(borrowed from Timewaster)
Tag: Travel
RFI: Eastern Wyoming
“Well I’ve been all over this crowded planet… etc. etc.” (with apologies to Paul Williams).
One part of the world that isn’t crowded is eastern Wyoming — you know, the part that isn’t full of Hollywood trendies of the Jackson Hole variety. Or at least, as far as I know.
My knowledge of that corner of the U.S. is limited to a brief sojourn — and I suspect I’m not alone in this — to Rapid City SD en route to Mt. Rushmore (where I got into a fight with the Parks Dept. asshole who was manager of the gift store, another story).
I have to say that I thought the area was very pretty, if on the rugged side, but I have always wondered what it’s like to live there, be it the climate, people, whatever.
I know that South Dakota is famous for its windiness, but surely the Black Hills act as some kind of a windbreak? Is Sundance WY as windy or unpleasant as Spearfish SD, for instance?
As I said, I know little to nothing about the area, and when I was at Mt. Rushmore in early April it was wonderful: cool breezes, morning mist and so on. As I recall, I stayed in a motel in Keystone and while the town is something of a dump — or was when I was there — the surrounding country looked magical.
Here’s the general area:
…and the scenery which I found so appealing:
The reason that I ask all this is because I want to take New Wife on a little trip to parts of the U.S. she hasn’t seen before, but I’d also like to go where I haven’t been, either — or at least, only driven through, like this part of the world.
All personal anecdotes, experiences and recommendations are welcome.
Prole Drift
I think it was the late (and much-missed) Paul Fussell who in one of his books (either Class or Bad ) coined the term “prole drift” to describe how American society was shifting inexorably towards the working classes in terms of clothing, manners, taste and so on. (Aside: I love books written by ur-patricians like Fussell because I’m one of them, and unashamedly so.)
So I gladly admit to bias when I read articles like this one:
Almost a quarter of the population of Marlow in Buckinghamshire are aged over 65 and many of them think a Wetherspoons pub will attract ‘the wrong sort of people’.
For Readers of the non-Brit persuasion, Wetherspoons is a massive chain of pubs found all over the place, whose modus operandi is typically to buy a failing pub (or any failing business, for that matter) and reopen it (sometimes under its own name even) as a place that sells cheaper fare — beer, wine, food whatever — to attract a large and it should be said loyal customer base. Needless to say, the toffs and trendies tend to look down on Wetherspoons because inevitably, the kind of people attracted thereto are quite definitely Not Our Kind, Dear.
So this latest kerfuffle in Marlow should be seen in that context.
As it happens, I’ve actually been to Marlow simply because in looking for a place to have lunch while on a road trip, I took a wrong turn somewhere and ended up there.
It is undeniably beautiful, as these English small towns go, but like the curate’s egg, only in parts. While the main street is lovely, there are also parts that resemble Typical Brit Suburbia (i.e. fugly semi-detached dwellings) with a population to match. Not Yorkshire Mining Town, to be sure, but not a place where Mr. Free Market would feel at home either.
Here’s what I discovered when I retraced my steps and went back up to Marlow Road (the main drag): fucking hell, it’s an expensive place to eat and drink, even by Brit standards. Worst of all, the high street pubs are of the gastropub variety — at least, the ones I looked at were — and when I finally did find a place to eat — off the main street — I ended up ordering a simple cheese sandwich, chips and a pint which still set me back close to £10 (which was a lot, back in the early 2000s, when the same meal in London cost me just under £5). I don’t remember which pub it was, but it sure as hell wasn’t The Coach (as mentioned in the article).
So I can see why Wetherspoons would choose to open one of their corporate or franchise pubs there, because if you’re not one of the Snooty Set, there’s nowhere to get a decently-priced pub lunch in Marlow. And while the Snooty Set are well represented in the town’s demographics, there is also a sizable percentage of people like, well, you and me; and that that makes for a sound business case.
Finally, I find the outrage at the “prole” Wetherspoons to be hypocritical. Why? Because on that same Marlow Road can be found a Domino’s Pizza and Subway sandwich shop.
And if that ain’t prole, I dunno what is.
Not Even For The Chocolate
I’ve recently been hammering on about re-visiting Britishland and doing a pub tour of the villages therein. But I’ll be skipping this one:
Tiny English village is like going back to the 1960’s with chocolate-box houses
Located in southwest Birmingham, Bournville is a tiny village that was built by the Cadbury family.
The model village was founded by George and Richard Cadbury, the sons of John Cadbury.
You don’t have to be from Birmingham to instantly recognise the name, Cadbury, with the chocolate giant celebrating its 200th anniversary this year.
John Cadbury originally opened a small shop on Bull Street where he sold tea, coffee and hot chocolate.
All well and good. However:
Because of its Quaker heritage, there are no pubs in Bournville.
So… pass, then.
Not that I’d want to go anywhere near Birmingham anyway, having been warned off by Mr. Free Market and other such worthies.
Here’s an alternative:
More my kind of place altogether. That’s in Burton, Gloucestershire:
Note the uh, other attractions thereabouts. Yes, altogether much better than some silly Quaker stronghold. And they even serve brekkie.
Gone Greek
Following my earlier post about Going Greek, I got this from Frequent Reader and Looongtime Friend Mrs. Sorenson (a.k.a. The Catholic):
Going Greek? Why yes, yes we have. Twice this year actually 😌
Parga and Lefkada. Go there.
To start you off, breakfast from the Green Bakery, Parga. All fresh, all made on the premises.
One of Parga’s beaches. Clear water everywhere you go. Why is the bottle in the picture you say? Because this is a taverna half way up the hill from the beach. One simply HAS to stop and have an icy beer and nibbles, in order to make it up the rest of the hill.
A little something from our favourite port-side restaurant.
Said Green Bakery – fresh bread, huge fruit salads, fantastic coffee, great service, tables in the small courtyard to the left, lean-on bars at the shop inside. Quick moving queues every morning. Less than 50 yards from our apartment.
This is Parga. Hideous eh? Lined with restaurants and quirky shops of all sorts, bars overlooking the port.
You can get water taxis to the beach with the bar above. The water really is this clear.
Just so you know BA flights aren’t all bad – I’d drunk the champagne already, sorry!
About 50km from Parga — private beach attached to the first hotel.
From the viewing platform at the hotel. Had to suffer this each night we were there.
This helped tho!
Greece and the Greek Islands (Rhodes and Crete are both lovely), good food, great sights, nice people — bugger learning Greek, just scoff the food and you’ll be Greek enough for them!
X
Going Greek
New Wife sent me this pic, suggesting that it might make a nice break from my usual laptop wallpaper fare of gloomy Paris streets and snowbound European countrysides:
It’s lovely, and it shows a part of the world — the Greek coast or Greek Islands — that I’ve never visited before (I know, I know). One day, though… and she wants to go (back) very badly indeed (yeah, she’s been there, pout pout).
(cue Greek music)
What gets me is not so much the scenery as what the table evokes in me, which is: Greek food.
I love it. One of my favorite restaurants in the world used to be the Greek-Cypriot Kolossi Grill in London (now permanently closed because Covid, apparently grr grrr grrrr), because
Greek food + Greek wine + shouting Greek waiters + Greek atmosphere = Kim In Heaven
There’s not a single Greek dish I don’t enjoy (unless it’s crap like octopus etc. which I won’t eat in any language). Spicy lamb, Greek salata and souvlakia… my mouth waters as I write the words. On one of my trips Over There, I found a Greek gyro stand just off Shaftesbury Avenue and ate there four times in a single week.
And let’s hear it for retsina — or, as most non-Greeks cruelly call it, Lysol. I can’t drink it unless I’m eating Greek food, but as an accompaniment thereof I won’t drink anything else.
Back when I lived in the Chicago area, I had the real pleasure of meeting up with one of my old South African friends, a Greek named (not George but) Paris, and his wife Debbie, who had all just emigrated from South Africa and taken a job in Chicago. Of course, he wanted to know about things like Greek food stores and restaurants, so I pointed him at those and suggested we try out the nearest Greek restaurant from our houses (and not one of the ones in Greek Town Chicago).
Anyway, we walked in and Paris did the Greek greeting thing with the owner (thereby ensuring that we’d get the good Greek food and not the shit they pass off on non-Greeks — yeah, it happens). When we sat down, Paris took away my menu and said, “Let me do the ordering” and I acquiesced with pleasure. We ate Greek style, i.e with huge plates of food in the middle of the table, from which each diner helped themselves according to preference. I of course had something from every damn plate, and Debbie said, “Kim, are you sure you have no Greek blood in you? Because there’s stuff here that I don’t even eat.” I would have answered except my mouth was full. And yes, there was retsina, gallons of the stuff; and at the end of the evening, Paris wouldn’t let me pay for anything because, as he put it, “It’s such a pleasure to see a non-Greek enjoy Greek food as much as you do.” I would have replied except I was lying on my back, groaning from Teh Gluttony.
Good times, good times.
Where was I? Oh yes, the Greek thing.
As I said, Greece is the one place in Europe I haven’t been to — no reason, I just never got there for some reason — and I have to admit that I am a little intimidated by the language barrier. I’m not that way anywhere else in Western Europe because of my French and German, and even in Italy and Portugal I can get by, at least to the point of understanding street signs and menus. But Greek…? The different-looking alphabet means I’m clueless, and whereas I usually just grab a phrase book and learn a few things in the native lingo before I go somewhere, places that don’t use the Western alphabet are ummm more problematic. (One of my Greek buddies wickedly suggested that my German would get me around quite well in Athens or the Islands, but I wasn’t born yesterday.)
Not that it matters much. If I somehow got the opportunity to go to Hellas, I’d be there in a shot. I can deal with the language problem when I get there.
After all: how bad could things get?
