It was a glorious outing to see Oli, Chloe and new Grand Daughter Bridget, Ivy Florence.
I also went to the fab Biba exhibition – on until April. Don’t miss it!
Here’s a link: http://www.artfund.org/what-to-see/exhibitions/2012/09/22/biba-and-beyond-barbara-hulanicki?gclid=CLvJysWnyLUCFW_KtAodhh8AOQ
Granny’s Gone CouchSurfing – to Iceland…
Picture… The Blue Lagoon.
“Just to warn you,” I announce at family Sunday lunch, “I won’t be around for baby sitting duties for a while; I’ve started a blog, ‘Granny’s Gone CouchSurfing’ and next weekend will be my first trip…to Iceland!”
I laugh at their bemused expressions: “Darlings, don’t worry! Everyone gets verified and no money is involved; CouchSurfing is safe – noble even, it’s aim is: ‘to create meaningful connections between ordinary people’,” nothing bad will happen.
My Iceland Express flight lands in Reykjavík in bright sunshine – which feels odd, as it’s 10pm. The bus ride into town passes through an otherworldly, bleak expanse of treeless, lava field; but as we approach the suburbs the scene livens up. People are still out – with children too, making the most of their summer I suppose, where the sun sets near midnight then rises around 3am.
Anya is my CouchSurfing host; she’s a kindergarten teacher, mid-forties. She says with a rueful smile, “I’m still single sad to say. ” My ‘couch’ is a chaise longue in the corner of the living room, “You might want to use the blinds as it doesn’t get dark”, she says.
Despite the lateness of the hour, Anya cheerfully suggests supper at the Café Paris in town. Reykjavik’s small town centre has that European, pavement café buzz that I love and, I reflect, what’s missing in London. All generations are here: parents with toddlers, canoodling youths, the elderly – as well as the familiar, cool singles’ crowd.
Over supper Anya explains that Reykjavík means ‘smoky bay’ because here the earth’s hot crust is close to the surface. Steam from subterranean water, is heated by volcanic energy which escapes through natural vents. Nowadays it’s piped into homes for heat. Icelanders also enjoy low-cost power from hydro-electricity generated by waterfalls.
Next morning it’s Saturday so she doesn’t have to work. “Let’s drive out to the Blue Lagoon.” She suggests. For tourists wanting ‘wow factor’ – this is it: a capacious, unearthly looking, blue warm lake. We wade in and head straight for the floating bar for a glass of champagne. A sign reads: ‘Three glasses maximum per person’!
Later, back in town, over supper in the fascinating Laundromat Café, I mention to Anya that I’d read reports of Reykjavik’s recent ‘pots and pans revolution’ and ask her for an insider’s view. “Well,” she says, “for many weeks almost everyone took part in the demonstrations outside our Parliament (the Althing). We bashed our message to the politicians on our saucepans to let them know how upset we were at the IMF demands that ordinary Icelanders must pay for the (2008) bank crash. Meanwhile, the bankers who’d gambled away everyone’s savings, (including ours) had fled!”
She went on: “Eventually, a referendum was held and 93% of our population voted No! Our Government fell and the news went viral.” Thoughtfully she adds, “One good result seems to be that tourism has increased.” I chip in, “Yes, I think there are many who, like me, saw it as plucky little Iceland standing up to the big bad global banks: that’s what brought me here – and I’ll certainly be back!”
Anya beams, “There we are, CouchSurfing plus solidarity tourism, both helping with Iceland’s cultural and economic recovery – who’d have thought!” End
Picture shows the 6th floor Maids’ garrett… CouchSurfing in Paris
Granny’s Gone CouchSurfing
(Just Back from Paris)
For the Telegraph ‘Just Back’ Series Jan 2013
500 words
Among other clichés, I’m a baby boomer – a hippy child of the sixties, who’s recently discovered the wonders of being a couch surfer. The CouchSurfing founding principle is: ‘to make meaningful connections with local people whilst travelling’, which chimes nicely with my worldview.
So, I’m just back from a weekend in Paris where Claudine, a secondary school science teacher in her 50’s, hosted me. Her flat, typically Parisian with its hefty, coded street door, was conveniently by the entrance to Metro Ledru Rollin near the Bastille. “I’m up in the maid’s garret on the 6th floor,” she’d texted. “I hope you are fit.”
My ‘couch’ was a single bed in what used to be her son’s room. There were no windows in the flat, just skylights. It was untidy – but in a cosy, bohemian way. Clothes, books and papers were strewn around. Boogie, Claudine’s cat, gave me lots of amusement with her mooching and sniffing at the various heaps before choosing her bed.
The following two days passed in a pleasant haze as I wandered around mid-winter Paris, pausing to enjoy the antics of tear away, hoody speed skaters on the (free) ice-rink in front of Hotel de Ville and marvelling at the Christmas lighting spectacle along the Champs-Élysées. Both mornings I breakfasted in the sumptuous restaurant of the department store Printemps Haussmann up in the roof, under the beautiful, art nouveau, stained glass dome or cupola.
For those (like me) on a budget, lunch up on the 6th floor of Galleries Lafayette is the place to go: and, be sure to visit the open terrace on the 7th floor for its wonderful Paris view.
A favourite Paris dawdle of mine is along Rue de Rivoli in the direction of Rue Saint-Antoine, St Paul’s and The Marais, areas which survived Napoleon the Third’s architect, Haussmann, who, in the 19th Century, drastically remodelled Paris. The shopping is great, as most shops are thriving independents.
While in the area, take a breather is Place des Vosges, a small, pretty park surrounded by an ancient arcade of shops, galleries and brasseries.
Another ‘not-to-be-missed’ landmark is the world famous Shakespeare & Co, a bohemian bookshop/community on the left bank, more or less opposite Notre Dame. For decades, callow, bookish, penniless romantics – usually young men from The States – have flocked here to work voluntarily, sleeping literally amidst the bookshelves in makeshift bunks, elated to be part of a scene where the greats such as Hemingway had once hung out.
That evening I sat in on an informal writing group gathered upstairs. After, we repaired to a nearby bar tabac, where the more we drank the stronger the ghostly presence of Hemingway, Joyce, Orwell and the others grew in our imaginations. It’s easy to see why Shakespeare & Co. inspires so many young people to come from overseas – and to find themselves following in the shadowy wake of the greats who’d trod these same locales and byways all those years before.
Granny's Gone CouchSurfing 