It was a 50 minute flight from Athens to Mykonos, but we made it in 29 minutes.
I have flown some really sketchy flights over the years. When ATA (American Trans Air, or as I referred to it, Absolutely Terrible Airlines) was in business I had some memorable flights where the plane remained in one piece only by means of chewing gum and duct tape. And I’ve flown Delta more than once, so obviously I have reckless disregard for my life. I’ve heard landing gear make sickening sounds when it came down, crashes and booms that shouldn’t ever be heard at 30,000+ feet, not to mention witnessing emergency lighting come on with alarms blazing when I was over the Pacific – exactly halfway between SFO and Honolulu with no place for an emergency landing other than the shark infested waters below.
Yet in all my travels nothing (to date) will ever surpass the Olympic Airlines flight to Mykonos the other evening. Not only did we manage to scrape 21 minutes off the scheduled flight time, but we came down so hard that I’m positive the frame of the plane bent. As I prematurely breathed a sigh of relief for being on the ground, I realized the plane was struggling violently to stop. The grand finale came as we almost ran off the short runway (best optimistic guess is we had about 50 meters before we were an official crash landing).
Fun!
Tim slept from the moment he sat down on the plane but was jostled to life when we bounced upon impact. I had unfortunately woken up as we made a crazy 180 U-turn in the sky. I saw the small airport below and thought we seemed very high up to be attempting an approach in a Boeing 737. Yet the ground started to get closer and the landing gear came down (with a disturbing screech I might add).
Things operate a little differently here in Greece – aviation being at the top of the list. Little did I know that our near-crash landing would serve as a fitting metaphor for surviving Europe. I will write a blog later simply called "Danger" that will document the many near-death experiences encountered (particularly in Amsterdam). In a nutshell I've learned, what doesn’t kill you just didn’t try hard enough.
Saturday, September 20, 2008
The Great London Indian Food Debacle
There are some major conflicts going on in the world right now, or at least from what I’ve been getting from CNN Europe.
The U.S. economy is going to hell, bombs are blowing up, war is waging.
Yet when I was in London a few weeks ago, I stumbled upon a conflict that I’m not sure how resolve. A controversy so heated it brought grown men to exchange insults and sharp words on the very topic.
This could be none other than the battle of the old school London Indian food vs. the nouveau London Indian fusion food.
Laugh as you may, but the debate began when Dave took me to his favorite Indian restaurant in Soho called The Red Fort. I will admit it was expensive and not completely traditional but it was delicious. We had delectable tandoori tempura prawns, savory curried monkfish, and creamy saag aloo. It was a cold and rainy night and the warm food was the perfect cure for the gloomy weather outside.
The next day, when my London friends and coworkers heard I ate at The Red Fort, I was immediately mocked.
“HA! You paid too much,” said one.
“Next time you go out, let me join you so you can taste REAL Indian food,” scorned another.
I felt ashamed. Everyone knows you go to London for incredible Indian food. I thought I had, but was I out of my league? I have always considered myself a bit of a foodie being from San Francisco. At home I know good Indian food from the mediocre. Was it jetlag or simply a poor palate?
That evening I had a chance to taste “real” Indian food at the urging of my friend Martin. I’ve known Martin for almost a decade from when I started in visual effects software world. He moved back to the UK from the Bay Area several years ago and we’ve stayed in touch. He was one of my most severe Red Fort mockers so I was ready to belly up to the table and taste what Londoners consider the best.
Martin led us to a restaurant down a narrow Soho alley called The Palms of Goa. Immediately, my stomach growled in delight. At home, one of my dear friends, Joana, is from the Goa region of India and her mom is one of the most incredible cooks I know. Nothing bad could come from this experience.
And in truth, nothing bad did come from it. The food was warm, spicy, and rich, definitely more traditional and closer to what I’ve had at home in the States.
Now that I’ve tasted both it is time to come clean. If I had to give only one recommendation to someone going to London…
(I’m about to break many hearts and take a severe verbal lashing from friends and coworkers...)
I’d go back to The Red Fort.
The U.S. economy is going to hell, bombs are blowing up, war is waging.
Yet when I was in London a few weeks ago, I stumbled upon a conflict that I’m not sure how resolve. A controversy so heated it brought grown men to exchange insults and sharp words on the very topic.
This could be none other than the battle of the old school London Indian food vs. the nouveau London Indian fusion food.
Laugh as you may, but the debate began when Dave took me to his favorite Indian restaurant in Soho called The Red Fort. I will admit it was expensive and not completely traditional but it was delicious. We had delectable tandoori tempura prawns, savory curried monkfish, and creamy saag aloo. It was a cold and rainy night and the warm food was the perfect cure for the gloomy weather outside.
The next day, when my London friends and coworkers heard I ate at The Red Fort, I was immediately mocked.
“HA! You paid too much,” said one.
“Next time you go out, let me join you so you can taste REAL Indian food,” scorned another.
I felt ashamed. Everyone knows you go to London for incredible Indian food. I thought I had, but was I out of my league? I have always considered myself a bit of a foodie being from San Francisco. At home I know good Indian food from the mediocre. Was it jetlag or simply a poor palate?
That evening I had a chance to taste “real” Indian food at the urging of my friend Martin. I’ve known Martin for almost a decade from when I started in visual effects software world. He moved back to the UK from the Bay Area several years ago and we’ve stayed in touch. He was one of my most severe Red Fort mockers so I was ready to belly up to the table and taste what Londoners consider the best.
Martin led us to a restaurant down a narrow Soho alley called The Palms of Goa. Immediately, my stomach growled in delight. At home, one of my dear friends, Joana, is from the Goa region of India and her mom is one of the most incredible cooks I know. Nothing bad could come from this experience.
And in truth, nothing bad did come from it. The food was warm, spicy, and rich, definitely more traditional and closer to what I’ve had at home in the States.
Now that I’ve tasted both it is time to come clean. If I had to give only one recommendation to someone going to London…
(I’m about to break many hearts and take a severe verbal lashing from friends and coworkers...)
I’d go back to The Red Fort.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
I've died and gone to shopping heaven...
Um...Harrods.
I said HARRODS!!!
Oh my god. This place.
So expensive. So exquisite. So...Harrods.
I absolutely need to make more money. To buy more than what is contained in the bags below would mean having to start selling off a kidney to the highest bidder. But damn was it fun while it lasted!
I said HARRODS!!!
Oh my god. This place.
So expensive. So exquisite. So...Harrods.
I absolutely need to make more money. To buy more than what is contained in the bags below would mean having to start selling off a kidney to the highest bidder. But damn was it fun while it lasted!
London: Day 1
It has been 11 years since I last stepped foot in London and I'm not quite sure what took me so long to get back. I freakin' love this place.
My job takes me to exotic locales like Minneapolis and Dallas, so finding out I was going to travel to London and Amsterdam for work was a surprise and an honor. I would get to meet with colleagues in the UK and work at the IBC show in Amsterdam.
I left at 4:30 PM on Saturday and landed at Heathrow at 10:30 AM the next day. I had been wedged into an unfortunate prison, or what Virgin Atlantic considers coach accomodations. Upon landing I was cranky and sore, but within 30 minutes of clearing customs, I was off the Heathrow Express train and standing in Paddington Station. It is a pretty train station with its high metal framing, the crowds chaotic and frenzied. I smile at stalls stuffed full of Paddington Bear dolls, not unlike the one my Nana bought me when she vacationed in London when I was a child. I still have that doll somewhere. Wonder if Nana knew what a traveling gypsy she'd inspire in my later years when she bought me that little bear souvenir all those years ago?
My hotel, called the Courthouse, is in Soho and was...well, a courthouse in its former life (surprise!) Jail bars and cells line the hotel's bar. My room, while not large, is still one of the better rooms I've stayed in throughout my travels to Europe. And it is quiet. So quiet that I rest my head and nap for a few hours. I will later learn this is mistake.
Four, well, five hours later I awake part-woman, part-zombie. I meet my colleague Dave and we head to what will become a controversial dining choice - Indian fusion food at The Red Fort. I'll come back to this subject later, let's just refer to this topic as the great Londoner Indian food divide.
Back at the hotel, I get ready for bed only to find my nap from earlier in the day has killed any chance of me sleeping before 4 AM. Days later I will find the same to be true and my dependency on caffeine growing. And it will suck. But for now, I'm in London, red phone booths, double-decker buses, and cars on the wrong side of the road. Somehow lost sleep seems like a small price to pay for an opportunity to be here again.
My job takes me to exotic locales like Minneapolis and Dallas, so finding out I was going to travel to London and Amsterdam for work was a surprise and an honor. I would get to meet with colleagues in the UK and work at the IBC show in Amsterdam.
I left at 4:30 PM on Saturday and landed at Heathrow at 10:30 AM the next day. I had been wedged into an unfortunate prison, or what Virgin Atlantic considers coach accomodations. Upon landing I was cranky and sore, but within 30 minutes of clearing customs, I was off the Heathrow Express train and standing in Paddington Station. It is a pretty train station with its high metal framing, the crowds chaotic and frenzied. I smile at stalls stuffed full of Paddington Bear dolls, not unlike the one my Nana bought me when she vacationed in London when I was a child. I still have that doll somewhere. Wonder if Nana knew what a traveling gypsy she'd inspire in my later years when she bought me that little bear souvenir all those years ago?
My hotel, called the Courthouse, is in Soho and was...well, a courthouse in its former life (surprise!) Jail bars and cells line the hotel's bar. My room, while not large, is still one of the better rooms I've stayed in throughout my travels to Europe. And it is quiet. So quiet that I rest my head and nap for a few hours. I will later learn this is mistake.
Four, well, five hours later I awake part-woman, part-zombie. I meet my colleague Dave and we head to what will become a controversial dining choice - Indian fusion food at The Red Fort. I'll come back to this subject later, let's just refer to this topic as the great Londoner Indian food divide.
Back at the hotel, I get ready for bed only to find my nap from earlier in the day has killed any chance of me sleeping before 4 AM. Days later I will find the same to be true and my dependency on caffeine growing. And it will suck. But for now, I'm in London, red phone booths, double-decker buses, and cars on the wrong side of the road. Somehow lost sleep seems like a small price to pay for an opportunity to be here again.
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