Travel Archives - Page 12 of 22

When I saw three of my favourite poets (I have a top ten, what of it?) tweeting about their upcoming tour, I was pretty psyched. Tim Clare, Mark Grist and Mixy, all in one gig?! Score. Maybe I’d even get to meet them afterwards, and I could detail all the things I loved about various poems of theirs. Anxious the place would be packed and I wouldn’t get a seat in the private room of a Trafalgar Square pub, I emailed ahead and asked if I needed to book tickets.

As it turns out, no. When Jonathan and I rocked up ten minutes late, we were the only people there. Other than the three nervous and embarrassed looking poets, that is.

It was a little awkward. Though I was stoked to get to meet them, the elephant rampaging around the room couldn’t be ignored. I’ve heard of intimate gigs before, but this was something else.

After reassuring the panicked poets that a twosome was a perfectly valid audience, another two couples showed up, to everyone’s relief. Tim Clare apologetically started the night off, and begged us not to feel like this was some sort of bizarre hostage situation.

Clare described his set as “sort of like watching a poet have a breakdown”- with loud couplets ringing in our ears as he bellowed out his Beckett-esque “Death of Charlie Wordsworth” and faux-slurred his way through “Pub Stuntman”. Witty and quick, I have to say my personal highlight was his Women of History rap, video below. I never thought I’d hear a bearded man impersonating Thatcher tell me to “Do your own ironing”…

Mixy, the youngest of the trio, did a set that was surprisingly sweet. I really wish I’d caught his charming ode to insanity- a love letter to Syliva Plath- but he intertwined the preamble and poem so effortlessly that it took me a moment to realise that it had begun. It was a gorgeous and lively account of the relationship he wishes he could have with madness, and if you ever get a chance to hear it, please pay more attention than I did. His letter to Amy, a girl found in chain-nighclub Liquid, is equally as charming.

Mark Grist’s set echoed his past as a teacher, a lyrical school visit. His poems run on nostalgia and humour, with revealing letters to odious history teachers and children’s stories about dirty pirates. Like Mixy, his poem on the soul-crushing chain-club Liquid also got a mention, where he impersonated (all too well) the creepy LAD that graces every Tokyo, Liquid and Tiger doorstep and fondles inebriated girls every weekend. Funny and all-too familiar, Grist closed the show on a high.

As a whole, the show was fantastic. It really was the ultimate cosy gig, and felt more like sitting in someone’s living room than the centre of London. I’d started the evening out feeling kind of sorry for the poets- a free gig in the busiest city in the UK that attracts a grand total of six people must be tough to swallow- but by the end I was pretty smug about the set up.

“What…the…f-”

A car horn honked at me. In a daze, I’d wandered into an active driveway. Standing in front of the enormous church, decorated with fairy lights and a giant walk-through “WELCOME” sign, I was already kinda nervous. It’s not every Wednesday you finish work early to go to an Anglican Christianity-conversion course. Was my idle wandering into the road a subconscious message? Maybe. I joined the queue.

This is my first Alpha. I’m stood outside Holy Trinity Brompton (HTB), freaking out.

Alpha is considered by the kind of people who take time out to consider this kind of thing, the most successful introductory course to Christianity since Jesus himself got chatting down the local fishery. There are, predictably, people who treat a Church-led course in spiritually as a bit, well, cult-y (two notable examples include this article by Jon Ronson, and this -poorly researched, imho- VICE article). I was here to test the waters myself.

Why am I here? Well, since I moved to London, I’ve been having a bit of an existential crisis. Not like the one on the Alpha ads, where a dude who looks like he’s been holding in a really serious poo for too long asks important life-changing questions like “Is this it?” and “Pub or gym?”. No, my existential crisis is of a slightly more personal nature, and probably more to do with a lingering sense of loneliness since I moved away from all of my family and friends. I’m not hoping to find God, I’m not looking to be saved. I’m just curious about how other people can find solace and comfort in a religion. Plus I heard there’s free food.

Once assigned to a discussion group, I was led inside by a guy wearing a red t-shirt with “A-Team” emblazoned on the arm. Alpha’s pioneer Nicky Gumbel stood next to his wife Pippa. They both beamed at the enormous crowd. “Welcome!”

The talks were comforting. Nicky and Pippa told us to enjoy ourselves, that Alpha was intended to be a respectful and open place to discuss our thoughts about the meaning of life. They encouraged us to listen to, question and befriend our group members. A woman sang Amazing Grace. Nicky invited artist and once-ardent-athiest Charlie Mackesy to the stage to give a funny and charming speech. I tucked into my butternut squash

Speeches over, I feel relaxed. Mackesy spoke sense, took the piss out of Christianity a little, and had the audience charmed. It seems a lot less culty now. With a bit of chair reshuffling, we join our groups again, where cake and coffee is passed round. We play a name game, led by our host and her two helpers.

The atmosphere is a little awkward. We’re all here to dissect God in someway, and it becomes clear that athiests are in the minority. Which makes sense, really. What would an athiest be doing at a Church course? I take a moment to judge my decision to be here.

What if I’m the only person in here that doesn’t believe in God? That thinks all religion is a well-meaning, ancient system created by flawed people and exploited for war, money, selfishness? That thinks gays and women aren’t inherently sinners? That would rather blog than pray? I scan my group with my Christianity-radar set to HIGH.

Our host invites us to ask broad questions about God. After a silence, someone offers up “Why is there suffering?”. I sigh inwardly, wanting more in depth questions. I fire off “If god exists, how does he manifest himself in the world?”. The group nods, and falls back into silence. More questions are asked, with our host taking notes and sagely nodding at our queries. After a particularly long pause, she suggests the group breaks up and heads to the pub. Class dismissed.

A few conversations persist, then we all disperse out of the church. I had fun. I want to go back, to ask antagonistic questions and to compare the Christian answers with my own. I’m pleased with, but still slightly wary of the whole setup. I wonder if I’ll stick it out for the full ten weeks, or if something dramatic is going to happen. I make a mental note to ask one of the helpers where she got her shirt from next week. It was a nice shirt.

Having trekked up a cruel amount of dusty steps to get the the peak of Montjuic, Barcelona’s home to museums, viewpoints and the old Olympic site, there was no way on earth you could tempt me and Beth to hike back down again.

Thankfully, we didn’t have to set up camp there for the indefinite future, as the nice folks at Montjuic provide a handy little cable car service.

There are two cablecar routes; one around the massive Montjuic itself, and one that acts as a courier between the peak of the hill, overlooking the Med, and Barceloneta beach. They depart from different points, so double check you’re getting onto the right route. We opted for the Barceloneta route, because otherwise we would have never made it down the hill again.

Before…

The views are just gorgeous. As you’re hovering over the ports, you’re treated to panoramic views of the city. On a clear day (-though is any day unclear in BCN?), you can see for miles. It’s such a lovely feeling, swooping (slightly faster than imagined) over the city, spotting the landmarks and pointing out your hotel. What a cool alternative way to see the city.

During…

Depending on your route and whether you want a round trip, tickets cost between 10-17 euro, our one-way to Barceloneta was 11 euro. It’s a little steep (no pun intended) if you’re on a mega budget, as the whole journey lasts around ten minutes one way, but for the most part I’d say it’s worth it. How often do you get to float above a beautiful city, after all?

After!

In London, there are secret rules.

Breaking them ousts you as an outsider, letting everyone in the immediate vicinity know that you’re a foolish, flailing tourist. They stir up feelings of mild contempt or pure raging hatred, depending on how serious the crime.

London is in fact designed specifically to identify outsiders- from impossible-to-pronounce towns to those pointless Open Door buttons on all tubes (HINT- none of them work, it’s just a sinister TFL ploy to reveal newbies to the entire carriage).

By far the biggest London rule, however, is to NEVER SPEAK TO ANYONE. Ever. Even if you’re squished up against their face between King’s Cross and Moorgate. Even if their rucksack just smacked you in the face. Especially not if you’re in the queue for something. What are you, some sort of sociopath?

**Top London Tip**: It’s really fun to break this rule.

So I bought a (toy) lion at the Zoo Late a week or so back, and being the cheapskate I am, refused to pay for a plastic bag to carry him home in. And as it turns out, being on a train full of drunk people while you’re carrying a toy lion is a great icebreaker.

We (me and my lion) were being mercilessly stared at. It was getting awkward. I had to break the rule. “I don’t just carry him around everywhere” I announced, startling a commuter who had been snoozing. The couple sat across from me caught my eye and started laughing. The man sat next to them, who was almost certainly a drug dealer, asked me what my lion was called. He suggested Tony, a la the Kellogs adverts. I pointed out that Tony was in fact a tiger, but nice try. More people laughed.

I sat quietly for the rest of my trip, feeling really bloody pleased with myself. I must be hilarious, I thought, sauntering down Shepherd’s Bush. I’d always secretly known I was a comedic genius, but these Tube strangers confirmed it for me. In two simple quips I’d made at least seven people in laughter. This must be what Peter Kay feels like all the time. I rang my boyfriend to tell him the good news.

A few days later, after a particularly bad night’s sleep, I nipped to the shop to get some milk. Yawning as I passed over my money, the guy commandeering the till asks me “Still in bed?”. I reply, “Yeah, and going straight back to it”, cue a ripple of laughter from him, the guy stocking the tobacco shelf, and the woman behind me in the queue. Wow, I thought, smiling, that wasn’t even that funny. Maybe because no one in London talks to each other, when they do make the slightest joke, it’s actually hilarious… I’m coming back here again.

I think London is dangerous for my ego.

Travel

The gig nobody went to

#TryAlpha: Week One of the Alpha course

Floating over Barcelona

Don’t talk to strangers – or do