13. Place

Labone, the suburb where the NYU in Ghana dorms are located, is kind of a weird place. From an architectural standpoint, it can be described as sterile, cold, uninviting and exclusive. Walking down my block, I feel like I am in an endless maze. The dirt roads are lined with open gutters, which also double as public restrooms. The circumference of each house has thick, white, uninviting walls, which are lined either with rusted nails, shards of glass, or barbed wire, or sometimes a combination of the three on the top. Most of the homes, which appear to be pretty big from what I can see over the six foot tall barricades, also have a security guard outside. I have never felt personally threatened by Labone (maybe aside from the architecture and intimidatingly huge guard dogs that jump above the fence to bark as I walk by- one dog in particular that I am convinced is conditioning itself to hop over the fence one day and rip me to shreds) So, seeing all this high-tech security everyday is more confusing and concerning than it is comforting. Back in New York I live in Bushwick and I always joke that the amount of security we have here would be more appropriate if we has NYU in Bushwick as a study abroad site (that would be amazing, right?)
 
Another strange thing that I wrote about my blog post in response to the first book I read  for this class is that no matter how long I stay in Labone, I will never not stand out as an obruni. What is even more bazaar is that our blatantly awkward transplant to this place does not go unnoticed by anyone. During orientation we were informed that our arrival in Labone had been highly anticipated. Apparently, the permanent residents of Labone know all about us. From the students who attend the local universities (some who have made a name for themselves as “obruni-chasers”) to the security guard who stop me and make me show him my entire photo project on the way to the academic center for my critique. We are famous here.
 
I don’t mean to sound so complain-y every time I describe Labone either in a blog post here or when I talk to people back in New York. I will admit that I know I will totally miss these feelings of fame when I get back home. Today for example, I went to a big market and while walking around, every woman working in the stalls called out “Obruni! Obruni! What would you like?” I’ve never had a personal shopper before-someone who literally grabbed my hand and walked me through the market ensuring I find every little knick-knack my heart desired. I know I will never experience this much attention again and it kind of scares me. I can’t help but think about how I will feel when I walk down the street or sit on the subway and I am not longer the obvious minority. As someone who has always valued the level of anonymity one can have in New York, this has definitely been the most obvious change I have seen in myself since moving to Labone. 

(image source: my own)

At a study abroad site, there is no meal plan and in Europe during a semester where the exchange rate has hovered between 1.38 and 1.40 (ouch!) eating out on a regular or even semi-regular basis is not a sustainable choice.  A plate of pasta in Florence costs between €8 and €10 and at most places you won’t see a main course for less than €10. Of course, from here, prices extend toward infinity. At Enoteca Pinchiorri, The Michelin Stared restaurant two blocks down, I could likely spend my life’s savings in an evening.
            The point: I do a lot of cooking and a good amount of grocery shopping. For this, I am very thankful of a place called Coop, an Italian grocery store chain.
The first week of the semester, NYU recommended us a small store named Billa. Billa is convenient; it is down the road from the Duomo, right in the center of the city. Coop, however, is about twice as far as Billa Here is the first comparison I can make between Coop and Italian living. Convenience and time efficiency do not seem to be high priorities for Italians. More, their concern is focused on living slow and enjoyment without the stress of having to rush.
Compared to Billa, coop is a Mecca of selection and high quality. The average Italian seems to posses a much higher level of food knowledge than your average American. They know where to get the best of everything: pesto and white wine in Liguria, balsamic vinegar in Emilia Romagna and Chianti in Tuscany. Not only this, but they are all food critics. An Italian who dines out knows what to order at which restaurant and has high expectations for their meal. Routine failure to meet these expectations means bad things for the restaurant. The coop has all specialty ingredients necessary to make any Italian dish. The staff has an excellent knowledge of culinary skills. A friend and I once asked the shelf-stocker which types of potatoes were best for the oven. He immediately responded that we needed dry potatoes, led us to the correct choice and explained what the other varieties would be good for in case we wanted to know for the future. They’re all foodies!
The final way Coop has enhanced my Italy experience is by becoming an inspiration for me too become a better cook and try making new things. Seeing strange ingredients different that we have at home spikes my curiosity. After a grocery run I frequently come home to frantically search Chow and other sites to find out what I saw and how to prepare it.
As I mentioned in an earlier post, visiting the grocery store of an unfamiliar culture is one of my favorite ways to explore it. Food is a huge part of life anywhere and a part with huge variances from region to region. The grocery store is a fun place to observe and learn something. Coop has been good to my wallet, my stomach and my cooking ability.

-picture taken in front of my local Coop

Il Trip Per Tre. It’s a pub. It’s my natural Florentine habitat. I go alone. I wear black. I drink. I get stares. I go home.
 
They know me there now. A bartender recognized me on the street once. When I arrive Beppe the owner says hello and finds me a chair if it’s crowded.  They don’t know my name, but they know what I drink (cuba libre, almost every time).
 
Il Trip was the closest thing I could find to a metal bar. I really miss the scene in Madrid. Here they play rock, mostly older stuff, and sometimes metal. The walls are covered with rock n roll paraphernalia, and the regulars range from average people to bikers to goths (there’s one guy who legitimately looks like Marilyn Manson, make up and all). People sometimes take pity on me (or just want to hit on me), and they talk to me. I’ve actually spent time outside of the pub with some of the people I’ve met (details on one man to come in the ‘describe a person’ blog entry), but mostly I sit alone and keep to myself. It’s relaxing, relieving even, to not have to speak, just listening to music and having a drink in a good atmosphere. And, the best part—it’s not full of Americans. Sometimes there are a couple others, but usually it’s just me. It’s nice to be isolated.
 
Il Trip is a good place for me, a place where I can chill with my kind, the kind that likes to rock. I always need music, and sometimes I need people in dark clothes listening to music. It’s satisfying. It’s homey.
 
The only picture I have of Il Trip Per Tre is of the bathroom. Don’t ask me why I took a picture of the bathroom--I was drunk. Don’t ask me why the bathroom is decorated like the bedroom of an infant boy, either—it’s Italy.

“Place Dauphine is certainly one of the most profoundly secluded places I know of… I confess that this place frightens me,” Breton says of Place Dauphine, in his novel Nadja. (80, 83) In the same passage, he describes his muse’s—Nadja— reactions to the area, “She is certain that an underground tunnel passes under our feet... [and] is disturbed by the thought of what has already occurred in this square and will occur here in the future”—Nadja tells him of her disorienting experience in a window overlooking the square, and about how she “didn’t want to die, but felt so dizzy,” and that she would’ve fallen if she’d not been held back. (84) All his descriptions of Place Dauphine points to it as a sort of dangerous and secluded, but alluring vortex of sorts. The way in which he conveys the square is certainly colored by his unique disposition and mindset, but even with such distortion, he seemed to somehow capture an essence of Place Dauphine that continues to linger today. In visiting Place Dauphine myself, one Parisian night, I discovered the place still held a similar air to what Breton captured in Nadja. I spent a few minutes in the triangular park, jotting down my first impressions of the place:

So empty for being so close to the lights of la tour Eiffel, for being so close to l’ombre de Notre Dame. A girl intrudes from another era to walk her inobedient dog around the grainy sand, as two aged intellectuals pass— their fingers separating spent yellowed pages. The atmosphere must be more surreal at this hour, studded with all those wooden beams that tunnel through the high balconied windows. A solemn bicyclist dares to plunge into the triangle, amidst all the closing restaurants. The angled buildings frame the speckled sky in a makeshift heart; sandy footprints dissolve into the orange dripped light. I misread Le Bar du Caveau as Le Bar du Cerveau just as a lonely man floats by its’ canopy. Empowered by the colored blood flowers in his window box, a man hurls on his leather jacket, disturbing his sterile white apartment ceiling, and speeds out the building’s forest colored portal towards a non- isolated Paris. The girl draped in black still trails her dog; I avert her eyes—I avert my eyes. A spark from la tour Eiffel finds its way into the courtyard and prompts me to leave. I watch gridded glass doors knowingly open to allow a woman out of her imprisonment, and reach for my bag balanced on the unforgivingly rigid bench. I make my own temporary impressions in the grain dirt and decide to follow her. I leave through the open side of Place Dauphine— the base of the triangle— and swerve towards the left as the blue traffic sign commands. À bientôt, Dauphine, à bientôt. My new position allows me to gaze at the gold ridden ceiling that lines Palais de Justice on Rue de Harlay. I slowly gravitate back towards the blinding white light beneath Pont au Change. Levitating over the Seine, I realize I forgot to gaze at her watery legs below Place Dauphine. My mind pauses and considers a return, but my body does not hesitate and instead glimpses a sign at the end of Pont au Change that tells me ‘La paix est tombé ici.’

The unique triangular park is a sort of grass-less oasis, or perhaps a purgatory, in Paris. It is rarely penetrated by tourists, despite it’s location between Palais de Justice and Pont Neuf. It was originally laid out in 1609 by King Henry IV and is named after the son he had with Marie de Médicis, Dauphin. The park also has its place in Parisian literary history, having been mentioned in La Main enchantée by Gérard de Nerval, Les dieux ont soif by Anatole France, Kaputt by Curzio Malaparte, and of course, André Breton’s Nadja.

It is isolated on the tip of Ile-de-Cité where the Seine splinters in half at the ancient Pont Neuf. Breton describes it as a magical place, as mystical as the female is to most surrealists—often comparing the triangular space littered with trees to a female pubis, and sees that split in the Seine as her legs—Paris’ surreal, flowing legs. Place Dauphine seems to have the same effect on Breton as Nadja has. “Whenever I happen to be there, I feel the desire to go somewhere else gradually ebbing out of me, I have to struggle against myself to get free from a gentle, over-insistent, and, finally, crushing embrace.” (80) He observes Place Dauphine as such a constraining place immediately after Nadja tells him of his power over her—tells him that she is lost to him, and then attempts to please him by playing the role of a character he had previously created in a work of his: Poisson Soluble. Such desperation on Nadja’s part—such an attempt to connect with and please Breton— most likely provoked in Breton an instinctual repulsion, a need to escape from any threat of commitment or connection with her. In the novel, he appears to be pleased with Nadja—he’s impressed by her reenactments of his fictional characters and admits that her performance is precisely as he had imagined—yet his descriptions of Place Dauphine illuminate an obscured layer of disgust in Breton, illuminate his instinct to escape. His descriptions of Place Dauphine and of Nadja become a portal into his subconscious—they are colored by his temporal observations. These tinted descriptions allow the reader to more accurately gage his true thoughts and disposition, and also help to highlight something ineffable about the place.

In the same passage that Breton describes Place Dauphine, Nadja embodies his self-destructive side, by attempting to free herself from any trace of identity she is bound to, in order to chain herself to Breton. Therefore, he sees Place Dauphine as he sees Nadja in that moment—as a wasteland, as an isolated vortex, void of any specific personality— Place Dauphine becomes a mirror reflecting his deepest fears. Sitting in Place Dauphine, he feels the pull of the vortex of isolation—as in Nadja’s presence, he feels the pull of her mystery and destruction. He would like to free himself from Nadja, yet also wants to own her, and at the same time wants to decode her peculiarities in the belief that in doing so, he may discover something essential about himself. Place Dauphine literally becomes a sort of limbo, a sort of purgatory that he can choose so easily to either dissolve in or revolt from. The limbo that is Place Dauphine threatens Breton with fatal freedom and spiraling entrapment.
His observations of Place Dauphine also coincide with some of his writings in the Manifeste—Surrealism’s influence over Breton seems comparable to Nadja and Place Dauphine’s influence. “Surrealism does not allow those who devote themselves to it to forsake it whenever they like. There is every reason to believe that it acts on the mind very much as drugs do; like drugs, it creates a certain state of need and can push man to frightful revolts.” Place Dauphine elicits in Breton feelings of rebellion, yet he cannot forsake it (nor Nadja) completely, because it is partially composed of his own personal impressions. More importantly, as destructive as Nadja and Place Dauphine may appear to be, they exist as muses for him. Their isolation—and their threatening qualities— is a sort of inspiration for Breton, their seclusion intrigues him and he seems to want to break through their mysterious barriers as a man would with a muse. Still if he doesn’t struggle to escape from Place Dauphine’s “gentle, insistent, and crushing embrace,” he could so easily sink into a state of liquid —becoming a sort of poisson soluble, “born under the sign of Pisces… and soluble in his thought.”

Breton’s impressions of Place Dauphine capture something essential about that secluded little area of Paris. It may be one of the lesser-known sites in Paris, but it certainly stands its ground among the surrounding tourists attractions because of its powerful, mysterious influence over many. The desolation of the triangle seems to affect all who lay their eyes on its barren surface, and the juxtaposition of Place Dauphine against its surrounding peopled areas only heightens its dream like atmosphere. To stumble upon Place Dauphine randomly must be quite disorienting– entering the triangle is comparable to dropping off into an unexpected, liminal, unstable universe. It's as if, at any second, Place Dauphine could either suck you into its hellish underground tunnels that Nadja described, or could catapult you into an abyss as bright and blinding as that light I saw below Pont au Change.




sources/ links/ translations:
1) the passage from Nadja.
2) wiki on Place Dauphine.
3) breton's surrealist manifesto.
4) Le Bar du Caveau as Le Bar du Cerveau -- caveau means cave, there are many cavern bars in Paris... but cerveau means brain.
5) "La paix est tombé ici." -- I think this can be translated as either "peace was here" or "peace fell here"-- but I misread this sign, when I was walking quickly past it, at night, and just wrote down what I thought I read.

My room window is the shape of the full length mirror. Barred by iron bars and a green wooden shade that is only pulled down when it is hot, the window is my portal into the neighborhood. It faces the back of the three apartments surrounding ours forming an open air courtyard, except theres no patio at the bottom just the ground floors of apartments that hug the other buildings. The apartment symphony is one no musician could dream up. Usually the yelling comes from the three other windows in my host family’s apartment. One divorcé and three children ranging from the ages of 6-17 make for many screaming matches. Then there are the televisions coming from different apartments. I know that one guy (I say guy because of the television programs he watches, but that is gender stereotyping, and I’m just trying to make a guess) is English-speaking, possibly American as he watches Dexter, and that he has a Blackberry. His Blackberry alarm goes off every morning around 10. He sleeps through it as well, Always…

 He’s not my least favorite though. There is a woman who has sex about once a month. Maybe she has more sex, I can’t be sure; however, I just know that her window is open and the whole area is serenaded by her sounds. Its obnoxious of her, I have screamed down for her to shut her window, but she doesn’t listen. She’s not my least favorite either.

There is also the family that is two windows down and across in the apartment building next door. I can see into their kitchen, but a totalizing view is obscured by their numerous hanging plants.They fight too. One night they had this crazy screaming match. Something about he [the father] hit her [the daughter]. She kept repeating “me pegaste” “me pegaste” … “you hit me” “you hit me”.  It ended in a test of wills, and I fell asleep before I heard the result. No doubt it was fascinating to listen to other peoples problems.

My least favorite is the downstairs neighbor in my own apartment building. He thinks it is appropriate to blast Eric Clapton’s Greatest Hits at all hours of the night. The privilege is not mine, as I hear the audience clapping for the fifth repeat of his songs. There is another band that is his favorite. The concerts have gotten old quickly. I complained about him to the downstairs doorman. He’s my favorite Peruvian gossiper. He loves the boys at the kiosk next door and makes it his business to know all the juicy details of the building. He told me that the downstairs neighbor is in his 40’s, fat, and lives with his mother. I hate him. He’s apparently a gentle giant, but to me there is nothing gentle about Eric Clapton at 4 in the morning.

This is my rear window. This is my Argentina. 

“I’d like to propose a toast.

First, to Tanya, for screwing up our flight plans, inadvertently landing us in this amazing city instead of the tourist death trap we anticipated.

Second, to the overwhelmingly favorable setup of Glasgow being filled with sexy men and ugly women.

Third, and most important, to Simone.  Happy birthday, girl.  May your night be filled with cheap alcohol and attractive gingers.”

I wasn’t supposed to be making this speech; I wasn’t even supposed to be spending the weekend in Glasgow.   The city of choice for Simone’s birthday weekend was green, hilly, castle-filled Edinburgh. I had researched the city’s sights, where to go out at night, where to stay.  Two days before we were set to leave, just as I was about to book a hostel, I checked our boarding passes to see when we would arrive in Edinburgh.

Arrival: 10 AM.  Glasgow International Airport.  I summoned Simone.

“ There’s no way Tanya bought tickets to the wrong city.  Are you positive there isn’t a Glasgow International Airport in Edinburgh?”  she asked me.

“Yes.”

None of us were initially too happy about this last minute, accidental change of plans.  But a half hour of googling later, it seemed that Glasgow might actually be more what we were looking for.  Vintage shopping, crazy nightlife, thriving art scene… Edinburgh? Where’s that?

A few things you should know about Glasgow up front. It’s not pretty.  It’s cool looking, in an Edgar Allen Poe-ish, something-eerie-might-occur kind of way.  It’s definitely not picturesque, unless you like your pictures grey and misty with a Burger King in the background.

But  it is really fun. The first night that my friends and I went out in Glasgow, at the recommendation of the Euro Hostel  concierge, we paid ten pounds to see  DJ Adam Beyer at a venue called “The Arches”.  We were the only Americans, and (so it seemed)  the only people not rolling on ecstasy.  It didn’t matter at all. We spent at least five hours right in front of the stage, dancing our brains out.  The next night we went to a few bars, one of which was apparently 80’s themed.  We befriended a group of Glaswegians wearing leopard print spandex and crop-tops.  I can’t imagine a more amusing way to spend one’s birthday weekend.

During the day, we checked out the West End’s cafes and boutiques. On Ruthevall Lane, a little cobblestone street filled with vintage stores and record shops, we found a gem of a used clothing store called Glorious. The shop is tiny, but filled with a huge selection of inexpensive clothes in great condition. It is because of Glorious that when we left Scotland, our bags were twice as heavy as they were when we got there.

Sometimes, it felt like Glasgow was a weird, damp, hedonistic parallel universe.  Getting drunk is far too cheap and easy in this city, with a double shot of vodka and cranberry juice only costing about two pounds, as compared to five or six in London. Bars and clubs open early and close late. Moreover, eating healthfully is nearly impossible . These people love their fast food.  Every time my friends and I got hungry in central Glasgow, we would end up wandering past KFCs and Wendys’  for a half hour before finally settling on a Friday’s-like restaurant as the most responsible choice.

A warning: just because you are in an English speaking country does not mean you will understand a word anybody says.  The accent of a born and bred Glaswegian can be nearly impossible to decipher, especially if you’ve been drinking. I can’t tell you how many “conversations” I had had that weekend was comprised  simply of me repeating every tenth word the person I was talking to said and nodding my head vigorously.   

Glasgow might not be Scotland’s most scenic or well known city. If you want to take pictures, see the sights, and take walking tours, this isn’t the place for you.  But if you’re a young person looking for a good time, you won’t be disappointed.

The entry foyer of Lauro’s woodworking workshop is fairly normal: a small desk with a fax machine, lots of dusty frames leaning against the walls, and piles of assorted wooden objects waiting to be worked on. Nothing in the foyer really jumps out at you except the obvious treasures: three masterpiece Velasquez reproductions. I assume they are probably some of Lauro’s most prized possessions, and they're the first things I look at whenever I visit the workshop every week.

Off to the side of the foyer a long hallway connects to the workshop in the back. Gazing down the hall, you understand that you are entering into the realm of an artistry that completely blows over your head: there’s so much wood piled onto the walls that it seems enough to build a modest house. Wooden beams are piled everywhere, there are too many frames hanging around to count—there’s literally too much wood for everything to be categorized and remembered. Yet all the wooden objects in the shop, however numerous and seemingly forgotten, seem to have some sort of specialty or function, like each wooden beam and every dusty frame is going to be put to use at one time or another.   The center workspace (the primary photograph) is where all the action happens—there’s an old fashioned steel furnace used for disposing of spare wood and generating heat to dry newly-painted frames; a large metal table in the center is usually cluttered with paint-stained tools, varnish and glue canisters; and there’s a weathered leather chair just sitting off to the side that I’m too afraid to sit in because I don’t want to seem detached from what’s going on. The cutting of wood takes place in the back room where all the machines are located—as a result, it's littered with sawdust and blocks of unused wooden scraps. I generally don’t go back there unless I’m following Lauro to watch him work.

Paint, varnish, and other globs of unidentifiable substances are strewn all over the floor, and the steely feel of the walls seem to reek of a chemical-like yet rustic smell that is ubiquitous and strangely attractive. Combined with the smell of sawdust, there’s a strange homey-quality that is reminiscent of my father’s garage. That, and a used car workshop.

The shop is technically in a different building than the foyer—the hallway that connects the two basically stretches between them beneath the open sky. As a result, the cold, crisp air of the Tuscan night wraps its fingers around the walls of the workshop, giving it an empty, wintery chill. When rain comes, the heavy drops ring out on the metal rooftop, and you can hear the drops falling outside where the outhouse is located.

In the back of the farthest room there is a dark iron staircase that winds upward to a second floor--I've yet to discover where it leads or what is up there, but I can imagine that it's another storehouse for unfinished projects. At the foot of the spiral staircase is Lauro's office--a modest little room that has a comfortable-looking chair and desk, with a personal cupboard that holds an antique shotgun and other memorabilia. In all the time I've known Lauro, I've never seen him work in that office--whenever he's at work, he's working in the midst of all the action, right in the center of the workshop. This place is here for him; it is at his service.

At first, I was having trouble thinking of a specific place in Florence that was special to me. This city has so much history and so many iconic places, but none of those places feel specifically “mine.” These places are iconic for a reason. They are special to everyone, which is why people come from all over the world to experience them.
 
Yesterday I went for a run and realized that my special place in Florence is the route I run several times a week. It’s always the same: Along the Arno the whole time, through the entirety of the Cascine Park and back. It’s about 12 km round trip (according to Google Maps). Not exactly what you would typically describe as a “fun” experience, but this route is beautiful. The park is gorgeous, and watching the leaves change and fall over the past few weeks has been beautiful.
 
This is also the only place I’ve been able to run without getting confused stares and points from Italians who are puzzled by the fact that I am running in public. People, mostly Italians even, frequent this path. Running, walking their dogs, bike riding, roller blading, etc. Parents bring their children and teach them how to ride a bike. Friendly dogs make me stop to pet them, or run alongside for a while (most dogs run around without leashes in this park). Experiencing a Saturday afternoon alongside typical Italian families is often what I need to feel less like a visitor in this city.
 
The best part about this park is the fact that by the time you get to the end of it, you have watched Florence melt away into countryside. At the beginning of my run I have to dodge traffic, wait for lights to turn green, and weave in and out of slow-moving pedestrians along the Arno. As I get further into the Cascine, the buildings that stand along the opposite bank of the Arno change from tall (for Florence) hotels and huge churches crammed together, to smaller residential houses, and the grassy hill leading down to the river gets more and more prominent.
 
I turn around at the Ponte All’Indiana, a daunting industrialish red bridge very different from the beautiful historic ones in the center of Florence. It comes out of nowhere, connecting one mostly lush unpopulated bank to the other. This is also the point where a different river meets the Arno, so the water is very loud. It’s a wonderful spot. Very different from what you would typically connect with Florence.
 
Sometimes I come to the Cascine to do homework too (or procrastinate from doing such by taking pictures, see above); you can go right down to the riverbank and sit in the grass. It has become a place that I instinctively go to if I want to get away from anything. It is quiet and beautiful, and when I’m there I don’t feel like a tourist, and I don’t feel so isolated from the Tuscan countryside, which tends to happen when you spend too much time in the dark, narrow streets of Florence’s center.

Street coffee is my favorite cafe in the East End (in London, dam you Costa!). A tiny sign pokes out as you’re walking down Brick Lane. It says “COFFEE” in glowing, thin pink letters. You’d probably walk past it a thousand times unless you looked inside. Another trendy coffee shop, yes! With furniture that looks like it was found in the street. Endless outlets for your laptop. A lamp with only the shell of its wire shade sits on the bar stool across from the barista counter. Next to it sits a plastic electronic globe from when Russia was still the U.S.S.R. and a stack of “Just Seventeen” magazines from the 80s’ with interviews from when Bret Easton Ellis had just written Less Than Zero.
 
The dimply lit coffee shop with street art and fliers to shows that you consider going to, but never will, is full of other trendy young people in fur coats and leggings. Young people with bleach blond hair shaved on one side. With leopard print flat shoes. Young dudes with leather jackets and bowler caps. They are all too part of the coffee shops layout and aesthetic. I feel cheap here, everyone is peacocking, do I look as good as they do? Do I care? Nope. They’re just props, much like the young baristas with similar attire. They’re friendly, they remember me because I go there often enough-- often enough to have earned a free coffee. 

It’s always crowded there. People are always peeking into see if  seats are available then walking out, but I always manage to find one. There’s always one there, waiting for me. It’s the only place  where I (I would want to) can be by myself and a part of the world without the tainting of other NYU students (no offense). There are no proper places to study at NYUL (what the hell?!) and everything closes early. So alas, I take that trip on the tube, walk many many blocks and there it is Street Coffee. My own private get away.

(Photo taken by Kim Fuerth)

What can I possibly say about Central Point? It’s a slab of cement under a tree with a table and some plastic chairs. I know it doesn’t sounds fancy or exciting, but it is one of my all-time favorite places in Accra, and it happens to be right around the corner from the NYU academic center … and they serve beer!

You can find me and my friends at Central Point any day of the week, any time – in the morning and afternoon, In between classes, before dinner, after dinner, you name it.  Across the street from the slab of cement is the storefront. All they have are sodas and beers and a few snacky items. I always buy a Club beer and a bag of small fried snacks similar to Chinese noodles. One beer costs two cedi and one bag of snacks costs fifty peswas, that’s less than two dollars in total. Sandra and Mary, the two young girls who work there, sit in front of the store everyday waiting for us rowdy NYU students to come by.

I walk out of class and immediately head to Central Point. Even if I am by myself, there is a 75 percent chance that some of my friends are already there. I grab a chair and sit down. In the US, hissing at someone is a no-no, but here in Ghana it is simply a way of getting someone’s attention. I hiss at one of the girls to come over and I order a Club. In a few minutes she brings out my beer. After awhile of drinking and chatting I have to pee, so I walk a few feet over to the piss box. The piss box (I didn’t make this up – that’s actually what they’re called) at central point is the best. Most piss boxes are like little cubicles, usually with no roof. They’re just four walls and a drain. The one at central point however, only has three walls, but it comes with a lovely view of the academic center! A few feet away from Central Point is our shortcut home. We always walk that way after we pay for our drinks. It’s a very narrow dirt pathway next to a very large gutter – not a great combination if you are at all intoxicated. I’m amazing that no one has fallen in … yet.

One reason I love Central Point so much is because of the simplicity of it. In fact, that’s one of the reasons I love Ghana altogether. A slab of concrete, a plastic chair, some beer, and some company are all I need to be satisfied.

I love the British Museum. I’ve only been in it a handful of times since moving here, but I’m most definitely in love. Even with only 15 minutes of free time once, I found myself within its protective stone walls surrounded by relics of ancient and modern history. I’ve never been a big museum person, but the Museum of Natural History in New York was always an exception, and I think that love was transferred to the British Museum after my first visit. I never really expected to love it as much as I do. My first visit was with my London history class as a general introduction to the Roman roots of London and how it grew from there into the city it is today. I remember walking through the side entrance, grabbing a map of the floor plan, and being in awe at the number of rooms. The map shows 5 floors containing approximately 90 rooms. I haven’t visited every single room as I originally intended to do, because there’s just too much to see in each room.
 
The museum was founded in 1753 and officially opened on January 15, 1753. The original collection was provided by the will of Sir Hans Sloane to King George II in exchange for 20,000 pounds to his heirs. It claims to be the “first national public museum in the world,” and that’s certainly a tradition it has held up into the present. It is completely free for people to go into and spend as much time in there as they wish, at least until closing time at 5:30pm. The site of the building today is the same spot where the original collection was housed, and the museum has been opened ever since aside from short periods of closure during the two World Wars. Today, the collection houses over 8 million objects from across the globe and expanding throughout centuries of the world’s history. You can see anything from small pottery fragments to pieces of the Greek Parthenon there. Every room contains glass counters and little detailed plaques stating what the artifact is, where and when it was found, and how it was use. Some objects are too big to encased, so they’re put on pedestals in the middle of the room or hung up to cover the expanse of the wall.
 
Of course, it’s not just the history it contains that makes the British Museum such a magnificent place. The building itself is also a sight to marvel at. The current building that the majority of the collection is housed in was designed in 1823 by Sir Robert Smirke and built in 1852. The main entrance that most people recognize is actually the South entrance of the museum. Now I’m not a connoisseur or anywhere close to knowledgeable about architecture, but I’m pretty sure the building was built in the Greek style, with giant columns covering the main entrance along Great Russell Street. I normally go through the Montague Place entrance which is around the corner from the NYU in London building and down the street from the college campus where our classes our help. It’s the perfect getaway with a little time to spare.
 
(All information regarding the British Museum provided via their website, accessible here)

I don't know what Virginia Woolf would say about the London Eye, but she would definitely say something. It could even be the next chapter of her six essays on London life. The Eye was built in 1999 and since then, has become one of the many defining points of London. When you hear "London," most people will think of the London Eye along with Big Ben, red double deckers, black cabbies and Trafalgar Square. The panoramic view from the south bank of the Thames includes a vast London skyline made up of the Houses of Parliament, Big Ben, the Gherkin (a.k.a. the torpedo building), St. Paul's Cathedral, Trafalgar Square, the London Eye, and the Tower of London. This gigantic ferris wheel only took one year to build and was the tallest wheel of its kind when it was finished. Since then, quite a few oversized ferris wheels have taken the number one slot, including the Singapore Flyer in 2008. It's taller by about 50 ft.  

That 50 ft. wouldn't make a difference to me because the view from the top is amazing. NYU was cool enough to send us there during the best hour (around sunset). One rotation takes about 30 minutes, so we went up while the sun was still in the sky and by the time we came back down the sky was blazed with different colors and the entire city was lit. You can see a little bit of the turquoise sky in the photo above. At the very top, the entire city was sprawled right in front of me. I almost wanted to fold it up like a map.. 

I guess Woolf would discuss the many perspectives of the Eye. When standing underneath it, you have to crane your neck all the way back to get a good look at this massive thing that takes up the whole sky. Then when you're on it, slowly and almost unknowingly revolving, you become apart of the sky. It's fantastic and we all got excited like little kids when we thought we could see our house from there. While walking around the streets of London with its architecture and vast gardens, it's easy to feel pretty small at times, but from the top of the Eye, all of of London has shrunk and you're literally on top of the world. 

(Photo: I took this photo immediately after my trip on the London Eye during sunset.) 

For my History of Architecture class, we frequently take trips to see examples of building styles around the city. The thing is, my professor happens to be the official historian for Prague Castle, so we tend to spend a lot of time there. I would love to write about something obscure and original (the inside of the computer repair shop or the beer hall who's name translates 'the dry gums') but there is just no escaping Prague Castle when in Prague.

You can walk in from a couple different spots or you can take the 22 tram. I usually like to walk up the stairs near the Malostranska metrostation. The view from the top of the stairs is beautiful. You can turn around and look out over all of Old Town and Minor Town. Then there is a passage-way leading into the castle. There are guards posted there, as well as other places around the castle, and you shouldn't try to make them move because it's just not nice. Anyway. Now that you're up the hill and in the castle complex itself, you'll pass the Lobkowicz palace and museum on your left and the museum of toys on your right. The one on the left showcases the private collection of the Lobkowicz family, which is pretty extensive, and the one on the right...I'm not sure why it exists and especially why they put it where they did. Strange.

Further on, you'll enter a small square. The old romanesque church behind you is well worth looking into. On your left is a museum in part of the old royal palace. It has displays about the history of the castle complex and artifacts found during digs there. Very cool if you're into that sort of thing. And of course, right in front of you is St. Vitis cathederal. When talking to non-Czechs, I find that they most often refer to St. Vitis as 'Prague Castle.' It's an easy mistake to make, I guess. The building is HUGE. If you walk around it to the right, you pass a very old historic pub. If you walk around it to the left, you end up in a bigger square with a long pink building on your left. You just passed the oldest part of the cathederal and the newest part (as in 1920s new) is in front of you. That pink building is the President's palace. If you go though the Egyptian-looking passage through it, you can enter the castle gardens and look at the defenestration window. Fun! If not, you keep walking through that courtyard, though a passage and into a smaller courtyard surrounded by more buildings that look like the pink one. They're more governmental buildings...we went in with my class but they're not open to the public. You can pass through them and eventually out of that castle area through the big baroque gate (with more unsmiling guards). You emerge into a larger square with lots of people all around. To your left, there is a wall from which the view is spectacular. There's a statue of TGM (Thomas Garrigue Masaryk), the first president of the first republic who took his wife's last name as his middle name when they married. Behind him are a few big buildings that are under construction at the moment and will someday open as a museum. On your right is the Archbishop's palace. He still lives and works there, lucky guy.

From here there are any number of places you could go. There's the very Baroque Lucerna palace, the Strahov monestary with it's stunning library, and of course there's the Strahov brewery where you can try their monestary beer. It gets crowded so go early or call ahead!

In another part of the complex is a museum showcasing Cartier diamonds (not sure why) and the gate to the royal gardens. The gardens, now closed for the season, were closed for the shooting of Mission Impossible (6? 7?). But my ever-persuasive professor got us in. Among the interesting buildings in the garden is Belvedere Castle. It was built as a summer palace and is the only renaissance building in Prague that is completely faithful to Italian design. The weather here is just too cold to put outdoor verendas on most buildings. The sloped roof of this palace was later the inspiration for the roof of the National Theater on the other side of the river. And from here, if the garden gate onto the street is open, you can hop on the 22 tram going down hill to rest your sore feet and return home.

 

It’s a little hard to describe my favorite restaurant in Ghana. It’s actually probably a bit misleading to call it a restaurant. I’m not even entirely sure it has a name. The only form of signage is a wooden plank with the word pizza in Christmas lights stapled to it that is occasionally flipped on. It has neither walls nor a roof. It’s essentially just a stand by the side of the road with a tent over it. By day it’s a pineapple stand with one hundred or so pineapples stacked high across the long front table. At night all of the pineapples are cleared away and the table now holds a large cooler for drinks and a radio. Duck under the tent and you’ll find two small tables with about four chairs each towards the front for the costumers and another long table in the back. Sitting at the long table are two men, one who is making pizza dough and piling on the toppings and the other who is manning the small portable oven. For whatever reason, their chef’s uniform consists of throwing a long white lab coat over jeans. One of the guys has taken to having his more favored costumers sign it was a sharpie he carries in his back pocket (an honor that was bestowed on me a week or so ago).
            The food is delicious and the fact you can get a small pizza for 5 cedis (about $3.50) and a Coke in a glass bottle for 60 pesewas (about 40 cents) has made it my go to dinner location for the past few weeks. It’s become the perfect place to sit and laugh with friends as we wait patiently for our food to appear (see my very cheery picture of my friends as we waited for our food one night). The pizzas are made one at a time so patience is a virtue but this is true of any Ghanaian restaurant (sometimes excessively so) and the pleasant atmosphere makes the wait completely tolerable. I’ve already realized that I’m going to miss this place quite a bit upon returning home but I know that it will sound a little insane when I try to explain it to my friends whose context of where to eat consists entirely of New York City’s impressive restaurant scene. In the meantime I’ll just have to take the opportunity to stuff my face over the next few weeks. Not that I really needed an excuse.