The Three Ps

I’ve got another car story to tell you. It’s been a while since little Polly Polo has featured in a post and despite the fact that my recently acquired job entitles me to add some stories to the slightly neglected ‘My own little Hogwarts’, I feel a brief interlude is essential. Prepare to laugh; I openly allow you to and perhaps some of my dignity can be restored in writing a jolly entertaining tale.

The time is 6:30 pm; the day is the 21^st October and it is my 20th consecutive day of school whereby I am neither student nor teacher yet simultaneously required to be both. I have just driven several hours (the exact quantity is irrespective, I mean only to inform you that I have been driving, in the evening, for some time). I step out of the car and stretch; my Satnav (yet to be Christened although I’m leaning towards ‘Dr Chase’ as he shares a certain sexy Aussy drawl) has acted supremely and I am in fact, where I fully intend to be.

Walking around the side of Polly, I scrutinise the bodywork and the suspicious scratch that stretches the length of the car. “Yes. It’s still there. Definitely not my fault though.” I have a guilty face, I can tell, although I’m not sure why. I certainly didn’t key my car.  Anyway, digressing from the main story. 

I check my parking and am pleasantly surprised at my ‘equidistancing’ so I head towards yet another school building. I have substituted one for another and am visiting none other than my best friend who is also neither teacher nor student but simultaneously both and like me, lives in a junior school boarding house.  We hug and marvel at my parking before hugging again and marvelling at my parking some more as we head inside.  Jo is in her pyjamas; either she has only just got up, or she is planning to stand me up and get a sensationally early night. Possibly, it is option three, in which any student or ex-student can acceptably wear pyjamas no matter the time or the company.  I recognise it straight away as that warmly familiar, generic ‘slobbing attire’.  “Excellent”, I think. “That means we’re having an evening in.”

With tea in hand, we can barely word our way through even the most customary of conversation, (this doesn’t reflect badly on our friendship – we had a long chitchat the evening before on the phone), talking and answering with yawns in something that sounds a lot like ‘Whale’ (ref ‘Finding Nemo’).  I’m not entirely sure who suggests ordering our staple Dominos pizza, but it is the only realistic outcome for the evening and with surprising haste, we ascertain that we need both cash and PETROL (read back and laugh later).

I drive as it is Polly who is thirsty for fuel and besides, I can then show Jo the scratch and tell her how much “It wasn’t me!” En route, our conversation goes something like this.

Georgie: Let’s get money.

Jo: Yes, let’s get money. Good idea. Then we can get pizza. And eat. I’m hungry.

Georgie: I need petrol too. I hate getting petrol. I get confused. I forget if it’s petrol or diesel.

Jo: I know what you mean. I hate it too.

Georgie: But it’s ok. I have this totally fool-proof way of remembering.

Jo: Oh really? That’s useful. Tell me so I can use it too.

Georgie: Well. I say out loud “Polly, Polo, Petrol”. See, it has three P’s.

Jo: Wow! That IS easy.

Georgie: So I never forget.

Now I feel I could leave the story there and leave you to come to your own hurtful conclusions about my ‘Malteaser’ personality traits (for those who don’t know, my Daddy dearest sometimes refers to me as a ‘Malteaser’; I might be brown on the outside, but apparently I’m blond in the middle). However, since I’ve started the story, I’ll go on.

Needless to say, in goes the diesel. A total of 6 litres of it. But alas, that’s 6 litres too many for a new little Polo like Polly and even as I snatch the nozzle out, I know the damage is done. My heart sinks. I feel dizzy (and that’s not from the fumes, although they do normally make me feel a bit nauseous). My mouth is dry but I manage to choke out the words to Jo: “Diesel… in petrol… six… diesel… Mum… kill me”.  Jo – ever the cool cucumber. Me – not so much.  I tell her I have to call home although I know it will be the conversation of nightmares, much like the one I had to have in Russia where I ran up a bill of £700 calling England. So much for all those ‘From Russia with Love’ phone calls. I know this one will be worse, although some hope remains in the fact that I haven’t at this point switched the engine on or even put the key into the ignition. Thank goodness. I must have one brain cell in there somewhere.  The phone call is unpleasant. And for some reason, my ears tune in to what Jo is saying in the background: “Send your Mum my love”. Ever the wordsmith.

Together we shuffle our way into the petrol station, giggling inexplicably as people sometimes do in serious situations. The two attendants, currently serving other customers, eye us suspiciously. They must think we are stealing petrol. Or diesel.  I mumble that I’ve put diesel in petrol or petrol in diesel and now it won’t go and glancing outside, he asks if we are parked at pump 10, adding that it has been stationary for some time.  Jo whispers that they definitely thought we were trying to steal petrol. Or diesel. The man doesn’t hear and asks if we have a number to call.  I tell him yes and we leave, hastily.

Sitting self-consciously in the very stationary car at pump 10, we call Aviva breakdown who inform me that I’m not actually included on the breakdown policy; that privilege lies exclusively with my parents. Apparently, that small matter is irrelevant though as the cost of sucking out the offending petrol or diesel is a fairly standard £179, excluding VAT. Also, they would have to tow poor little Polly all the way to ‘Upper Riffington’ (I ask the man to repeat this three times before getting him to spell the words out to me Alpha, Bravo, Charlie style), then fix her up while I wait and then they would expect me to drive myself back. Now Upper Riffington (I can’t say this place without sounding resentful – it’s a great word for taking your fury out on) is apparently 45 minutes from Cheltenham, so once they get to us (in 45 minutes or so), drive to flipping Riffington (in 45 minutes or so), fix the problem (in 45 minutes or so) and I drive myself back (in 45 minutes or so), the nightmare might finally be allowed to end. Also, as an afterthought; is 45 the only number these people know??

I am unhappy with this solution, with the additional insult of having to pay some heinous amount of money, so I call back home and am presented with an alternative from my heroic Uncle who has found a company on Google who will sort out all my problems on the garage forecourt.  Fantastic. Jo and I almost jump for joy. (Jo has meanwhile told me that of course she will come to Flipping Riffington with me and in return she will tell everyone on my wedding day about this amusing little incident.)

With our problems almost solved, Jo drags me into a nearby pub (still in her pyjamas and by now, slightly conscious of being so) and persuades me to substitute Dominos for burgers and chips (or risotto in our case). Although the chap is late in arriving, it works to our advantage as we have time to order and eat our food while Polly waits patiently in the garage. The ‘magic-fixing-hero-car-man’ high-fives me as he leaps out of his van. I like him already. He gets me to steer while he pushes the engine-dead car to the side of the forecourt and then entertains us with stories of becoming a stand up comedian called ‘MFI’ (M*F* Indian). He scares me with prices and watches as my expression turns to horror.  Jo sits in the car accepting fully the abuse she gets about being in pyjamas on a Saturday night but has the sense to ask him to clarify on the costings.  The nice man then gives me a discount, which takes the price down from £290 to £210 – in cash if you please.

He leaves; I still feel sick; Polly doesn’t die when I turn the ignition; we watch some Downtown Abbey and eat Gu and drink some wine.

Rediscovering Ecuador

One of the volcanoes surrounding Quito

I would go back to Ecuador in a flash. Peru may have the legendary landmarks, and Chile the better wine, but Ecuador has an infinite variety of appealing, otherworldly qualities. Straddling the Equator and set in a true Tigua artist dreamscape with snowy volcanoes all around, much of the country is situated at 9,200 feet above sea level where the air is ethereal and delicate.

       I once went on a micro-mission to the top of the Pichincha volcano in Quito. At the summit I was rewarded with a charming little café that had vast, panoramic views of the city.  Oxygen came ready-flavoured in intriguing potion bottles, capitalising on the exoticism of oxygen deprivation in an amusing and imaginative way.  

       It is my father’s family that has connections with Ecuador.  My godfather fell in love with the country, married an Ecuadorian and had a daughter who subsequently became my goddaughter. As a language student, and looking to polish my Spanish, I had left London in search of the true Ecuadorian experience. 

Kids watching a parade in Pomasqui

Pomasqui, the rural town outside of Quito where I was to spend the next two months with my relatives, was far enough from the city for the surroundings to change dramatically. It was beautiful, with gently undulating mountains and crystal blue skies, but it was dirt poor with a marked lack of picture-postcard charm. Our jeep – cerulean blue, rusting and with dents like a golf ball – seemed to suit Pomasqui better than it did Quito.  For one thing, it was the only type of vehicle that could tackle the terrain, which consisted of 1:4 gradient hairpin bends that made the engine groan and sometimes stall, dust clouds, loose rocks, stray dogs and quantities of sand. Only the men were capable of driving it, although most had no form of license.  The buildings were basic, made from crude bricks and clay, with stairs on the exterior and furniture only of the utmost necessity.
 

In the months that I spent with my Ecuadorian relatives, I discovered that rural communities have a culture of their own. It is not a frivolous or glamorous one, but it is one that has a deep-rooted and enriching personality, embodied through its inhabitants.  It dawned on me that, unlike so many festivities that have been beautified to satisfy the insatiable travellers amongst us, the customs and traditions in rural areas exist solely for the pleasure of the local families.  Bull fighting is a longstanding and popular activity but few people will have ever encountered the exciting local variations and shocking customs that would make British Health and Safety shudder.

Befriending a local is the best way to find out about excitements like these and thanks to my familial connections, I was duly invited on two occasions.  The setting was a dusty paddock on a hillside, encircled by jeeps and trucks on which sat entire families.  Multitudes of passionate villagers shrouded every inch of the surrounding vicinity, piled high on or peering under wooden fences and standing on cars. Hordes of men, some as young as ten or eleven lingered and cavorted around the crude ring, tantalising the bull mercilessly, leaping up wire fences or rolling under cars when it turned to attack. My goddaughter Isabella turned to me when her uncle leaped into the ring and said ‘No quiero que le mate a Julio’ – I don’t want it to kill Julio.  I shivered and thought the same thing.  
 

Pomasqui bullfighting

 Julio and I first met when we were just nine years old. We were at a wedding and dressed in matching little green outfits, he was pageboy, I was bridesmaid.  There was a pleasing symmetry in the fact that, over a decade later, we were re-introduced in Ecuador at another wedding. A local tradition is to play games involving the bride and groom and all the young single men and women in the room. As one of the singles, I was prodded forward to the front with some other anxious girls while Julio begrudgingly joined the boys.  The game, from what I understood at the time, involved naming items in a category with the intention of finding one boy and one girl who chose the same item as the married couple. These two poor souls would be singled out – pun intended – and after the ceremonial removing of the garter from the leg of the bride, the groom handed it to the single man to put on the outstretched leg of the single lady. There was some embarrassment, but more than anything, there was lots of laughter, as is customary with so many Ecuadorian traditions.
 

Ecuador is a country that in many ways has it all; mountains, islands, rainforests and an extensive coastline with industrious fishing villages, popular retreats, serene beaches, prize surfing breaks and bustling ports.  I fell in love with Montañita – a lively coastal town, full of local families and tourists alike, seafood restaurants, clothes stalls and a plethora of kitsch souvenir stands.   Nevertheless, what appealed to me most was the sense of culture that erupted as the evening drew in.  Children were in abundance and yet the atmosphere wasn’t raucous or tiresome; you’d see them bunched together in the trailer of a jeep, or munching happily on meaty kebabs from street vendors; little girls squirming in the evening heat as they had their hair braided; tanned youths darting in and around traffic with a deflated football. A fusion of latino music followed us down the coastline, sometimes harmoniously in sync with neighbouring venues, other times not, but always demonstrating the wonderful flavour of the region.

Antonio - our guide around the Otavalo countryside

I had it on good authority that for an entirely different perspective of Ecuador, I should visit the Imbabura province, home to one of the Indigenous communities that live about two hours north of Quito and famous for its fabulous Otavalo crafts market.  With some friends I’d made locally and an escort trio of a father and his two sons, our party skirted the market and embarked upon a six-hour horseback trek into the surrounding bush. We clambered up steep rocky outcrops at 45 degree angles and galloped down into the depths of valleys.  But the steeds were sure-footed, robust creatures and had their noses pointed in the right direction.  Our guide Antonio’s two sons weren’t much older than eight and ten but they rode bareback as if it was the most natural thing in the world. They belonged in that environment, as wild as the horses and uninhibited in issuing commands.  Their father – strong, silent and impressive in his presence – wore a leather jacket and a white panama hat; he seemed to blend into the surroundings.  We rested under the enchanting arbol de la vida – the tree of life – gazing in awe at the valleys below and feeling at peace with the solitude of the outdoors.
 

After the immensity of the countryside, it was refreshing to spend a bit of time in Quito, Ecuador’s capital city, known throughout the country for its revitalising juxtaposition of the old and the new.  Quito Antiguo – the old town – features a melange of Colonial and Gothic architecture with mazes of winding cobbled streets that both dazzled and confused my untrained eye.  Smiling pproprietors in doorways offered me hot cocktails of Vino Hervido – an infusion that translates as Boiled Wine and which inexplicably tastes of feet, Chicha – a brew from fermented maize produced by the process of chewing the corn and spitting it back into the concoction, or Canelazo – made from a selection of more agreeable ingredients and a little sugar cane alcohol to help it down.  Tunes I vaguely recognised from the guitarra clásica drifted out of nearby restaurants where pensive diners smoked cigarillos on balconies, surveying the alleys from above. At night, the atmosphere would intensify; aged, stony plazas charmed us to concerts al fresco as everyone relaxed from the flurry of the day, drifting into a metaphorical and literal Adagio. By day, the plazas would transform into a hubbub of entrepreneurial duelling with the young seizing their first money-making opportunities with nothing more than a rag and some shoe polish.  

Quito Antiguo

In stark contrast, Quito Nuevo is the heart of all things youthful, fresh, and forward-thinking.  Here people opt for speed over leisure and La Ecovía is your 25 cents’ worth of discomfort.  Translating roughly as the Eco-Route, ‘La Ecovia’ is essentially a bus that runs off electricity produced through overhead wires and is a regular and reliable alternative to driving.  Overcrowded and with an ever-present risk of pickpockets, it is both a nightmare and a saving grace for travellers.  In a short space of time you can reach any number of large shopping centres, full of contemporary retailers, cafes and ‘Gadgeteers’ who delight in promoting the latest handset, sim deal or laptop.  Throngs of nattering teens converge in the cool interiors, tapping away on their cell phones.

Back in Pomasqui however, life is simpler; less hectic; more rustic.  I’ll never forget meandering my way up the hill to visit the Grandmother; high-fiving the tiny dark-haired children that played in the road with the dogs; nodding at the old man who swept his yard every morning.  Their lives were without luxury but they were content to make do with what they had.  It was humbling to watch.

My time in Ecuador taught me a number of things.  I learnt about priorities, that money isn’t everything; it never will be because there will always be people who exist and prosper without it. I learnt that family life, while not without its hardships, gives Ecuador so much of its culture.  Most of the values and customs I encountered stem from that unity. And I learnt that you should set your sights higher and further in order to truly scratch the surface of this country.  Guidebooks will direct you to the country’s most glossy and impressive locations, but so much remains beyond that, best to be discovered yourself. Whether it’s enjoying a moment of sheer culture-guzzling indulgence, like paying for fruity oxygen, or a chance encounter with a local who has a wonderful story to tell – these will be your timeless souvenirs.

The Highway Code

'Little Dog Syndrome'

I watched an advertisement the other day that I laughed at.  At first I wasn't sure what angle they were going for as people zipped along pavements with furious expressions, sending passers-by hurtling in random directions and narrowly avoiding collisions. They revved and snarled and seemed truly incensed about life and their surroundings.  The tag line was something like 'You wouldn't act this way on the pavement so don't act this way in a car' and I actually cackled.  I sat there thinking, 'That is so totally OTT, people just DON'T act like that when they are driving'.  I thought it was just another far fetched ploy by the advertising companies to make a little money with an analogy that didn't quite fit.  Today however, I regret I was proved wrong.  

Today I took my first long distance drive. (All you Americans out there will mock my definition of long distance but regardless, it was the furthest I've yet gone solo by car.)  I drove from Barnard Castle in County Durham to Newark in Lincolnshire, a drive that takes around 2 and a quarter hours.  Straightforward, direct and for the most part relatively pleasant, this journey should have been a doddle.  All I had to do was drive through town, join the A66 for 10 miles to the Scotch Corner roundabout and then A1 South all the way to Newark. To be honest I don't think I did too badly.  After crawling along behind a 'monster'* tractor in an uphill struggle towards the A66, (all the while worrying that either he or I would have engine failure and start sliding downhill,) the 10 mile stretch towards Scotch Corner was a delightful stream of ups and downs as the dual carriageway rolled gracefully along with the hills.  

*'monster' - wheels the width of my car and twice the height that would no doubt squash me and my little Polo into the tarmac... never to be seen again.  

At Scotch Corner (I for some reason always picture a Scotch Egg when I hear this place mentioned...) I completely disregarded both intuition and parents' advice telling me to position myself in the right hand lane and swerved across into the left hand lane. It was one of those moments where you wonder whether your brain and hands belong to two entirely different human beings as there appears to be no obvious connection.  I knew I should be in the right lane but my hands weren't having any of it.  Somehow I managed to scrape little Polly Polo across at the last minute, screaming at me for trying to accelerate away hard in first gear and not at all thanking me for it afterwards.  

Once onto the A1, I cruised along for a little while at a safe 73mph singing along to oldies like American Pie and Build me up Buttercup when all of a sudden I felt a whoosh of air as another monster vehicle practically took the side of my car off.  It was a big silver beast and was gone before I got a good glimpse of who was driving such a pretentiously enormous car.  A presumed case of 'Little Man Syndrome'.  I grumbled and edged across into the left hand lane for safety.  Natasha Bedingfield 'I Bruise Easily' came on and I giggled at the irony.  "I bruise easily, so be gentle when you handle me." 

I began to understand what my driving instructor used to say about how you can very quickly be dragged into a torrent of fast moving traffic when on the motorway.  It reminded me of the swimming pool at Center Parks where the rapids take you around on a little course and everyone moves at a different speed.  If you don't want to be smashed about you have to 'go with the flow' and weave in and out of people, all the while feeling slightly out of control of your own body. On a motorway, if you want to avoid being stuck behind a lorry you have to pick your moment carefully in which to fuse with the deluge of cars next to you.  Once you have accomplished that tricky manouever, the ominous black SUV is starting to threaten annihilation from behind so you brake and get sucked back across into the slower *and safer* moving traffic once again. And such is life on a motorway. Forever speeding up, slowing down, speeding back up again. Hardly economical really.  

At one point I almost ended up on the M1 but spotted the tell-tale sign at the last minute that told me to re-align with the right stream of traffic.  Lucky me.  I feel like I did an OK job; Polly was in one piece by the end of it, I played a continuous stream of sing-along songs to keep my cool and I arrived at the correct destination without even having glanced at a SatNav (which is more than I can say for a lot of people...)

Photo from this link

The A Team goes for Plan B

The World in colour

I am the A Team. Singularly. When Plan A doesn't work, I invent Plan B. When Plan B doesn't work I look to Plan C and so on and so forth. Plan A was to become an airhostess and travel the world with British Airways - (read my first post to see why). Plan B was to power through drama school and become an actress (I applied to audition for Hermione on Harry Potter - read 'My own little Hogwarts' to see why).  Plan C was to be a teacher, but then I decided I really just didn't want to be. 

I've gone through most career options and zipped through the Alphabet with assorted 'Plans' and reckon I'm back at about Plan B, for the second time around.  Plan B) ii) is to go and see the world. Or at the least leave England which I haven't done in almost 18 months. 

I'm staring at the recently acquired map of the world taking up the entire far wall of my room and it's colourful. Not just because I've graffitied it with my 'already visited' and 'aim to visit' colour-coded stickers, but because the map itself is...colourful. 

Canada for example is Green. I'm not sure why Canada is green, perhaps they have a lot of grass there. Spain is a pale shade of Pink. I'm fairly sure there's no pink in the Spanish flag. The sea is Blue- well, that at least is reassuring. I look at the world map and it's multicoloured, it's diverse, it shows variety which is exactly what the map itself represents; an individuality about its population, a uniqueness about each place.  

When I lived in the USA, my sister and I wrote out a list of all 50 states and we kept it in the car.  Whenever we travelled, and we usually did so on a rather epic scale, we contented ourselves to peer out of the window and scrutinize every car registration plate in order to find one from each state.  They were all different; Alabama (our state) said 'Heart of Dixie' and had pink flowers and blue writing.  I don't remember the others so well. But it was fundamentally a task of completion, a small substitution for actually visiting EVERY state.  We completed it during our final few months, with Alaska being the final, devilishly elusive state.  (Apparently no-one on the Interstate was ever from Alaska.) 

My point is (I have slightly digressed here) that seeing the world is for me the ultimate goal of completion. To see what exists to be seen and to be lived; not to take our planet for granted but to recognize that it provides a spectrum of differences, although fundamentally united by similarities.  It would take a lifetime to go everywhere, but we can all aim high.  I will probably not see the entire world, but I shall endeavour to get a glimpse of it if I can. 

Catching up with the Joneses

I know I'm not a Jones, I'm a Klein.  But I feel I owe a catch up as it has been a little while since I've posted anything and I've noticed just the hint of a decrease in page views on my profile... I won't hold it against you... not this time. 

So there are various things I have considered updating you on.  Firstly, the self indulgence of those high-profile companies who feel it is their right to entirely and unsympathetically disregard candidates (with or without potential for success) without tact and without fear of reprisal.  Secondly, your very own choices and ideas of items to post on my blog, which many of you kindly voted on and which I hope to deliver on a regular basis.  And thirdly, what's new 'en mi vida' ('in my life' for you non-Spaniards out there.)

I shall start by relaying the bad news to you with the understanding that it should always be followed by something more positive to leave you smiling.  The job market is letting me down.  No, it's stronger than that really, it's failing me, it's squashing me with its enormous five inch stilettos. The Guardian and the Independent preach that we should endeavour to make job hunting our 'full time job' and so I have wiled away long days in my Paris Gellar-esque work retreat, pouring out my heart and soul (also personality traits, work experience, previous employment and personal statements) into job application after job application with think-bubbles screaming 'EMPLOY ME EMPLOY ME EMPLOY ME', all I might add, to no current avail.  I have submitted quite literally myself  to not one, not two but twenty six different publishing-related companies and in response, have heard back from six. 

The most exciting possibility was in travel oriented publishing for a company that produces in-flight magazines for big airlines.  I applied for an internship in the editorial department, lured in by the ambitious and challenging array of experiences they offered; I went for interview, but am still waiting for a definitive answer.   

Who else did I apply to? 

• The BBC to work in research for an Arts Documentary - no luck there, but honestly not especially surprised.  I'm no Simpson or Dimbleby.

• NOW Magazine - jumped through hoops writing some 'sample' pieces for them but after an initially positive response, was told nothing was available until May and I would need to reapply.  The response read: "Sorry, we are now booked up until April. If you would like to apply for a placement after 6 April 2011, please put your new dates in subject field and reply to this email".  That was it, no 'thank you for your time, efforts, hope, enthusiasm...'

• Time and Leisure in London were a lot more helpful in their rejection in the sense that they explained the reasoning behind it and offered some alternatives I could look into.  Thanks to them.

• Time Out gave me the following feedback which at least stopped me from deciding that I have NO talent at writing and applying for a job as a 'leaflet hander-outer' (which at least offers some financial incentive): "Your application was of an extremely high quality so although I can not offer you a work placement at this time, I would like to keep your details on file."

So, having Googled every single publishing company the gargantuan online encyclopaedia could provide me with and trawled through copious magazines, applying to them didn't seem to have benefited me in the slightest.  All I had achieved was a colossal contribution to deforestation and a displacement of several thousand hours of my time. It seems that I must reassess my application technique, try even harder for an internship and in my hopes to reaffirm my true love of writing, put fingers to keypad even more often to substantiate myself as a writer. 

And so onto the good news :) my poem 'Human Expose' won first place in a competition called 'Strictly Shakespeare'. It wasn't a big competition, I entered mostly because the theme was 'Valentines Day' and the entry fee was only a pound. In a knock-out elimination process based on daily votes, I somehow managed to beat the final competitor with her brilliant poem 'Worth It' and got a nice little prize of £20. Thanks to everyone who went on the site and voted :-)

Finally, thank you to everyone who voted on the poll I put up on my site asking what you would all like to see more of.  First place, quite surprisingly, was Photo of the Day.  So I'll be keeping my eyes skimmed for interesting things to snap! Secondly, tied, were The Alabama Chronicles and My own little Hogwarts. I get so excited delving into the vast expanse that is my memory and recollecting the nuggets of quirkisms and peculiarities that accompanied those years of my life.  Some people suggested more travel and culture related pieces, which I have some ideas for so I'll keep you posted on those and I might even do some little insights into things that I personally find engaging / exciting / noteworthy, whether it be books, films, cooking or whatever! Wait and see!

Life in Yaroslavl, with its mad Russian cats

At the end of my second year of University I was Russia bound, on a year placement to enhance my knowledge of the language.  More specifically, I was destined for a city on the Golden Ring called Yaroslavl.  Now a little history and geographical insight before I get going.  Yaroslavl is located about 150 miles north east of Moscow, Russia’s capital city and sits both on the interlaced fingers of the Volga and Kotorosl rivers and also on the Trans-Siberian train line.  It has a population of almost 630,000 and was founded at the start of the 11th century by Yaroslavl The Wise, who bestowed his name on the city.  Over the next few centuries, Yaroslavl became one of the most important trading cities due to its prime location on two main rivers, and forms part of what is know as The Golden Ring – a selection of famous old cities north of Moscow.  Yaroslavl is also home to Russia’s oldest theatre, The Volkov and is recognised by the symbol of a bear, thought to have been slain by Yaroslavl on his first visit to the site. My first sight of the city when the airless coach pulled over at the road side was an enormous block of apartments, perhaps eight or nine storeys high.  On the dingy wall that faced us was an equally huge image of this exact bear clutching an axe – a symbol which I would learn to recognise and see branded on everything, from buses, to flags and even crockery. I was called to the front of the bus before anyone else.  My name echoed down the silent rows of seats as Julia – our Russian staff liaison – beckoned me forward with an encouraging beam that only marginally heartened my tense mindset.  I opened my mouth in disbelief; I had imagined we would be first taken inside a building, to a well lit room with a crowd of cheerful Grandmothers standing eagerly in wait for their adopted grandchildren; I certainly had not prepared myself to be booted out into the dark midnight suburbs of Yaroslavl, without even a glance at my Grandmother-to-be for the next three months.  I wanted to take a friend with me; anyone who would come; I didn’t want to be alone.  But holding the bus up did not at that moment seem like a suitable option and so I begrudgingly heaved my way to the front, supporting the weight of two shoulder bags and a fur-lined coat and sombrely disembarked from my safe-haven.  The air was surprisingly thick with a warmth that penetrated through the thickness of my snow coat right to my clammy skin, and I made a mental note that I would not be needing the coat again for some time.  My eyes darted from the only other person on the sidewalk to the near vicinity, then a little further still, to check that the young 40-odd year old woman standing there was indeed my ‘hozyaika’, or host lady.  I wasn’t sure whether her young age made me more or less comfortable, but I took one final look back at the bus load of peaky, anxious faces before gritting my teeth and ploughing headlong into the unknown. I didn’t honestly pay attention as we took the five minute walk from the drop off point to the apartment, but I can describe it now, in retrospect.  The best way for me to do this is to get you to imagine a ghetto; maybe there are rows of dumpsters littering the only communal bit of grass, or perhaps a lone man staggering along the dirt track; or pot holes that reach up to your knees.  Any of these things could have been found in the immediate vicinity of my apartment.  The blocks of flats were congregated in a square shape, with paths joining one to the next like dot-to-dot.  A rusty climbing frame had become a makeshift washing line, balconies suspended hazardously off the sides of buildings high above your head and stray toms wandered aimlessly in search of a mate.  The thing is, each ‘quadrangle’ of apartment blocks appears very much like the next and getting lost is not a luxury for a foreign student with places to be.  In my first few days of living in block 23, floor 6, flat 5 (with no lift), I got very lost, twice.  I find it interesting that the Russian phrase to get lost, translates as ‘to lose oneself’, indicating that the action has an element of intentionality rather than being an inadvertent mishap.  I certainly had not premeditated ‘losing myself’, nor had I been careless in doing so, but nonetheless I drifted like some forlorn wanderer down road after craggy road in search of a neighbourhood that as far as I was concerned, did not exist on the map.  I quickly mastered the phrase “Izvenitye, vi znayetye gdye eta dom dvadtsat tree? (Excuse me please; do you know where apartment 23 is?).  Somehow or other I normally ended up back home, flustered, sweaty, hugely apologetic and further humiliated by my incompetence at using door keys. As with any decent ghetto, five locks and five different keys put a good margin between my safe haven and the dangerous and foreign world beyond. So I lived in the slums of Yaroslavl, but surprisingly grew to be quite fond of it.  It actually had a lot of character once you got past the shabby exterior.  For instance, every morning I would traipse past little groups of huddled ‘babooshkas’ and ‘dedooshkas’ (grandmothers and grandfathers) who congregated on benches wearing snug tea-cozy shaped hats and scrutinizing me in silence as I ambled past.  Just when I could scarcely be considered out of earshot, they would erupt back into raucous chitchat, throwing around words like ‘devooshka’ (girl) and ‘inostranni’ (foreign), which of course I smugly recognized.  My aim, though I never consciously decided it, was to smile politely at them every single day until one of them nodded or returned the gesture.  In my mind, I was like Diane Lane in ‘Under the Tuscan Sun’ who would nod her head each morning to this little old gentleman who put fresh flowers on a roadside shrine, never once receiving a reaction from him.  Yet one day, no different really from any other, the man goes to leave, hesitates, turns back and unmistakably touches his hat for just a second, before walking away.  Out of the whole film, that was the one part that would infallibly make me cry. Another attribute of my block was that it had a strong resemblance to a cat refugee camp or something along those lines.  If you walked down the alley late at night, a stray flea-ridden ball of fur might wheedle its way up to you and hover infuriatingly at your feet waiting to be fed.  There were cats everywhere.  Cats lurking behind trees, cats caterwauling like drunk musicians, cats partaking in gang warfare, fur spiked like punks and backs arched like the Sydney Harbour Bridge, cats hissing and spitting like obnoxious teenagers and cats fast asleep in dustbin lids, oblivious to the pitter-patter of mice feet scuttling fearlessly past.  When daylight reappeared, groups of children would emerge from their sleepy hollows armed with cardboard boxes in one arm, and helpless kittens in the other, ready to construct a small-scale community project for the poor starving street-kittens. My landlady Tatyana had a cat.  It was a white and brown fluffy thing called Masska with beady blue eyes that made her look possessed.  The truth was, I think she had turned a little mad.  The unfortunate creature was destined to spend every living minute in a 15ft squared apartment with no fresh air or chance to socialize with other mogs in the street.  I wondered when she had last seen daylight, if ever.  Now, I’m a cat lover, but my relationship with Masska was one that fluctuated between pity and exasperation.  I used to endeavour to keep her barred from my bedroom while I was home alone, but after one too many occasions opening my door and seeing her sitting patiently staring up at me, two little front paws crossed neatly one over the other, I began to go soft, and sometimes, if I too sought some company, I’d allow her entry to park herself next to me on the bed while I read.  That was Masska when she was being civil.  Masska when psychotic was a different kettle of fish.  This would generally happen when I was powerless to fight back, like if I had been out for the night and had to creep back into the apartment, past Tatyana’s sleeping figure on the sofa and into my room, where I could shut the door and marvel at my brilliantly feigned sobriety.  These were the moments when Masska seemed to hate me.  As soon as my key touched the first outside lock, I could practically sense the little tyrant’s ears pricking up and once I was inside the flat, there would be a brief moment of eye contact, in which I would mouth silently “Don’t you dare”.  Her non verbal retort would be to fly headlong into my room, like a bat-outta-hell and position herself under my chair where it was problematic and time-consuming to extract her.  I would be forced to try everything, from seducing her out with promises of tickles and strokes, which worked for a while, until she realized my grand plan, to trying to lure her out with games like “What’s this I’ve got here Masska?  Is it a wiggly little worm for you to play with?” The latter involved props like belts or dressing gown cords that first had to be located and then generally had to be left outside my door over night once their purpose had been fulfilled.  The cheeky minx was a quick learner though and soon cottoned on that once we were both outside my room, I had a tendency to dart back in and shut the door on her little black nose; she remedied this by learning to recognize the signs and at my first micro-movement, she, like a bullet that’s gone before you have time to blink, would be once again positioned under my chair, looking at me conceitedly as if saying “Nice try. Mwahahahahahah”.  She was the devil, I’m sure.  By this point, I was so tired, frustrated and enraged that I would have no qualms with finding a trainer and practically booting her out of the room. As I mentioned before, the apartment where I stayed for those three months was no bigger than 15ft squared.  My kitchen at home could easily house the living room, kitchen, bedroom, and broom closet bathroom but to be honest, I never had problems with the size.  Tatyana had kindly given me her room which was perfectly comfortable, but this meant that she had to sleep on the sofa bed in the living room which was the central room of the house, and naturally, the route to the bathroom.  On my first night in the flat, when I arrived at midnight exhausted, verbally incompetent and grimy from the long day of travel, I took a shower, as one might expect.  My first thought was that there was no lock on the door.  In fact, there wasn’t even that useful little catch that prevents the door from blowing in the wind (had there been any wind to move it).  Once I had removed the soiled cat litter tray from the bath, (all the while pinching my nose), clambered in and crouched with the hand-held shower low over my head so as not to soak the line of washing that hung above, I was then greeted by nosy little Masska who nudged open the door and waltzed in as if she owned the place.  “This is going to be an interesting year,” I said out loud, realising in dismay there would be no escaping this quirky and alien existence. To see this article published in full, click on the link: http://travelmag.co.uk/?p=2284 Copyright © 2010 Georgie Klein

BA and Best At It.

Myself (left) and Rachel aged 9 and 10 arriving for the first time in Atlanta, ringing Grandparents to say we'd arrived

[In 1997 my parents were posted out to Montgomery Alabama for 3 years with the military. Rachel and I were at a little boarding school called The Duke of Kent in a small rural village in Surrey.  It was a very family oriented school and did a lot to help out Forces families like mine. At the end of my first year at that school, aged 9, my sister and I made the first of many flights from Gatwick to Atlanta, Georgia. Our grandparents were our guardians so they would drive us to the airport and hand us over to the BA Unaccompanied Minors staff.]

Flying solo with British Airways as a wee thing assures a quality of service that is rivaled by no other.   Whether embarking from London Gatwick, or ‘Atlanna Geeorgia’, you are greeted like old friends by British Airways’ finest representatives and steered into your private waiting room – the ‘UM’s Lounge’.  You quickly familiarise yourself with shelves of sweets or ‘candy’, old-school video games and those low square tables shaped like big dice that are dotted with magazines like ‘Girl Talk’ and ‘Beano’.  This treatment as you may or may not have guessed is reserved exclusively for children flying as ‘Unaccompanied Minors’.   As verification of your status, you are expected at all times to don a cerulean blue rectangular wallet that sits comfortably around your waist or neck, supporting the BA logo, and in which you carry like treasures your passports, tickets, and most importantly your Log Books.  These are presented to you on your very first flight as a solo traveller and feature all the vital facets of your flight – the date, flight number, destination, original location, mileage, accumulative mileage and naturally the captain’s name and signature.  In a short space of time you can accrue copious thousands of Air miles which are accredited as free flights for Mum and Dad, and the 100,000 landmark is rightfully celebrated with orange juice and a card signed by all the aircrew.

There is an overwhelming sense of excitement as you hand over of your log book to a flight attendant at the start of the flight, and eagerly await its return.  Sometimes, once the cabin lights have been dimmed during night flights, and all other less resilient travellers have slipped on their eye masks, stuck in a pair of headphones and turned their backs to the person in the neighbouring seat, a fresh faced airhostess creeps down the aisle to where you and your fellow UMs are busy creating make-shift dens out of your neighbours’ blankets and summon you to the captain’s HQ.  You follow, softly shuffling in BA’s ‘one size fits all’ socks, down the floor-lit passageways, through Business Class, where the seats are leather and spacious, through thick-set curtains into First Class, where snoring floats from cosy looking beds separated by cubicles, past a final set of curtains and up to a tall white door with a no entry sign.  She taps lightly, opens the door and ushers you in.  Two smiling moustaches turn their necks to face you and greet you as old friends, asking how the standard of services compares to your previous journey, whether you had a good holiday, amongst other things.  And as though you’ve never flown before and weren’t already old hands at cock-pit drills and button layout, you ask them to explain how everything works, pointing hither and thither and gazing through the vast windowed expanse at the multitude of other flashing lights that dot the black velvety sky.  Be so bold as to ask to wear the Captain’s hat and you may well be successful, on the basis that if you don’t ask, you don’t get.  Weather and direction dependent, you may also be fortunate enough to catch a glimpse of the glorious Northern Lights, or Aurora Borealis in the far distance, adding yet another truly unique experience to your fast expanding list.

On a separate occasion, your captain may be exceptionally forthcoming.  Perhaps he has children of his own and understands parental concerns of young’ns flying alone, or perhaps word has travelled up to the front of the plane of two dismal looking, homesick girls sitting way back in cattle class.  Either way, you are beckoned to the cock pit to meet your heroes and are warmly requested to assist in the landing of the plane – a task that up until now has never been bestowed upon an UM.  (Nowadays, you’d be lucky not to get arrested for approaching within 10 metres of the cockpit and there you are, being offered two seats with the best view on the whole plane.  Nowadays, looking meek and unthreatening says nothing against potential terrorist activity.  Nowadays, people pay hundreds of pounds for similar flight experiences.  But this is the pre-9-11 era, and the world is a simpler place.) Aside from the familiar waist belt with its sturdy metal clasp, you are further secured into your premier seats by straps that slide down vertically over your arms and clip onto the waist belt, (a sensation which you assimilate to the idea of wearing a straight-jacket and having not one centimetre of manoeuvrability).  You don’t even feel a whisper of disappointment when you realise you are not actually required to land the plane, but simply sit back and watch the world come back into sight.