Moving, not travelling.

Memories and Forecasts is moving! I’ve decided to combine my travel and food writing into one neat package at CiaraNorton.ie. Come visit me at my new abode, no airports or train stations are needed.

 

When you put it like that..

 

via 'I Can Read'

It’s all very well and good to write about places I love, places I’ve been and places I think you should visit. There is some merit in recommending a great place for hot chocolate or the best spot to eat All You Can Eat Chinese food in Las Vegas. People are interested in that and by offering suggestions I can help, in some small way. But what about the other part of the world? What about the sizeable portion of the world, the inhabitants of the imaginary village nobody wants to read about, what is their place in all of this? While writing this I keep thinking about Voluntourism.

At present I know of a few people helping build schools in parts of Africa and South America. Their plans are typical of others who have given up their time to do the same: work hard for a few weeks, experience life south of the equator, be shocked by how hard people have it there and how easy we live and for the remaining fortnight or three weeks of their trip head off white water rafting, climbing, touring or just make a quick exit to the nearest “civilised” city and have fun. Does this sound cynical? It should. Many of these people organised quizzes, barbeques, auctions and other charitable events to get them where they are now. They asked me and you for money to pay for their flights and accommodation because at the end of the day they were going to Africa (the dark continent that rarely gets a country-specific breakdown) to HELP CHILDREN.

My problem is not why they go but rather how they go about it. Why do you not fund the trip yourself, sacrificing nights out and superfluous clothing for a few weeks? Why not attempt to join a recognised charitable organisation working in areas of real need for a few months instead of calling your three weeks in Kenya your good and everlasting deed for humanity? If the call of charity is so strong for these people why must their first foray be in a country thousands of miles from their own while several at-home charities waste away due to lack of volunteers?

I say all of this from an outsider’s perspective. I have never engaged in charity work outside this country and, sadly, have no immediate plans to do so. I sincerely applaud the work, the hard back-breaking work, of those people who give their lives, their time and their skills to changing the lives of those less fortunate. I am not so blind, however, to see that the majority of my peers who “go to Africa” for a month to “help build schools” are doing so in a flippant and selfish way. Helping people should not be an album in your Facebook photos; it should be something more than an anecdote to tell at dinner parties. Flying to faraway lands with the intention of helping them is not tourism, it is work: hard, difficult and hopefully rewarding work. The sooner people realise this the sooner real problems might actually begin to be solved, not temporarily fixed by the band-aid of voluntourism.

 

 

My Milan: no criticism allowed

Now seems a good time to begin my series on Italian cities. I’ve seen a few owing to a year studying in Bologna and numerous trips with my family. Today is the turn of Milan, the city the Italians, and almost everybody else, love to hate.

 

Piazza del Duomo, Milan © Ciara Norton

 

Milan is not as pretty as Florence. It is not saturated in ruins and history and religion like Rome. The food’s okay, but it’s no Bologna. I’m told it’s under sea level so it’s most assuredly not Venice. Milan suffers from comparisons drawn with every other Italian city and it is in doing this that visitors make their first mistake. Forget everything else you’ve seen of Italy and embrace the city, it’s the only way you and Milan will  get along.

I say this with love and experience. I believe the reason I forgive Milan so much is because it gave me my first taste of Italy. My Dad was working in the city and we visited regularly during that time. Our initial contact was a week spent there after a week skiing in the north. We spent our days touring and seeing most of what the city has to offer a family with three teenagers. Hours were spent in and around Piazza del Duomo and in the nearby castle and park. We arrived just before Ash Wednesday and witnessed streets thronged with men, women and children celebrating – if that’s the correct word to use here –  the beginning of Lent. As we walked through the streets that day, our clothes and hair ruined with silly string, it became obvious to me that this was not a city that worshipped tourists; Milan tolerates but does not bow to tourism. The Milanese are too busy doing other things to stop and try to sell you anything; you have to make and find your own fun here.

The highlight of that trip was a day in the San Siro stadium watching AC Milan demolish Catania. The tifosi were out in force despite the tame nature of the game itself. Flares were thrown, massive flags unfurled and voices worn thin by screaming, supporting, admonishing. Getting the metro home that night it felt like we were spending a week living in a real Italian city, a city where people – including my Dad  -worked, lived and played.

Since then I’ve always loved Milan. During my year in Bologna people would stare in disbelief as I tried to defend this city. “Ugh, it’s so industrial“, “It’s ugly” they would say. I forgot how to defend it because it was an industrial city and, unfortunately, the buildings tended more toward functional than frivolous. But no, I could not forsake Milan. There was a part of me that saw past the greyness, the so-called industy ( a dirty word for those people who feel that industry should be hidden from their delicate Art History Major-ed eyes) and fought for a city that housed the Last Supper, was home to the magnificent Duomo (even better now it’s been cleaned outside) and is at the centre of that most beautiful and daring of industries: fashion.

Scott Schuman, also known as The Sartorialist, says of Milan,

Milan gets a bad rap as Italy’s industrial city but I think that’s dead wrong. If you get out of the city centre into some of the neighbourhoods it’s just as beautiful as Venice, or Florence. It still retains its old-world charm – waiters still wear beautiful white jackets in a lot of the most traditional restaurants and bars – but Milan is not trapped by its history like Rome or Venice. It is a thriving modern city and Italy’s centre of fashion and design. Still, it has some of the most beautiful and serene museums, trattorias and courtyards in the country. Milan has tremendous cultural influence on the rest of Italy, Europe and the World.

That says it all, really. It’s a wonderful city. In the last few years I’ve gone on weekends and daytrips and it continues to surprise me. For every time I’ve been caught in the rain by the Navigli [canals] searching in vain for an open pizzeria there are multiple trips to Peck to ogle the most amazing food ever, walks around the streets teeming with designer boutiques and hours of getting lost in my own thoughts as you people-watch from a café’s window.  If you are going don’t listen to anyone but yourself. Milan is a great, great city that will show you more of Italy than a trip on a Venetian Gondola or a day’s pounding the many pavements in Rome.

- I’ve written about Milan’s bike rental scheme, BikeMi, here

Smitten with Barcelona

Standing in Antonio Gaudí’s Parc Güell, you can see across the city of Barcelona to the Mediterranean. This view can tell a visitor more about this city on the sea than anything else.

Straight ahead are the skyscrapers and cranes working towards modernising the city, pulling it into the 21st century. To their left is the Sagrada Família, a half-finished temple intended to dwarf everything else when complete.

Beyond that is the Barri Gòtic, or Gothic Quarter, its winding streets untouched by time and commerce. Nearer the water is the Olympic Village, a reminder of Barcelona’s brightest moment in the sporting sun, and the Camp Nou stadium, the venue for countless crazy nights of soccer glory.

Inside La Sagrada Familia © Ciara Norton

The capital of Catalonia, Barcelona prides itself on its heritage and dedication to the language and customs of the Catalan people. Most people speak Catalan as well as Spanish, streets signs are in both languages and many shops and restaurants advertise only in Catalan.

It is this distinction from mainstream Spanish culture and language that lends Barcelona an offbeat air that permeates the streets of the city. Gaudí began the architectural revolt against straight lines and uniformity when he started his career in the city, and it is obvious that his spirit of adventure lives on in the people and the buildings.

Viva Las Vagueness

This past week I listened to a lot of Death Cab for Cutie. My week involved a lot of time travelling: an hour on a bus here, 20 minutes on a ferry there. When I travel I like music that doesn’t demand a lot of me and, as I have listened to every Death Cab song an inordinate number of times, I feel safe when I press play knowing I can concentrate on the scenery or a long-overdue nap. The reason I ramble so about my music choice was that a song on The Open Door EP, ‘Little Bribes’ reminded me of a week my friends and I spent in Las Vegas. You can watch the song performed live here, or listen on the band’s Myspace here.

Vegas was our holiday from a holiday. It was our last hoorah before we had to pack our backs and return home after a summer in San Francisco. It seemed wrong to be so close (40 minutes flight time) to this famed city and not partake of the crazy so we went.

Excalibur's giant slot machine and Me

Our hotel “The Wild Wild West Gambling Hall and Hotel” sounded like fun.* We joked in the taxi on the way there that the hotel would be shaped like a cowboy hat and the bedrooms themed like saloons. Arriving at the two storey motel-esque joint so close but yet so far from the strip we were nothing if not a little disappointed. But it was cheap and close enough to everything we needed. Now I know that hotels in Vegas are generally cheap and that you can stay in one of the huge casinos for about as much as we paid for our old gambling hall. We didn’t know that then so we made do with the aging decor, the hard towels and the kidney shaped puddle they called a pool.

Stilled Life

I have been remiss with my shiny new blog, perhaps because writing about travelling when you’re staying still is harder than I thought it would be. Tonight I will remedy that with a few posts. But first a picture that is what my last trip was all about: coffee, sun-filled mornings, a lake and food, lots of.

If, perchance, I do go to Paris..

© Haven in Paris

I would like to stay here, at “Haven in Paris”. These are self catering apartments in Paris that are so utterly pretty and beautiful I am doing all I can not to search for cheap flights and go now. And while they’re not cheap they’re not too expensive either. If you fill the apartments to full occupancy you’ll pay far less than you would in the confines of a stuffy hotel room.

Chilling out here versus chilling in a nasty hotel bar? © Haven in Paris

When away I’ve almost always stayed in self-catering. Having the facility to keep drinks cool, rustle up a sandwich when you’re the only hungry one in your group and stay in with simple food and takeaway wine on a quiet evening is so convenient. And while I live for morning coffees on the piazza, boozy lunches and dining al fresco in the evening I also like keeping my options open.

Staying self catering also allows me to indulge my love for supermarkets, odd I know.. I like seeing what others consider staples and, but of course, checking out how much cheaper everything is when you’re not in Ireland. In Spain you can find Oreos coated in milk chocolate and Sangria in a carton for less than a euro, both definitely worth the supermarket trip. And while wandering the aisles of yet another chain store may not get your blood pumping I find it a useful way to acclimatise yourself to a new city and neighbourhood, that and having a ” we don’t speak the same language but we’re trying our best” conversation with the lady in the local bakery. You’ll come out with nothing you thought you wanted and everything you need to know for the journey ahead.

Bunk beds and Australians

I don’t think I’ll stay in a hostel voluntarily again. Quite the statement from someone with plans to see more of the world in the coming years on what will undoubtedly be a small budget. It may not be feasible but how I wish I could make it happen.

I don’t hate the concept of hostels. I don’t. When travelling to experience places there’s really no need for accommodation with all the bells and whistles. A comfortable bed in a clean and safe environment is really all one might need. So, really, hostels are great. And most of the hostels I’ve stayed in have been clean, safe, well-managed and comfortable with decent beds.

It’s the people. The people. Hostels attract people who are travelling without moving. They’re seeing the world from the windows of the hostel’s bar, experiencing the culture of a city while working at the hostel’s reception. I’m basing this view on experience, the experience of one particular hostel in Edinburgh and the traps hostel people fall into.

It was old but not rundown. The dorms were closely packed but it was cheap and cheerful. From the start we felt at home. There was a kitchen area, a snug with loads of worn books and the bare minimum in terms of toilet facilities and comfort. Our dorm quickly filled up with other Irish girls, all in search of work and somewhere to stay for the summer. Aside from us the hostel seemed populated by Australians who arrived in Edinburgh months or years beforehand and forgot to leave.

This is the hostel problem. At some stage most of the visitors end up working or living there,  groups of Australians and New Zealanders who use them as micro-employment agencies. You think I’m exaggerating?

I had the top bunk during my stay. The bottom was the home of a woman in her 40s from Australia who had arrived there about ten years beforehand and NEVER LEFT. She had a job in Edinburgh and the amount it cost her to stay there every week (taking into account that there was a reduced rate for long stays) was more than enough to pay rent on a place that wasn’t the size of her bunk bed. Her green suitcase sat at the end of her bed, waiting. Across the room there was another girl from the southern hemisphere, living out of her suitcase. She worked in a restaurant up the road from the hostel; she’d been there for six months.

We fell into the trap. A flat was hard to come by so we started to toy with the idea of staying there all summer. After a week we started to enquire into the cleaning for a free night deal they had. For free one or two night’s stay (details are fuzzy) you had to do a cleaning shift in the hostel: cleaning bathrooms, changing beds, hoovering. It was alright work, not the greatest thing I’ve ever done but it was only a morning and worth it financially.

Going into the rooms you learned that the two women in my dorm were not alone. Other tenants had turned one tiny bed-space into their homes, pictures and posters adorned the walls. The smaller two-bed dorms could’ve belonged in a college dormitory or a boarding school. It was odd, wondering what made these people stop their journeys in that place, for that length of time.

And then there’s the social aspect. In a giant hostel in London – a former prison if I’m not mistaken – the inmates socialised in the cheap bar at night. Every night was themed, every night was where music went to die. And every night a decent sized group of people spent their evenings there, it was their local. I wanted to scream at them, “You’re in LONDON for chrissakes! LONDON! Don’t you FOOLS know what you’re MISSING?”. But I didn’t. Australians are hardy folk and I didn’t fancy my chances in a scrap.

I suppose I do understand the hostel mentality. You find yourself in a strange city, with strange people all around. Then you go to a hostel and everyone there is just like you. Growing comfortable you make the hostel your home. Days turn to weeks, weeks to months and suddenly you’ve been living in a bunk bed for most of your adult life. It happens….

I didn’t stay in Edinburgh. My friends that did moved out of the hostel and into a tiny flat with about ten other people. They took turns sleeping in the two beds. In London we saw the city, never partaking of the twelve bottles of WKD for £2 offer.

Why do I hate hostels? I guess I dislike the fact that all that camaraderie makes you feel like you’re constantly walking into a private conversation you’ll never be privy to, because you know you’ll leave someday and they don’t.

That and they do love a good spot of passive aggressive note-making. Hostels are the breeding ground of the ‘Please don’ts’ and the ‘We would appreciate it ifs’ of this world.

South of the Border

San Diego was nothing but shopping, the beach and Sea World. My friends were living in a two bedroom apartment in a smart development with a pool and neighbours whose furniture was not comprised of beach chairs, air mattresses and a table from the Salvation Army.

People in San Diego don’t take the bus. Southern California drives everywhere, public transport is for the poor, the crazy and J1 students. If we didn’t make it to the beach we used the pool or went to another shopping mall. I spent too much money on things I thought I needed, which seems to be part of the objective of living in the southern part of this super-state.

Because I was 20 when I visited drinking was out of the question. Yes, no-one would know if I had a beer in our apartment but going out and sampling the nightlife was out of the question. So one night, towards the end of my trip, my friends took me to Tijuana, Mexico for a night of legal drinking and, of course, the chance for me to write a blog post a few years down the line about my experience in Tijuana.

The border

But I didn’t see Tijuana. Which is a problem when writing about a place. When we got off the tram that goes to the border we crossed a footbridge and got straight into a taxi. It was a warm night, the sort of night that you see on shows like The OC: dozens of too-young-to-drink college students and the ubiquitous J1 students crowded across the border, jumping into taxis that would take them to the many clubs in the town.

From the windows of the cab I saw little light. Tijuana is dark, there were few people on the streets and the street party I thought I’d see never appeared. The club we went to checked my passport (over 18s, I think) and stamped my hand. I paid $10 and everything else was free. It’s that cheap. The club had a cocktail bar, I was told to tip generously so my face would be recognised when I wanted service the next time; the Mexican men manning the bar were known to hold grudges. Fair enough, I’m sure their wages were next to nothing.

Drinks being free the night is sort of blurry. We hung around the back of the club, beside the volleyball court. Yes, the volleyball court. The club played commercial R’n'B, pop and rock. The U2 segment at the end, dedicated to the visiting Irish was cringe inducing.

A boy came up to my friend and asked her to dance. She declined. He then turned to me, his second choice. Shamelessly. It was sort of hilarious so I accepted and we danced. Then the music cut. It couldn’t have been the end; it wasn’t.

No, folks it was the weekly strip competition. I was rooted to the spot. Standing beside a boy I had just met, in a ply-board club south of the border I was about to witness a group of men and women compete to win a stripping competition. Sweet dreams, they are not made of these.

The men were a tame group, grinding, dancing and thrusting their crotches at the air. Any attempts on their part to introduce an element of actual sex into the proceedings – the removal of a belt, the unbuttoning of a fly – were quickly stopped by a man I presume owned the club. I sighed with relief, the strange boy and I would not have to endure a live sex show within seconds of meeting each other.

How wrong I was. The sign at the border should read “Welcome to TJ, Home of the Double Standard”.

The girls were allowed to unbutton everything. The owner helped. What began as a tame affair quickly became nasty and courted disgusting toward the finish line. Cheap, tawdry and everything that is wrong with how Tijuana operates as a border town, the show was base entertainment, free porn designed to stimulate the males in the audience and cheapen the females. The girl who took everything off won, of course. And I returned to my friend, leaving strange boy and his frat ilk on the dancefloor, transfixed.

The club ran until six or seven am and we left at dawn. Another taxi and a short walk through emigration, my eyeliner caked eyes told the officer everything he needed to know about my reason for being in TJ and my reason for leaving. At the border we went to McDonalds and breakfasted on pretty much everything on the McMenu. The people around us were clearly divided into two; the club crowd and the workers. Those beginning their day in search of the American Dream and those sampling it for a summer, dipping their toes into the SoCal lifestyle.

All in all I took about ten steps on Mexican soil. I’m intrigued by borders, the difference a line in the sand makes to the people and places on either side,  and though I’ve lived close to barbed wire fences in other places I’ve rarely been more affected than I was coming home that night. Tijuana:  it’s most defnitiely not for lovers.

North by Northwest

People, mainly journalists, who enjoy a good pun, have been obsessing over the wonders of a ’staycation’ of late. It’s cheaper! It’s easier! You don’t need to put all liquids under 100ml into a ziplock bag and lose your dignity moving through airport security!

Those writing about the wonders of discovering our fair isle in place of a fortnight sizzling on a beach rarely mention the expense of visiting anywhere in Ireland other than your local Aldi. Nor do they talk about the weather. Well, sometimes they joke about it; it’s a joke that wears thin five days into a seven day break that has seen nothing but rain and, no! it couldn’t be, the occasional snow storm.

In an effort to support our own and see some of this rather pretty country my Mum and I went on a wee staycation of our own. It’s not fair to bitch and moan when you haven’t had the experience yourself, so ’stay’ we did.

Though I was gunning for a weekend in a spa, drowning in essential oils and piped musak my mother was all about taking a trip down memory lane and getting a bargain. She won.