the body. Again.

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Booze Rules.

November 14, 2011

It was a day that we’d scheduled to be a walking tour of one of the most gorgeous places in England. It was a day that made me extremely regret leaving my wellies in London. (Yes, I lugged rubber boots all the way across the Atlantic to leave them in Shoreditch the one time I’d need them.)

On the only cool and rainy day of our trip, York practically demanded that we spend as much time as possible inside, warming up with as many cask ales as we could handle—an early-in-the-day bar hop to contend with the weather.

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Unsexy Coffee.

November 9, 2011

I’m not a coffee snob. When it comes down to it, I’m addicted to the stuff. If it doesn’t have chunks and is remotely lukewarm or hotter, I’ll drink it. When I get into places that specialize in sophisticated coffee drinks, I freeze. So when I walked into Terra Nera, the fast-paced Camden Market Italian coffee joint (filled to the brim with roughly six people per square foot) I panicked. I quickly scanned the complicated menu for something resembling a plain old coffee. The closest thing was caffè Americano. Of course. I’m the American in the Italian coffee shop in London ordering caffè Americano.

My barista was quick to point this out to me and yelled, “No. Not the Americano. Something sexy. You like sweet?”

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On England.

October 26, 2011

I first visited London when I was 16. My British-literature teacher offered to take a dozen or so over-achieving students to the city over spring break. Intrigued by the idea of international travel and, let’s admit it, a chance to spend more time with the teacher (I had a bit of a crush – as did most of my cohorts on the trip) I started saving money made at the Half Off Card Shop to pay for my adventure.

In this most recent visit (at double the age), I’ve found memories of that initial foray into travel popping up. My food memories are vivid; pizza with corn on it (corn!); my first red-wine vinaigrette (I thought I’d get drunk); a heavenly baguette at an Upper Crust inside one train station or another; and, of course, a healthy obsession with the endless Cadbury selection of candies at Boots and WH Smith.

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Bathing Beauties.

October 4, 2011

Our first few days in London involved several rounds of chain dining. I’m kind of ashamed to admit it, but for the most part, this was done deliberately—I have a nostalgic fondness for WagamamaBelgo came recommended by a former local for a casual, inexpensive meal, and I fell for the foodie tourist-bait that is a Jamie Oliver restaurant—and with predictably average results. Wagamama could never hold up to my memory of it, especially after my love affair with Ippudo; at Jamie’s Italian, I had the only plate of food that’s ever been too salty for me to finish; and while Belgo’s beer was delicious, our bucket of mussels was underwhelming.


I hardly expected our luck to change in the tour-bus capital of Bath, but it was there that both our mediocre dining streak and our lack of success with seafood came to an end.

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Becoming Home.

September 30, 2011

I’ve been house-hunting on two different continents in the past two months, and although finding an apartment in Brooklyn has its own set of challenges, let me tell you: It’s not any easier overseas than it is on home turf. When my sister moved to London to start her program, she had accommodation lined up; a few weeks before classes were due to start, her house fell through, and we spent the majority of my remaining time there looking at places that would work for five mostly non-UK residents, short-term. Not an easy task.

Of course, this story has a happy ending, and, naturally, it’s one that involves a triumphal meal. After a few days of frantic searching, my sister inked her signature on a multipage housing contract, and we got down to the important business of celebrating her newfound digs.

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Saintly Pies.

September 13, 2011

In August, the stars were in alignment: My sister was getting ready to begin a course in makeup application for stage, film, fashion, and the like at Ealing Studios in southeast London, and our mother was heading over to help her get settled and to see a bit of the city. I had some downtime at work, and you don’t need to ask me twice about putting another stamp in my passport. I bit the bullet, charged the exorbitantly priced ticket to my credit card, and began counting down the days ’til I could flee the country.

I didn’t arrive in England expecting to find a decent pie. It would be somewhat counterintuitive to travel from New York, a well-established pizza Mecca, to the home of fish and chips, shepherd’s pie, and pub grub, with such a goal in mind—the thought never occurred to me, until the traditional Neapolitan-style pizza at Santa Maria sought me out, exceeding expectations I didn’t even know I had.

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Seoul for the Soul.

April 21, 2011

I had a layover in Seoul on my return home from Thailand last spring. Upon learning this, I asked my airline to expand my stay so that I could go into the city. And so it went. A little over an hour after landing at Incheon, I was in the heart of the city, thanks to a super-sleek bus ride on an adept freeway. The weather was perfect, like a cool fall day. In the spring Seoul is plagued with yellow dust from wind storms in Mongolia. My twelve hours were beautiful and clear and free from dust. Compared to the heat of Thailand and the Philippines, it was a welcome reprieve.

Sometimes, there’s nothing that inspires more joy than the prospect of wandering the streets, armed with nothing more than a book, the entire day ahead of me. It’s an understatement to say that I will always remember this day fondly.

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One Night in Bangkok, Part II.

April 5, 2011

My trip to Thailand coincided not only with the red shirt revolution, but with the eruption of a volcano in Iceland. Not a big deal, really, unless you were in Iceland. Or—thanks to the large sheet of ash filling the skies—Europe, in general. Or anywhere in the world that Europeans may travel, including countries whose internal issues were causing Western embassies to send out warnings such as, “Do not go to [Thailand],” or “If you are in [Thailand], leave [Thailand].” One of these countries? Thailand.

This is a long way of saying that Bangkok’s hotels were full of Europeans who were, simply put, stuck. Suvarnabhumi (Bangkok’s airport) had people living on its floors, all exhausted, all wanting to go home. I learned this from a new English friend of mine, who had been stranded in Bangkok for several days. Truth be told, I don’t remember his name. Another confession (or two): I befriended him because he spoke English and had a working laptop. (Although my hotel was proficient at taking me to a pharmacy in the middle of the night, their public computers were less than helpful.)

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