LLWorldTour

Perhaps for the very first time, this Christmas I finally discovered what it’s all about. They say that ‘giving’ is the best gift of all…and I’ve always enjoyed that, but this year was something truly special. Don’t start choking on my cheesy words yet, because I really mean it. I wanted to do something in London to get ‘in’ to the city more like I had in other places—I wanted to work somehow and meet the real people of the city. And I did just that–I met the city’s true residents—the homeless. During all of Christmas week I volunteered for something called Crisis Open Christmas. Crisis is a national charity that focuses on the ‘hidden’ homeless people who may be living in hostels, cheap hotels, or sleeping on friend’s and family’s floors. The Crisis vision is that all homeless people, or those in danger of becoming homeless, should be able to easily access individual help and support to help them to rebuild their lives and prevent them from remaining trapped in the cycle of homelessness.

Homelessness has changed over the last 35 years but it is far from being solved. Today, the majority have some form of accommodation, but still need companionship and warmth at Christmas. During the Crisis Open Christmas more than 1,500 ‘guests’ were welcomed at eight different centers spread around London in empty office buildings from the 23^rd to the 30^th of December 2007. The guests were not only provided with warmth, companionship, food and a safe place to sleep, but also amazing services such as checkups from on-site doctor and dentist, professional advice on housing, and other treats like an arts and crafts center, a computer lab, a movie area, karaoke, live musical entertainment, and even a mini beauty saloon for some pampering of massages and hair treatments. Of course there were also showers and plenty of cots to sleep on.

I was just one of 7,000 volunteers who gave up their time during the holidays and many of whom return again and again every year to ensure that homeless people are not left out in the cold and are given the chance to move up in their lives. Without any family here, for me it just felt like the right thing to do.

I worked the afternoon shift (3-11p) for five days. Every day we started with a volunteer meeting at which different jobs were divvied up. I was not only impressed with the whole operation, but with the efficient organization of so many volunteers. The volunteers in charge had been doing this for years and had perfected the way to run such a program. Every hour or so we were relieved and rotated into a new job so we were able to try many different things and meet as many different guests as possible. The bottom line to everything was interaction with the guests—something many of them unfortunately don’t get much of all year long. Smiles, conversations, laughter and constant warmth painted the overall scene everywhere you looked.

One of my favorite jobs was working at the ever-busy coffee and tea bar. It kept me busy making drinks and there was no better place to get to talk to guests and get to know them. In just a day or two I was calling people by name and of course, they knew me as the girl from Chicago with the funny American accent. Another great ‘post’ was at the front gate where guests entered and exited. Since we were an alcohol and drug-free center, guests did have to be patted down. This job was given only to women as we were seen as less threatening. Of course it was a nice and funny treat for the many male guests and they joked with us and seemed to be exiting and reentering more than frequently to just to get ‘felt up’ by a lovely lady.

Other ‘jobs’ I did: dinner service, food clean-up, ‘gap’ duty (basically making sure guests didn’t go where they weren’t supposed to), and overall mingling. Luckily I never got assigned to toilet duty, but I have to say every volunteer seemed happy to be there and it was an amazingly positive environment.

One of the preconceived notions I and others have…and the most common question I was asked: ‘weren’t they dirty and smelly?’ I think we are so used to seeing (or smelling) the inebriated bum on the corner that perhaps we assume that is what they are all like. But after one day there, I was honestly forgetting that these were ‘homeless’ and was even confusing some volunteers for guests. They were all different kinds and from all walks of life–artists, writers, philosophers, musicians, immigrants, mothers, husbands, sons, etc. Yes, there were some drunks, but the majority were rather friendly, intelligent, and openly thankful for Crisis.

I did had a few ‘experiences’ because of the fact that I am very friendly and smiley and sometimes this can be misconstrued as ‘more’ especially when you are dealing with folks that perhaps never get any attention at all. I not only had a few new ‘boyfriends’ trying to woo me, I got my first marriage proposal. Not exactly the way I’d imagined it, but still flattering. One guest, I’ll call him Michael, started to fancy me. He was also a bit of a hot head and involved in a few fights between a group of Poles and a group of Blacks. Knowing he was taking a liking to me, the head volunteers actually used me to calm him down. I would hang out and talk to him, go out and smoke with him (without actually smoking) and in a way it felt a bit manipulative as I thought they were using me to sort of play on his emotions a bit, but I guess if it prevented violence then I guess it was okay. Michael ended up giving me a hand written note on the last night thanking me for ‘looking out for’ him saying he really liked me and ‘thought we could be more than friends.’ It reminded me of notes I’d gotten in grade school. I let him down gently and he took it like a man. Another guy, I’ll call him Johnny, started out as a super sweet guy always coming to talk to me. But after five days, a declaration of love and a marriage proposal, he became a bit of a stalker who kept giving me his phone number and asking for my info. This was a big ‘no-no’ of course.

Sadly, though, it was kind of like a ‘bubble’ in our center, a kind of safe place where you could talk to strangers, and laugh with drug addicts and convicts and not even think twice about it. Even walking back to the tube after my shift I would see some new ‘friends’ and say ‘hello.’ This was very different from real life where we all too often divert our eyes from the sadness we pass on the sidewalks of our own cities. It has definitely made me change this thinking. But, nevertheless, it will always be the same on the outside where you don’t have the safety net of Crisis behind you and really just never know what might happen.

Just think about a life where perhaps you are almost always alone. And then here at Crisis you are surrounded by warm people who talk to you and smile with you all week. I can’t imagine what this must feel like, but many guests continuously thanked us all week for our time telling us how much it meant to them.

This was the best part for me…to just make someone feel good and not alone. The hardest part was on the 30^th the doors were closed…and the intensity of the week came to an abrupt end. What happens to these people now? Hopefully, with the help of Crisis, they will be on their way to a better life. But I do think the reality is, for better or worse, the majority will be back again next year. If this could only be the ‘true meaning’ of life all year round and not just at Christmas, we’d really be onto something.

There is an oft-used (read: over-used) saying coined in the 1800s: “when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life.” This was actually my first time hearing this turn of phrase, but just outside of the airport I was already ‘tired’ of it (it being the saying, not London), as it was printed in just about every guide, pamphlet, and article about London. Things in London are civil: you must buckle your seatbelt on the bus (the driver actually came down the aisle to make sure we were all tethered in), the immigrations officers were formal yet cheerful, everyone queues up (lines up) perfectly and even the ATM machine was nice to me. ‘He’ said: ‘thank you for getting cash out of this hole in the wall.’ And I’d only just left the airport.

During all my past travels, I’d only been to London once before nearly 12 years ago on my very first trip abroad. I was only here for three days and it was the end of a three week backpacking trip with my good friend from university, Katie. I have to admit—three days was not enough and I guess after being in Paris and Rome for the first time, London seemed a bit boring. But now I know I had barely scratched the surface.

This town is so much more than red double-decker buses, big black cabs (in which the drivers are rigorously trained and are supposed to know ever single street in the city), and the queen. London is a fitting end (did I just say ‘end?’ I’ll get to that later) to the European leg of my world tour. Probably alongside New York City, it is the most culturally diverse city in the world. As I walked down the streets and criss-crossed the city on the tube (with the help of my trusty Oyster Card), I was elated to hear bits and pieces of other languages I’d encountered all over the world—Polish, Turkish, Chinese, Romanian, Arabic, French, German, etc. In fact, here you can hear about 300 different languages being spoken all over the city from the underground to the pubs to the streets. More than a third of all London’s 7.3 million residents were born outside the country. London is everything to everyone: it’s manicured gardens and stately palaces are complimented with vibrant ethnic street markets and raucous pubs (where you can breathe deep—they are sans smoke nowadays).

I walked with Joanne (a friend of a friend of a friend…and probably a friend of Kevin Bacon) nearby and along the Thames and saw the big tourist attractions from the huge Norwegian Pine in Trafalgar Square to St. Paul’s massive cathedral to the wonderfully progressive Tate Modern Museum. I braved the Christmas crowds and gawked at the festively decorated shops along Oxford and Regency Streets. I wandered down posh Upper Street in Islington (home of former PM, Tony Blair) and Portobello Road in the uber-trendy Notting Hill (no sign of Hugh, though). I ‘rocked down to Electric Avenue’ in Brixton made famous ‘round the world by Eddy Grant back in the early ‘80s. The block was an amalgamation of sights and smells. Jamaican tunes blasted out of fish shops, halal butchers, and wig stores all side by side.

London was expectedly cold, gray, and wet, but in some ways that added to the Christmas feel (and added to the flu I’d caught in Sweden). There was no snow covering the cobblestone lanes or Victorian roofs though…and there was no sign of Ebenezer Scrooge (“I’m as merry as a school boy!”) or Tiny Tim (“God bless us all, every one”). It’s funny how I spent both my Christmases abroad in English speaking countries…one way down under in the southern hemisphere and the other up north near the home of 0 Longitude.

I have to say it was odd speaking English all the time again. I was more aware of this than any other time in my life. I would go into a store ask for something and they understood me straightaway. It was quite odd after all this time, to just open my mouth and simply use my native tongue. There was no odd mix of Spanglish or mangled Turkish. I did miss the challenge and felt like now my brain could officially turn to mush since I was using even less of it than before. Although here in England, I guess I still do sound ‘different’ and of course as soon as I speak they know exactly where I’m from.

On the quickest country visit of my entire world tour, I spent three whole days in Sweden. More specifically I was in its “second city,” Goteborg (Gothenburg in English). It’s kinda like our ‘second city’ of Chicago which is coincidentally a sister city to Gothenburg. Three days is very quick for me considering I was in Turkey for 3 months, Australia for 2 months, and Spain for 2 months. But in these short 72 hours (of mostly darkness) I was able to see that I really like it there. So, let’s review. What do we (stereotypically) know about Sweden? ABBA, IKEA, H&M, (they like ‘letter’ names), Volvo, and, unless we are too drunk to remember, Absolut Vodka. These are some pretty big, and successful exports…yes, you know it’s true, even ABBA.

Another first for me on my trip…I was actually picked up at the airport by friends. How sweet is that? My new Swedish friends, who I’d met just over a month earlier at the beach in Nerja, Spain live in Goteborg and were the main reason I was here (and the 1 cent-plus-tax flight I scored on Ryanair to fly to Sweden from Madrid). Piotr and Johan greeted me with open arms and smiles in the super-tiny Gothenburg City Airport and we drove into town passing the inversely massive and famous Volvo headquarters and plant. I was staying with Paula, who I also met in Nerja, as her first ‘official’ Couchsurfer. Although, it was probably more ‘unofficial’ since we were already friends. Paula is a fun and funky chick who spends most of her time being a jewelry artist.

The people of Goteborg that I met were very friendly and down to earth. They dress for the bitter cold weather and not for fashion. They ride their bikes to work. And nearly all the windows I peered into and Paula’s apartment itself really did look like the pages of an Ikea catalog. Well, it’s not odd actually that Paula’s place did, because she actually won a contest a few years back and they came in and gave her pad an ‘Ikea extreme home makeover.’ It is hard to miss the strong, clean design sensibility of Sweden’s Functionalist movement all over the city—in people’s homes, restaurant design, and a lot of the modern building facades.

But the word quaint also has to describe some of Gothenburg’s cobblestone streets lined with warm, cozy cafes almost all with candle-lit lanterns out front flanking the doorways and white electric light ‘candles’ in the windows. What a great place to not have a job and laze the day away at a café with a warm coffee and tasty toasted sandwich. You know I’m a sucker for cafes and a good sandwich…so Gothenburg stole me heart at first bite. Hat topped residents rode by on their bikes while moms pushed strollers of their bundles of joy down the old-time streets right out of a ‘pippi longstocking’ book. It was nearly a picture perfect Christmas shopping scene. And, yes, the cold added to the Christmas feel…something I missed last year at the beach during Australia’s Christmas summer days. And it was dark. During the winter it pretty much gets dark here just after 3pm. And, it was gray. I have to admit I did not see the sun once the entire time I was here. But, on the flip side, they tell me that in summer it never really gets dark here. Not sure I’d like that either. I kinda like going out at night…in the dark. There’s something cool about a dark night sky and city lights to give you the excitement of the night’s possibilities as you hit the town.

We drank glögg (the traditional Swedish mulled wine), ate tasty herring in cream sauce and salmon and crunched on Wasa crisp bread. But we did NOT listen to ABBA and we did NOT have any meatballs, Swedish or otherwise. In fact, I think nearly every Swede I met was a vegetarian, so perhaps today’s Swedish meatballs are Tofuballs anyway.

We discussed the complex differences between the common animals of Sweden: the deer, reindeer, elk and the official national animal, the real Bullwinkle himself, the moose. And as I left Paula gave me one of the most original gifts I’ve ever received in my entire life…some authentic moose pellets. Yes, that’s moose turd. Charlie Brown’s got nothing on me. Maybe ‘all he got was a rock,’ but I got shit. Authentic shit straight from Sweden.

Back home in the States, I’d, of course, heard about bullfighting, but never really realized how big and popular it still is here in modern day Spain. Bullfighting is a traditional spectacle that is still practiced in Spain, Portugal, Southern France, and many Latin American countries. One of the first things I saw in my first city in Spain, Valencia, was the bullring and I have since seen them in basically every city I have visited here. Bullfighting is a centuries-old tradition, but is also a big business. Each year about 24,000 bulls are killed in front of a live audience of more than thirty million people.

As an animal lover, it will not surprise you that I am not thrilled about bull fighting. But, as a journalist I have to tell you that I can’t tell you about it firsthand, because I did not (and could not) go to a fight. Just seeing the postcards on the racks with photos of a bull with banderillas (brightly colored sticks with harpoon points) stuck in his back and blood drenching his fur made me cringe and look away. Now, that being said, I do realize that just because something is different in other countries does not make it wrong. In American thousands of animals suffer every year (especially at our factory farms), and I certainly don’t like this either. But I did learn some more about it…

The fighting bulls are bred specifically for this industry. Supposedly they live a pampered and cushy life before their ‘date with destiny’ in the ring and I’m told that if bullfighting were to become outlawed entirely—there would be no money and therefore no ‘nice’ life for these beasts.

To many, especially in Andalucia, the home of bullfighting, it is a deep cultural ritual—some see it as a form of art—the way ‘man and bull’ perform together. But there is no question to me that the actual fight (no matter how sweet the bull’s life was pre-bull ring) is gruesome and cruel. Often times just before a fight a bull’s horns may be illegal shaved. This affects his balance, but is also a very sensitive and painful thing for the animal. During the fight, men on blindfolded horses drive lances into the bull’s back and neck muscles. The bull’s ability to lift its head is impaired due to severe loss of blood. Then come the banderilleros on foot, who proceed to stab banderillas into the bull’s back to further increase the pain. There are only so many master matadors at the top of their game so also oftentimes it is not a clean kill and the animal is repeatedly stabbed until it’s bloody, painful demise.

There is some opposition to this barbaric sport, but not much here in Spain. Just recently the city of Barcelona outlawed bullfighting, but this maybe more due to the spectacle’s connection to Fascist Spain and former dictator Franco than the bull fighting itself. A 2002 Gallup poll found that nearly 70% of Spaniards express “no interest” in bullfighting while the remaining 30% express “some” or “a lot” of interest. The poll also found significant generational variety, with over 50% of those 65 and older expressing interest, compared with less than a quarter of those 25–34 years of age. Apparently many of the spectators at bullfights are curious tourists who often leave before its over after being overwhelmed by the savage cruelty of it all.

Today’s matadors of Spain are as famous as today’s popstars. One of the most legendary toreros is Manolete, killed by a bull in 1947. Adrien Brody plays him (alongside Penélope Cruz as his lover) in the upcoming movie “Manolete.” Of course, I don’t care really if the matador dies in the ring…because he made the conscious choice to be there. But believe me, no one asked the bull what he wanted.