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Letter from abroad
Mar. 19th, 2009 03:50 pmIt took me about five hours door-to-door from Lewisham to Sitges, with two hours of that consisting of farting around at Gatwick Airport. If I had adopted the John Harrington "just in time" approach, I could have made the trip in three and a quarter hours or (33% chance) not at all.
The interesting parts of the trip were EasyJet's excursion into Scratch Cards (what next, video slot machines on the seat back in front of you?) and First Connect's publc relations disaster with their new "ElectroStar" train.
I arrived at London Bridge at 11am and saw that the 10.41 to Brigthon via East Croydon, Gatwick and other stations was 25 minutes late. So I rushed my little legs to the correct platform and boarded the new "Electrostar 317". Trains obviously have to have numbers as if they are planes, although why any transport method would want to imitate the flying experience is beyond me.
Minutes after the train left London Bridge, the driver did two things. First, he welcomed us aboard "the first public running of the new Electrostar". Second, he said "Unfortuntely there have been a few technical hitches and, as a result, this train will now be running fast from East Croydon to Brighton".
Now, I reckon 80% of the people on this train were going to Gatwick, rather than East Croydon, Brighton, or stops in between. A few hasty glances between worried customers. And, good grief, people talking to each other.
"Does that mean the train doesn't stop at Gatwick?" asked one person, sotto voce, as if in fear of being mistaken for a tourist.
"Dunno", replied another, equally quietly.
The reason for the confusion amongst even seasoned Gatwick travellers was that the driver's statement "fast from East Croydon to Brighton" gave of two possible interpretations. One was that it would be non-stop to Brighton, but the other was that it would be "as the fast train runs from East Croydon to Brighton", which includes a stop at Gatwick (sometimes).
Seconds before pulling into East Croydon, the driver made it clear that the train would not be stopping at Gatwick. And so we alighted at East Croydon. I was fairly sanguine about this; after all, I only caught that train because it was late anyway.
Then it struck me. What if I had been getting a train from Barcelona to Sitges, and the same kind of announcement had been made (but in Catalan)? It would have meant nothing to me. I would have stayed sat on the train and ended up heavens knows where. Is there still now a bemused traveller from Azerbaijan, sitting on a Brighton platform, wondering why the train failed to live up to its initial promise to stop at Gatwick Airport?
Top marks to First Connect for seriously messing up their new train service. I mean, who else could think that not stopping a train at the station where everybody wanted to go was a good idea?
++++++++++
Sitges is still low season. Last night it was chilly (the temperature drops fairly quickly once the sun goes down) and the town was relatively queit. Most of the people who were around were Spanish, with most of the cafes/restaurants almost deserted. One was heaving, solely Spanish-occupied and, as far as I could see, benefiting mainly from its statement that you could "smoke in here as much as you fucking like". The majority of eating and drinking places are now non-smoking, although the more temperate weather means that sitting outside to have your cigarette is less of a problem than it can be in London. This particular place seemed to regard smoking as comulsory and looked like a Catalan version of a Mad Men episode. (I am a non-smoker, but I report all this solely in journalistic mode for the tobacco-consumers amongst you).
++++++++++
Lunch with Jonathan Palfrey and wife Ana was at a largeish restaurant, La Vaquita, a few kilometres inland. It had about 80 covers, although Alex the owner then saw me counting them and insisted on showing me an extra banqueting room, a children's play area and a small terrace, all of which probably brought it up to 130 covers in total. Having gone out with someone who does this for a living, I now know that 130 covers is no piece of cake. It's lots of pieces of cake.
Our meal consisted of cheese grilled on slate, topped with shavings of meat and paprika. Surprisingly good. Jonathan had grilled vegetables (artichoke centrepiece, aubergine, mushrooms, tomatoes, courgette). Then we had the Calcots (it's a c-cedilla, thus "calsots") which are a kind of forced spring onion, barbeque grilled. You take hold of the outside at the bottom and the inner stalks at the top and tug. This brings out the inner succulent part of the vegetable, which you then put into a dip of bread, almonds, tomatoes and peppers, before lowering it theatrically into your mouth. Rinse and repeat several dozen times. I have pictures, but forgot to bring my connection to the computer, so they will have to wait until I get back to the UK.
For the main course Ana had fish and Jonathan and I had veal and sausage and beef. For dessert I had vanilla ice cream, Jonathan had melon and Ana had flan.
The whole bundle for the three of us came to 50 euros or thereabouts, and many thanks to Jonathan for insisting on paying. I acceeded solely on the grounds that if I failed to do so I would apparently have invoked under Cataln tradition a blood feud that would only be settled when the entire family line of one of us was wiped out. In my case, of course, that's just me. But that's scary enough. The Catalans are used to larger blood lines.
++++++++
As I sit here doing this, and recalling my conversation with Jonathan yesterday (he moved to neart Barcelona from London because he realized that there was no need to be in London to do what he was doing) I observe to myself that I could relatively easily live out of a suitcase, travelling the world, without leaving either my job or my land of online poker. I'd have to change my poker style of course (either moving to 8 to 12-table stacking at lower stakes or to one table at significantly higher stakes), and I couldn't really remain permanently employed at my job. But I could still do the writing part of it, which would generate a reasonable income. It's other things that are tieing me to London and it's my lack of willingness to grasp the now that's keeping me there. However, every step forward opens up the realms of possibilities to me. Perhaps I'll have my mid-life crisis at 60...
++++++++
The death of Natasha Richardson is very sad. I'm not sure why I should feel it to be so, in that her acting ability apparently shone through mostly on stage, and I never saw her live. But she was clearly highly rated by people whse opinion's I respect, and I suspect she, like Kirsty MacColl, still had much to give. For some when they die, you just feel it's a life cut short.
_____________
The interesting parts of the trip were EasyJet's excursion into Scratch Cards (what next, video slot machines on the seat back in front of you?) and First Connect's publc relations disaster with their new "ElectroStar" train.
I arrived at London Bridge at 11am and saw that the 10.41 to Brigthon via East Croydon, Gatwick and other stations was 25 minutes late. So I rushed my little legs to the correct platform and boarded the new "Electrostar 317". Trains obviously have to have numbers as if they are planes, although why any transport method would want to imitate the flying experience is beyond me.
Minutes after the train left London Bridge, the driver did two things. First, he welcomed us aboard "the first public running of the new Electrostar". Second, he said "Unfortuntely there have been a few technical hitches and, as a result, this train will now be running fast from East Croydon to Brighton".
Now, I reckon 80% of the people on this train were going to Gatwick, rather than East Croydon, Brighton, or stops in between. A few hasty glances between worried customers. And, good grief, people talking to each other.
"Does that mean the train doesn't stop at Gatwick?" asked one person, sotto voce, as if in fear of being mistaken for a tourist.
"Dunno", replied another, equally quietly.
The reason for the confusion amongst even seasoned Gatwick travellers was that the driver's statement "fast from East Croydon to Brighton" gave of two possible interpretations. One was that it would be non-stop to Brighton, but the other was that it would be "as the fast train runs from East Croydon to Brighton", which includes a stop at Gatwick (sometimes).
Seconds before pulling into East Croydon, the driver made it clear that the train would not be stopping at Gatwick. And so we alighted at East Croydon. I was fairly sanguine about this; after all, I only caught that train because it was late anyway.
Then it struck me. What if I had been getting a train from Barcelona to Sitges, and the same kind of announcement had been made (but in Catalan)? It would have meant nothing to me. I would have stayed sat on the train and ended up heavens knows where. Is there still now a bemused traveller from Azerbaijan, sitting on a Brighton platform, wondering why the train failed to live up to its initial promise to stop at Gatwick Airport?
Top marks to First Connect for seriously messing up their new train service. I mean, who else could think that not stopping a train at the station where everybody wanted to go was a good idea?
++++++++++
Sitges is still low season. Last night it was chilly (the temperature drops fairly quickly once the sun goes down) and the town was relatively queit. Most of the people who were around were Spanish, with most of the cafes/restaurants almost deserted. One was heaving, solely Spanish-occupied and, as far as I could see, benefiting mainly from its statement that you could "smoke in here as much as you fucking like". The majority of eating and drinking places are now non-smoking, although the more temperate weather means that sitting outside to have your cigarette is less of a problem than it can be in London. This particular place seemed to regard smoking as comulsory and looked like a Catalan version of a Mad Men episode. (I am a non-smoker, but I report all this solely in journalistic mode for the tobacco-consumers amongst you).
++++++++++
Lunch with Jonathan Palfrey and wife Ana was at a largeish restaurant, La Vaquita, a few kilometres inland. It had about 80 covers, although Alex the owner then saw me counting them and insisted on showing me an extra banqueting room, a children's play area and a small terrace, all of which probably brought it up to 130 covers in total. Having gone out with someone who does this for a living, I now know that 130 covers is no piece of cake. It's lots of pieces of cake.
Our meal consisted of cheese grilled on slate, topped with shavings of meat and paprika. Surprisingly good. Jonathan had grilled vegetables (artichoke centrepiece, aubergine, mushrooms, tomatoes, courgette). Then we had the Calcots (it's a c-cedilla, thus "calsots") which are a kind of forced spring onion, barbeque grilled. You take hold of the outside at the bottom and the inner stalks at the top and tug. This brings out the inner succulent part of the vegetable, which you then put into a dip of bread, almonds, tomatoes and peppers, before lowering it theatrically into your mouth. Rinse and repeat several dozen times. I have pictures, but forgot to bring my connection to the computer, so they will have to wait until I get back to the UK.
For the main course Ana had fish and Jonathan and I had veal and sausage and beef. For dessert I had vanilla ice cream, Jonathan had melon and Ana had flan.
The whole bundle for the three of us came to 50 euros or thereabouts, and many thanks to Jonathan for insisting on paying. I acceeded solely on the grounds that if I failed to do so I would apparently have invoked under Cataln tradition a blood feud that would only be settled when the entire family line of one of us was wiped out. In my case, of course, that's just me. But that's scary enough. The Catalans are used to larger blood lines.
++++++++
As I sit here doing this, and recalling my conversation with Jonathan yesterday (he moved to neart Barcelona from London because he realized that there was no need to be in London to do what he was doing) I observe to myself that I could relatively easily live out of a suitcase, travelling the world, without leaving either my job or my land of online poker. I'd have to change my poker style of course (either moving to 8 to 12-table stacking at lower stakes or to one table at significantly higher stakes), and I couldn't really remain permanently employed at my job. But I could still do the writing part of it, which would generate a reasonable income. It's other things that are tieing me to London and it's my lack of willingness to grasp the now that's keeping me there. However, every step forward opens up the realms of possibilities to me. Perhaps I'll have my mid-life crisis at 60...
++++++++
The death of Natasha Richardson is very sad. I'm not sure why I should feel it to be so, in that her acting ability apparently shone through mostly on stage, and I never saw her live. But she was clearly highly rated by people whse opinion's I respect, and I suspect she, like Kirsty MacColl, still had much to give. For some when they die, you just feel it's a life cut short.
_____________
