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Tuesday 31 March 2015

#BBGoesGreen for St Paddy’s Day - Part 1

Sunday 15 March 2015
4am. My alarm sounds and I leap out of bed, wide awake, prepared and eager for the day.

Who am I kidding. In actuality, I rolled out of bed and bleary eyed fumbled down the stairs for breakfast and a shower. Good thing I had finished packing the night before because I was in no state to be conscious. 

Soon I made the slow stumble down the street to the thankfully close meeting point. I was on my way to Dublin for St Patrick’s Day with almost 40 other BritBounders. It was going to be disgraceful.

***

I boarded the bus, my sleepy eyes struggling to make out faces, but near the front I spotted Sally. “May I sit here?” and plopped myself down. It was complete night outside and the clock ticked down to 5.15am at which point any stragglers not on the bus would be left behind. A final flurry of movement at 5.13am and we were all aboard.

We set off into the darkness.

Before we all fell asleep, our Topdeck trip leader Sabrina made the rounds to find out insurance details and emergency contacts. She stopped next to me.

“What’s your name?” Sabrina asked, pen and paper in hand.
“Sasha,” I replied, sleepily.
“Where are you from?”
“I’m Sasha.” I look confused. “Wait. No. I’m from Adelaide. My brain isn’t functioning yet.”

Sabrina laughed and gave me a hug. It was a sleepy, mildly humiliating start to the journey.

We had 3 hours before our first stop. Sally and I made small talk for a little while but sleepiness soon overcame us. A look up and down the bus saw everyone catching up on their Sunday morning sleep in, sitting upright, heads lolling to the side.
Feeling my way through the darkness
The music was suddenly cranking, and startled faces abounded as BB’s were rudely awakened.
Guided by a beating heart.I can’t tell where the journey will endBut I know where to start.
So wake me up when it’s all overWhen I’m wiser and I’m olderAll this time I was finding myselfAnd I didn’t know I was lost.

Ok! We’re up! We’re awake! We were approaching our first stop for breakfast and a leg stretch.

***

12 hours since our departure from London we arrived in Dublin, having travelled through England, Wales and then across the channel to Ireland on the ferry. At some point during the journey, the room allocation piece of paper had been passed around. There were to be 4 large rooms of 12-14 people in each, and my name had been written down for me in group 4.

We arrived at the hostel in Dublin, some of us already a little green from the 3 hour ferry ride, and our room allocations were distributed. Group 4 remained unaccounted for. 

“There was a problem with the fire alarm in your room last night,” the hostel owner announced, “therefore we’ve left the best until last..you all get an upgrade for tonight.”

Reading out names in groups of 3, we excitedly split up to see what our private rooms could possibly be like. I was to be sharing with Alex and Kailey. We swung open the door to our room and saw three puffy white beds, neatly folded towels, exquisite lighting, a television and a shiny white clean - and private - bathroom. 

#winningatlife!

Throwing on the TV, we prepared ourselves for the Welcome Party that night. There was commotion coming from below and, looking out, we saw naked revelry as one of the BB’s streaked through the courtyard. This pretty much set the tone for the next 3 days.

We made our way down to the lobby to set off into the night. Straight to the bar, I spotted Coopers Ale in the fridge and I exclaimed in surprise. On closer inspection, I realised we were in an Australian bar - which felt a little strange considering we were in Ireland. No matter, I decided to fill up on Bulmers Cider - decidedly Irish.

Here we drank and chatted (and threw back strange green shots - #BBGoesGreen) before moving onto Temple Bar, where we sweated and danced until the early hours.

***

Monday 16 March 2015
Thankful for the Maccas run I had taken the night before, I woke up a fraction groggy. We turned on the TV and watched Catfish and 16 and Pregnant, high quality British TV, while getting ready and enjoying a private shower in our private room. We had to take our suitcases down to breakfast with us because our luxury was to be short lived - we were moving into our big 14 room dorm that evening.

Breakfast was a lovely hot Irish breakfast where I did not try the pudding, and today Sabrina our Topdeck guide took us on a walking tour of Dublin before depositing us at the Guinness Storehouse. We learnt about the Spire of Dublin, affectionately known as the Stiletto in the Ghetto, which at one point had lights at the top but “Ireland couldn’t afford to replace them”. The Stiletto was our beacon home - it had lights on the base that lasered into the night sky so anytime we were lost and drunk wandering the streets of Dublin, we only had to look up for the Batman lights and the calling of the way home.

We learnt about the Dublin Post Office and the Easter Rising, and saw the bullet holes in the major statues that line the middle of the main road. Ireland has had a rocky and turbulent past - with basically all of the 4 provinces, and within each province each of the 9 counties, and within each of those 9 counties each region - hating each other (and continuing to do so). So much hate and so much love bundled up in one place. But then everyone banding together to hate the English when necessity arose.

She has a bullet hole in her chest.

We visited Trinity College which was founded in 1592 and where women were first admitted in 1904. Here at Trinity, if you have been made a scholar, you are officially allowed to request a Guinness while undertaking your exams. Apparently this was tested and the student was fined for not wearing a sword - part of the official attire supposedly required to be worn by scholars (not that they do). I love Ireland.

Soon it was time to make our way to the Guinness Storehouse to learn all about how the hefty beverage is made.

The Guinness Storehouse tour is self guided - we were each given a map (which I probably would have benefitted from looking at) and a voucher for our pint of Guinness - and pointed in the direction of the START sign. Architecturally and interior design-edly, the Storehouse was amazing. Facts and figures graced the walls, the floor - no boring signs situated in front of a boring display. Moving pieces, gushing water (to symbolise the fresh Irish water that goes into Guinness, part of the reason it tastes so different to Guinness elsewhere around the world), exposed piping. I didn’t spend a long time reading the facts - I figured I can google them later. Instead, another BBer Jeremy and I revelled in the green lighting and the structural design and collected our little sample of Guinness bread.

Pure Irish water - and make a wish!

Round about here I did my usual Sasha trick and wandered off, losing those I was walking with and continued up the building by myself. As it was the day before St Patrick’s Day, the Storehouse was teeming with people. I would have been interested in attempting to pour my own Guinness (it takes 1 minute, 19 seconds to pour perfectly) but a) the line was ridiculous and b) I didn’t want to mess up my first ever Guinness by doing a shitty pour.

There was a level dedicated to Guinness marketing which I found particularly interesting - as well as left field and random - and I stood transfixed by a mechanically moving fish for enough time that people probably started doubting my sanity.

I made it to the second-to-top floor and spotted some BBers. They instructed me to head up to Gravity Bar - the top level of the Storehouse to grab my pint of Guinness and to take in the 360 degree views of Dublin. I wandered mindlessly past a long line and asked the girl at the lift how to get up to the top as she wasn’t letting me into the lift. She said that the line was people waiting to go up, but if you “just look lost and walk through there, you’ll be able to go straight up.” Looking lost is a Sasha speciality! I donned my best “I wonder what’s in here” face and pushed into the queue heading up to Gravity Bar.

Lots of BritBounders were congregated up here, so I went to the bar and ordered my pint. Before my first sip, I insisted on a photo with the drink - this was to be my first ever Guinness and I had insisted that I wanted to experience it in Ireland. 

Sip.
Not bad!
Sips again.

Before my first sip!

Still going down ok. I could get used to this! I was pleasantly surprised - I expected to instantly hate it but I found it quite nice and oddly refreshing (maybe I was just thirsty?). I congregated with the others and we sipped and drank and laughed - and became increasingly drunker. It was almost lunch time and we were all drinking Guinness directly onto an empty stomach - it certainly went straight to my head. We gave ourselves Guinness moustaches and posed for many a photo.

I had heard it said that Guinness in Ireland tastes different to Guinness everywhere else. There are two reasons for this. One: the water, as mentioned above, is pure and clean Irish water. Two: the gas used to push the beer through the lines. In the rest of the world, it is carbon dioxide. In Ireland, they use nitrus oxide - this then has an affect on the flavour.
Now that I have had an Irish Guinness, I will need to test this theory.

Powering through our Guinness!

I was about an inch from the bottom of the glass when it became a bit of a struggle. Guinness is a like a meal - it is thick, and you could almost eat it with knife and fork. It tastes a bit like vegemite, for those who haven’t tried it. It’s a drink. Like, a drink drink. It knows who’s boss. So about an inch from the bottom, finishing it was an endurance event - it had gone a little warm and I was full and my eye sight was legitimately blurry. I wasn’t the only one, so, bottoms up! we decided it was time to go to the pub for lunch.

First pub we went to wasn’t serving for some time, and a few of us were keen to experience the ceili, or Irish social dances. We found another pub (the service was appalling, but I did have an Irish coffee to keep myself awake..and drunk). 

We rushed to the meeting point and made our way to the ceili (pronounced kayley). A road had been blocked off and a stage set up with dances instructing us on the moves. We laughed and danced and jigged until we could hardly breathe, bumping each other and into strangers - watching those around us who actually knew the steps in awe. Too soon it ended and we went back to our room to collapse.
Kailey, Sally and myself popped into a few kitsch stores on the way back to see if there were any other green accessories we could purchase for the big day on the morrow. I hung back and ended up buying a shamrock scarf and a little shamrock pin to add to my brooch collection.

Back at the hostel, it was time to find my new room. The new room now being room 420. The gentleman gave me specific instructions on how to find the room, instructions to which I was not listening, so I nodded and thanked him and walked in the general direction he waved his hand. The lift only went up to level 3. I stood, finger hovering over the button, deciding I’d wander around and try to figure this out by myself. Room 420 was through two doors, across a stairwell and then up a flight of stairs. It was the only room on level 4, and I do think they were having a laugh calling it that.

There were no bunk beds in the room, but beds laid out in rows like a hospital. In the middle of the room, an intense match of beer pong was being played. I was exhausted, the Guinness finally catching up with me, and so I collapsed onto a spare bed. It wasn’t long before we learnt that liquor would be difficult to purchase on the morrow - not until midday in pubs and not until 4pm in supermarkets - and so a few of us went to the local store to stock up on breakfast beverages.

Note: You will likely need to show your passport if you are trying to buy liquor in Ireland. They wouldn’t accept my drivers licence, strangely enough. I don't know if this was because it was the lead up to St Patrick's Day or a year-round occurrence. Luckily Kailey had hers and we were able to purchase all the requirements for breakfast mimosas and Jacks 'n coke and thus we were set for a drunken morning.

For now, though, it was time to get ready to head out into the night and again see some of Ireland’s night life in Temple Bar. Temple Bar is an area, not an actual bar. I was still struggling from a slight hangover a la the night before, and was feeling rather desperately tired. Our first stop was a very hot loft space in The Long Stone (I thought it said Long Scone..) before moving onto another more alternative bar. I wasn’t really feeling it and so left shortly after - going home, yet again, via Maccas. 

***

I shall continue St Paddy’s in the next one
xx


Wednesday 11 March 2015

London and its art

I enjoy art. I don’t know what I’m looking at half the time, but I appreciate effort and talent. Even if I do occasionally think, I’m pretty sure I could do that

But ultimately art is a wonderful, hedonistic pleasure.

As a result of the grey and grizzly weather, I’ve been driven indoors in my tourist pursuits and have thus visited a number of London’s galleries of the last few weeks.

***

National Gallery
Once I was dressed and ready, I googled the Gallery and was confronted with a notice on the website. Parts of the Gallery were to be closed due to Union strike action. Oh well, it seems that most of it will still be open, I thought to myself.

I arrived in Trafalgar Square, and allowed myself to be a tourist for a moment, photographing the square and the impressive Gallery frontage. Once inside, I discovered that the wings closed were the interesting wings. Naturally. The Monet’s and the Rembrants. If I had been a proper tourist, I would have been rather annoyed by this. No matter, I’m a Londoner now, I’ll go back another time.

This left me with the 1260-1510’s and the some of 1510-1600’s. 

I spent the next few hours walking systematically through each of the rooms, not wanting to miss any painting of importance but also not spending a lot of time with any one painting. I found a small, darkened room that housed a Da Vinci that took my fancy. It was drawn on paper, and the dark room serves to preserve the 500 year old artwork. What I particularly loved about this drawing was the incredible attention to detail sketched for the faces, the upper bodies, the incredibly soft folds of fabric. Then ones eye is draw towards the feet; crudely drawn outlines, unfinished. Like he got bored and over it by that point. Too many people were taking selfies in this little room, so I didn’t get a lot of time to spend peering at the uncomfortable toes.

The da Vinci with the unfinished feet

I found other centuries old artwork which were adorned with jewels, many religious works and many by Botticelli. Botticelli’s works were of interest to me, as I instantly recognised the name as Marius’ lover and artist muse from Anne Rice’s Vampire Chronicles. Interesting how one things inspires another.

Emerging again at the entrance, and peering through the darkened doorways into the closed rooms, it was time for me to leave. I was out and about now and not ready to go home. As I walked towards the station, I realised I was passing the National Portrait Gallery. Why not? And thus I continued my artistic indulgence.

These pretty ladies, dipping their toe sensuously
out of the frame, took my fancy.

***

National Portrait Gallery
I entered through the gift shop and felt like I had gotten off to the wrong start with the Portrait Gallery. Being already weary and sore, and not sure where the main entrance was supposed to be, I’m quite certain I missed about 50% of what the Gallery had to offer. This is one I shall go back to armed with caffeine and map. First of all, it was packed. I missed a few of the smaller rooms as I was unwilling to jostle or wait in line to see - being only of short stature, if I cannot elbow my way to the front, there’s no point me being there.

I enjoyed spotted faces I knew, but seemed to get stuck in the ancient or political sections of which I had little to no interest. The famous portrait of Shakespeare’s stood out as did an interesting telescopic picture that, when you stood to the left and peered through a little hole, looked as it should. I rushed through the modern portraits, and felt like I could have spent a lot more time with these. Perhaps when I return to view the rest of the National Gallery, I’ll pop back in here and acquaint myself with a few other faces of old.

***

Royal Academy of Arts: Rubens and His Legacy
One night before a show, Tamara turned to me and asked if I would be interested in seeing an exhibition by Rubens. Sure! I said, not knowing very much about Rubens but always willing to learn. I went home and did some googling. Rubens, painting in the early 1600’s, has been classed as the “prince of painters”* due to his influential style across the centuries. The exhibition contained his own works, works by more contemporary artists (and by contemporary I mean 17-1800’s), workshop sketches and works in progress as well as very modern pieces that were claiming to be influenced by him.


Rubens certainly could paint everything - he was not a one stop show. The exhibition was arranged by topic; Propaganda, Violence, Lust. He was famous for big, fleshy nudes as well as grotesque detailed hunting scenes.

I had donned my glasses for the exhibition to avoid squinting at the little plaques and at first was feeling very knowledgable and intellectual. By about mid way, however, our facade dissolved a little, as Tamara and I giggled at the ladies reclining with dress down and breasts exposed; clearly that’s how all ladies regularly lounge.

Our final stop was the modern art influenced by Rubens. Some artwork of note was a pole, perhaps 10 foot or more tall that looked like a dripping candle wax, with one enormous breast jutting out of the centre. Or perhaps the table, with two fried eggs and a kebab. We weren’t sure either, and so we wandered back through the gallery a bit so that we didn’t have these as the final images seared into our minds eye.

If you enjoy your art, I do recommend heading along to see the collection. It is £15 entry which is a little steep but worth it for these magnificent, often enormous, works of art. 

In addition, the Royal Academy of Arts building is impressive. Hidden behind a stone wall, the building emerges from a square with a wonderful wooden-and-metal juxtapositioned sculpture in the centre.

I always like a good juxtaposition.


*Reference: Royal Academy of Arts 

***

Tate Britain
My most recent gallery experience was the Tate Britain at Millbank. I joined a Meetup called London For Less Than a Tenner (highly recommend), where we visited the Tate followed by “networking” (read: drinking) in the nearby pub. Perfect combination! I arrived at the designated meeting place to, Sasha? You must be Sasha - which left me thinking that I must look a fraction like my profile picture - and soon we were split into two groups.

Group 1 was to have a tour by a Tate Britain qualified guide, while Group 2 was given time to explore or be led by with Antony, the Meetup organiser, as tour guide. After an hour, we were to swap. I was in Group 1 and set off to learn about the pieces in the Tate.

I’d never had a tour in a gallery before and I wasn’t sure what to expect. The lady appeared to be whizzing us through rooms and I was feeling a bit put out. But I wanted to look at that! It wasn’t long before I realised that she was picking out particular pieces that could be, if loosely, linked and spending some time telling us about the work. Not just who did it and what materials it was made from/painted with, but about the artist, their psyche, the influences of the time, what perhaps the original artwork was or was meant to be and how it transitioned into the piece we were looking at today. While most of the sculptures and paintings were possibly not to my taste, I was transfixed (and discovered I was able to parrot back facts when asked. There’s me being smug again).

Early one morning by Sir Anthony Caro
Why Early one morning? Because he worked on it
all night at it was finished in the morning. 
Triptych - August 1972 by Francis Bacon.
Painted after his lover committed suicide, for which he felt
partially responsible.

Before long, the tour was over and we found ourselves back at the meeting point. We were now to have some free time, or if we wanted to stay as a group, would work through the rooms with Antony. Little did we know that this was to be a race to see which group could get through as many decades as possible. We stood, talking wanky in front of paintings, trying to decipher what we felt about them. Whether she was making eyes at us or not. Whether the darkness or the light was more prevalent. Why he wasn’t wearing any pants.

The Tate Britain was a fascinating gallery and another one I would like to spend some time in. Two truncated hours was not enough. The Tate Modern will get a little look in first though, I think and then I can compare experiences, what art I connected with better and what caught my fancy.

By the way, Group 1 were the winners: we made it all the way from 1540 through to the 1970’s.

N.B: I feel like a twat taking photos of paintings...


xx

Looking like I know what I'm doing.
Photo taken from London For Less Than a Tenner Meetup group.