Notes en route and upon arrival
Waking up at 6:30 in the morning to trudge a few kilometers to the bus station in the rain was surreal. Believe it or not, it has been raining practically non-stop for three days and is forecasted to continue. Even in sunny Spain, you can’t have May flowers without April showers. Rain, overcast skies, and blowing winds were the conditions I expected to find upon my arrival in England, not as part of my send-off.
In any case, the weather has not deterred the Spanish from their celebration of Feria week – the April fair that includes those nauseating rides we are familiar with, minus the carnie folk. I told my Spanish friends that the people that run our fairs back in America typically have lots of tattoos, no teeth, and upwards of a dozen children. At this, I could see they wanted to laugh, but they were just overwhelmingly appalled. It was funny. The only similarity I could see in the Spanish carnies was their love for tobacco products, which is a Spanish phenomenon anyways.
In addition to rides and midway attractions, there is the uniquely Spanish twist of rows upon rows of party tents, usually privately reserved by families, companies, and other groups. The beverage of choice is manzanilla – a woody, syrupy white wine that comes in at around 15-20% alcohol by volume. As a result, Feria may be an exceptional week in Spanish drinking habits - throw back a few glasses of manzanilla and you feel pretty good. The parties are big on live entertainment and some nights are thematic (i.e. everyone dress like a flamenco dancer). The best I could tell from the first few days I witnessed, it’s a grand celebration of everything Spaniards love about themselves.
Okay, pardon that preamble, back to my journey to England. In addition to checking out England, a country that I have always been eager to visit, the purpose of my trip was to visit one of my two best buddies from UMass, Ryan, who is studying at the University of Manchester for the semester.
The trip would prove to be long and taxing. After drying off a bit, I got on a bus from Sevilla to Madrid, a solid six-hour bus ride through the nothingness that is the region of Castilla La Mancha. From the Madrid bus station I took the metro to the airport to catch a flight to Liverpool, and then took yet another bus from Liverpool to Manchester. All in all it took 13 hours and I couldn’t have spared one, because I did not wait long at all during transfer from one mode to the next. Sounds like a huge hassle, but I saved a ton of cash, spending only about $140 roundtrip.
As my friends know, I sometimes enjoy being ‘that guy.’ So of course, in picking out some reading material for all the travel time, I chose David McCulloch’s 1776. What better way to return to America’s mother country than to read up on the storied year in which “a rebellious colony of disloyal brutes” declared independence from Great Britain. I read it as inconspicuously as possible on the flight to Liverpool and on the bus to Manchester. After all, I was not looking to provoke any English nationals sour about the disrespect American patriots showed the crown and the empire two hundred and thirty some-odd years ago *wink.* Honestly, I think reading a book on Tony Blair and George W. Bush’s foreign policy relationship would have been more controversial, if not more relevant.
When I landed in Liverpool, I was met with sunny skies and I could not help but appreciate the irony having left an unusually rainy, dreary Spain. Typical English humour playing a joke on me with the forecast.
Immediately, the differences were obvious. A foreign country in which all the signs are in my native language, however cheekily phrased (such as “GIVE WAY” on yield signs) was convenient. I almost asked for directions in Spanish but caught myself, realizing “oh wait, that’s quite unnecessary.” In that sense, the language barrier is technically gone, but not quite. If you recall my friend Brian in Copenhagen, he recently told me that when he visited England a few weeks ago, he was relieved to return to Copenhagen where they speak English more clearly. In some instances, I came to understand what he meant, particularly among those with the heavier Northern accent. Up north, they don’t speak what is referred to as “the Queen’s English” (think the speech of a proper English gentleman). Rather, some speak with a real edge (think the speech of an improper chimneysweep). This is a horribly caricatured explanation, but I think you get the idea.
My first clash with English culture (literally) came when I was entering the bathroom at John Lennon Airport in Liverpool. A gent was exiting as I entered and to avoid running into him, I stepped right. Unfortunately, he stepped left, so we had a bit of a collision in which I straight dropped a bag. I learned that the flow of cars on the opposite side of the road is also applicable to general etiquette in walking down a hallway. Who woulda thunk it.
Here's the giant Yellow Submarine in from of the airport. Liverpool is all about the Beatles.
It took awhile to just accept riding on the opposite side of the road. Its one of the most cited aspects of Britain so I need not go too much into it, but I don’t know how I would handle driving there. I would basically just have to forget everything I know about traffic laws and perhaps general laws of nature. Red means green, do not enter means enter, left is right, and up is down.
Riding my first bus, I couldn’t help but think the driver was on a suicidal mission for a head-on collision. I was lulled into acceptance by listening to a steady mix of English artists (Radiohead, Morrisey, Led Zep, and of course after the Yellow Submarine in Liverpool, the Beatles) on my iPod to get myself jazzed up for being in England. It was pretty awesome.
Manchester is the epitome of a college town, or as they call it, a uni city. As such, the city caters to demographics with a vast array of pubs, clubs, and kebab joints.
Kebabs are Middle-Eastern style wraps of vaguely distinguishable but delicious meats and veggies with an array of sauces. I would argue they’re one of the most heavenly drunk meals you’ll ever have. Along a main drag near the University, dubbed the Curry Mile, are countless Indian restaurants and Kebab joints. How these all stay in business is a miracle.
Of course, it would not be Britain without double-decker buses. Here’s a view from the top deck along what Ryan claims to be the most heavily traveled bus route in the world.
My first night, Ryan took me to a somewhat grimy but awesome indie rock club called 5th Ave. Three pound cover, but 80 pence (~$1.60) beers! I mean once you got over the occasional unpleasant wafts of who-knows-what and the feet-sticking-to-floor feeling, it was a blast. Also, I found myself familiar with most of the songs the DJ played – a good selection of American bands or British bands popular in the States rather than the unfamiliar and sometimes unpleasant mix of dance/R&B/hip-hop/techno you get at some Spanish clubs.
Here's me with some of Ry's friends - 3 Germans, a Spaniard, and an Italian. Ryan gets down internationally, something I can't really do in Spain, because not that many Europeans are looking to learn Spanish. Oh well...
On the bus ride home, Ryan and I got the whole top deck singing along to classics like “Build Me up Buttercup.” The most memorable was surely Wonderwall (the Brits are still very much fond of the band that claimed it would inevitably surpass the greatness of the Beatles) if for no other reason than it was hysterically typical.
The next day, like good students, Ryan and I went to his class lectured by very good-looking Canadian. There’s certainly nothing wrong with Canadians but it was a little disappointing seeing as though I was really pulling for the proper British academic with the tweed blazer, coke bottle glasses, and hand-carved pipe blowing smoke in between heavily accented drawls of intellectual gold.
Here’s Manchester University, modeled in the characteristically dark English Gothic architectural style that I saw in many of the other buildings around the city.
To be continued...
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