Lunch at the Afro Caribbean Pot in the Plymouth Market

When I was gifted three wiggling fish by a Bulgarian fisherman on the Plymouth Hoe, I had no idea what to do with them. Having not gutted a fish since the age of 8, under the guidance of my proud father, I called the one place I knew might be willing to cook my catch: the Afro-Caribbean Pot in the Plymouth City Market. I first noticed the proclamations of jerk chicken and pepper soup when shopping for fresh produce. I had a brief first taste at the Plymouth Flavour Fest (curried vegetables) and had been salivating to spend a leisurely lunch on their booth. Because the stall was packed during peak lunch hours, Rita asked me to visit for an early brunch. “What kind of fish are they?” she inquired. “Medium-sized and blue?” I responded. When I explained the receiving scenaio, she gleaned them mackerel. Schedule in hand, I invited my friend Emad, a Turkish PhD student, to join.

When we arrived on a Tuesday at 10:15AM we found three men already seated there: two Plymothians and an African named John whose London accent complemented his sunglasses (worn indoors), earphones, and tank top. He joked with the married owners, Antony and Rita, as the worked the kitchen. John had first met the couple in 2000 when fishing on the Hoe; he was a fitness instructor who visited weekly, at least.

Antony and Rita met in Ghana. A British-Jamaican tracing his African roots, Antony met Rita when boarding at her Ghanese hotel of employment. They returned to the UK in 2012 to homestead in Cornwall where their two daughters, aged nine and six, attend school. Working a stall in the Plymouth Market isn't easy: they wake around 4:30AM to commute across the Tamar Bridge. They prepare shop for doors to open at 9AM. By 5PM the doors close. Then, the tired parents head home, to cook dinner and prepare the family for tomorrow. “Don't you ever get sick of cooking?” I ask. Rita smiles, cooing,“I love to cook.”

Every customer is asked the same question: do you like it spicy? Emad and I nodded giddily. Sufficiently informed, Antony disappeard with our fish around the stall's corner as Rita prepared one of the double-burner stove tops in the space. The scent of pepper wafts to our noses; we hear the crisp sound of chopped vegetables.

Antony reappeared ten minutes later, handing Rita the bowl of our fish cut into thin strips with skin-on. She dusted them with flour and instructed over her shoulder, “Serve their salads.” Antony muttered under his breath, obliging.

As our stomachs gurgled in anticipation, we observed and conversed with the stall's occupants. Antony's parents immigrated to Plymouth in the 1950's from Jamaica. When I asked why, he shrugged, turning to Rita and John. “I don't know. Why did the British tell Jamaicans to come to the UK? They tell everyone at some point.” A smooth-skinned lady sat down, bow jauntily tied around her ballet bun. Greeted warmly by Rita, she began to read a Bible while they chat. Like mother and daughter, the lady and Rita discussed her recent stomach problems. Rita advised on the right herbs for today's lunch. I asked the girl about her reading materials. She tells me that she attends The River Church at 4PM every Sunday in the Guildhall. This service is attended by a diverse population from all corners of Devon. I am excited to learn of a new place for Going Churching, especially where 50% of the population is African.

An angel bestowing gifts from heaven, Rita leaned over the counter. She placed red plates laden with spiced fish, vegetables, and a tower of red-beans-and-rice before us. Emad and I groaned with delight. The delicate fish is soft on our tongues, refreshing despite it's peppery undertones. We sniffed in appreciation. I had gifted one of the fish to Antony and Rita; when Antony tried his portion he exclaimed, “That's got a kick to it!” As an expat-local, I had felt a little lackluster over the past week. I missed relaxing with my parents over dinner at their house. Then, as I sat with Emad over a plate of steaming home-cooked comfort food, I felt like a videogame character that had jumped onto an energy block. My face flushed.

Resolutely, Emad and I finished our meal. “One of the best I've had in Plymouth,” he lauded. As we paid our cash-only bill a round British man lifted his curly-haired daughter on the counter, delighting Rita and Antony. “He's a regular,” Antony told me, offering a huge plate of three jerk chicken breasts over rice and slathered with gravy. The man and his daughter came to the stall for this very lunch every single day. “He pays the rent!” Antony laughed.

Feeling satiated, Emad and I strolled back out the market doors, down Cornwall Street to Armada Way. Our only complaint was the cost of the meal: our salads and the fish lunch, supplied in part by me, totaled £10 each. Yet, we both perceived ourselves a little more Plymothian; the Afro Caribbean food stall was a right-of-passage for expat-locals. With pride we kissed lightly on the cheek and parted ways.

The Plymouth Planner: Going Churching -- The Minister Church of St. Andrew's

Overview: On this episode of Going Churching, we visit the historic Minister Church of St. Andrew’s (Plymouth City Centre) followed by a bistro brunch, a long walk, and a local cider. 

Expected Cost: Thank God that Church is free. Brunch at Cafeé Rouge will probably run around £10: mains are about £6.95 and coffee refills aren't free! A pint runs around £3.

Solo Savvy? Yes; you will receive lots of extra prayers if you appear on a pew alone. 

Expected Duration: 3 hours. 

Requirements: Shoes fit for walking. A wide-brimmed Sunday hat is recommended. 

The Plan: The Minister Church of St. Andrew is located on the North end of the Plymouth Royal Parade, a hop away from the Plymouth Guildhall. The notable insignia, RESURGAM, hangs above its main entrance. The sign was erected during Reconstruction after the Luftwaffe Blitz of 1941. The Blitz left a “roofless shell” of St. Andrew’s and other cherished buildings. RESURGAM literally translates to “I will rise again.” The entire city adopted this slogan during the difficult years post WWII. 

The 9:30AM Holy Communion service follows a modernized version of the traditional Mass, containing the ritual sequence: stand, sing, sit, listen, kneel, pray, stand, say hello, sing, sit, listen, kneel, sit, listen, stand, walk, pray, nibble, sip, walk, sit, stand, sing, sing, and exit. 

If you’re not too hungry when Mass is over (St. Andrew’s communion is a nibble of Wharburton’s and a sip of syrupy-sweet wine), grab leaflets from the table to the left of the entrance and take yourself on a walk through the building. The pamphlets offer guided tours explaining the fascinating history of St. Andrews, its relics and antiques, and contain descriptions of the stained glass windows. Even if church touring isn’t your thing (or you’re wary of thetimefull citizens beckoning you with offers of post-church coffee and cakes) grab some reading materials to mull over during brunch.

Exit through the North Patio and take a sharp right toward North Cross. In a few yards, you will see the Cafeé Rouge. Positioned in the triangular-shaped white building on the corner, it boasts French-ness with guilded windows and a red front door. The waitress will slowly finish a bite of cake behind the bar before moseying over to seat you. When she does, ask for a window seat facing North Cross. You will recognize the canes of timefull church-goers at surrounding tables. In a town where nearly every institution closes on Sunday, Café Rouge proudly serves diners seven days a week. Order a coffee and a “French” breakfast.*** Don’t expect toast cut from one of the French loaves you see proudly displayed at the bar, however. Although my spinach, mushroom, and tomato omelette and coffee tasted lovely, I was disappointed by the same crusty Wharburton’s on my plate that St. Andrew’s blessed and served during Communion. Alas, you can take the French out of France, but you can’t take the white toast from the British (or God).

After poring through the St. Andrew’s history brochures and pouring coffee until you can’t possibly contain yourself, hit the toilet and the road. Head south down the Royal Parade. Take a left past the fountain, up the Hoe toward Smeaton’s Tower. Cruise past Plymouth’s historic landmarks: the Bowling Green on the south end (stay to watch the men play in their impeccably starched trousers and sweater vests); the panoramic view of Plymouth harbour; Smeaton’s tower; and the Tinside Lido pool. Walk past the tower and loop North, down the cobblestone streets with the ocean on your right. Just before you reach the Barbican shopping area you will notice a tall staircase leading to a lifted white bar called The Mayflower. Climb the stairs to find a pint and one of the best views of the harbour in the city. Ask the owner, who is surely working the bar, for a local cider. He’s a jolly old man who will be more than happy to entertain you, should you choose to chat. Otherwise, kick back at a stool next to the window, watch the sailboats float by, and say a little prayer for another relaxing, tasty, and fulfilling Sunday spent Going Churching.


**NOTE: Much to Emily's dismay, Cafe Rouge has closed! She now recommends walking to Monty's Cafe on the Barbican for breakfast instead. 

Have You Heard?

Hello, loyal readers!

I've built a big-girl platform for my big-girl writing! Please visit my new website to follow my travels and tribulations: BASEDtraveler

As always, feedback is welcome!

Love, Emily

Stelios Karouzakis

The Plymothian Chronicles: A Guiding Tour with Eliot Siegel

Eliot Siegel Photography: http://eliotsiegel.com/

Eliot Siegel, the photographer who happens to be my landlord, agrees to meet me on a very busy Saturday to guide me through his exhibit at the Theatre Royal Plymouth. We meet in the first-floor café, its doors open to the unseasonably warm air (17Celsius). He greets me with his usual light hug and kiss on the right cheek, a kindly gesture I’m accustomed to, albeit struggle to contextualize. Eliot was born in New York but has called Plymouth home for over 11 years, making him a member of the expat-local population annually dominant in this blue-collar port town. While we wait for the pastel-clad timefull* ladies in front of us to order brie-and vegetable soup (read: light-orange liquid cheese with green dots and transparent chunks), we ruminate on important things, like desiring American-style cake frosting. Eliot orders chocolate cake, symbolic of a true expat-local (the English love cake. But, a good English boy orders fruit cake whenever available). We carried our tray of cake, Cappuccino, pre-packed ham sandwich, and sparkling water to a table in the sun, past the ladies sipping soupy brie so slowly I check my watch. Eight hours until close, they should have enough time…

Over lunch, I ask Eliot about his life as an artist in Plymouth and the city’s prospectus. Knowing that I was a fellow art-loving expat-local, he provided candid responses. Eliot moved to Plymouth as a divorcee; his wife had the kids in nearby Cornwall. In fact, he only visited Plymouth for the first time on a lunch date, when he happened to notice an advertisement for “New-York style living” in scaffolding-clad building. Today, he spends the majority of time in that same Plymouth flat and the rest at a flat in London. My bum barely warms the café seat before Eliot states, “Plymouth is limited culturally.”

Me: “I always hear that, but when I walk home from the Royal Parade on weeknights, I don’t feel like a minority because everyone is a minority. All the people around me are talking in different accents and languages.”

Eliot: “I don’t mean that there aren’t many cultures here. There’s just not much to do culturally in the city. There are plenty of cultures.”

Me: “What’s a cultural thing to do?”

Eliot: “Art galleries. Currently, there’s only three art galleries in the city that I know of. Culture is access to art, film, and theatre. We do have SOME OF those things here. There’s the Drum Theatre, which is a fringe theatre that’s internationally recognized. I’ve seen one group from Belgium there probably four times; they’re just wonderful. Outside the theatre [Royal] there is the Plymouth Arts Centre for foreign film.”

Eliot begins speaking animatedly faster. He gestures toward the bored, brown, boxy 1970’s-era office building across the pedestrian walkway.

Eliot: “In fact, they recently renovated the Plymouth Arts Centre and it looks great. Except they’re talking about moving it to that hideous piece of Communist shit. Apparently Hilton bought the building and are going to give a floor to the Centre. We’ll see if that ever actually happens, though.”

Me: “Eliot, I am surprised to see you get so upset about something in Plymouth. I thought you were living here because you ‘have a reason to,’ but it seems like you’re dedicated to the city. Why?”

Eliot: “I feel like I’m part of the community at this point. I’m going to continue to live here. I care about the city and it getting better. Eleven years ago, I couldn’t say the P-word.”

Me: “Plymouth? Why not?”

Eliot: “It has a terrible national reputation. Plymouth is a Navy town. It used to be a beautiful city before World War II. Now, it’s not a beautiful place to be. It’s improving visually; it’s become more palatable.”

Me: “So if the city is becoming more beautiful and there are so many cultures here, why isn’t there a cultural community? It seems to me like it’s not the people’s fault. It’s just like, they’re not incited to imagine or engage. Do you think so?”

Eliot rolls his eyes and allows a low, rolling chuckle. He repeats himself for emphasis.

Eliot: “Well, it’s a Navy town. There’s a lot of apathy around cultural ideas. There’s a huge unseen art community with nowhere to go. I mean, there are 1,000’s of graduate art students in Plymouth who have nowhere to exhibit and have to try their luck in London. There are no photography galleries in Plymouth. They can’t stay in the beautiful Southwest. They have to try their hand in London, and there’s only 10 galleries there.”

Me: “How can we bridge the gap between culture and being culturally active?”

Eliot: “People are coming in from other parts of the country and the world. They want to live somewhere they enjoy. They want their Plymouth to be more special.”

As Eliot has three photo shoots this afternoon, we decide to dart out of the café, up the stairs, and to his exhibit. Our ambient music is the lightly clinking glassware from the second-floor Theatre Royal Restaurant. I view the photos and listen to his explanations, noticing something that surprises me. Me: “Why don’t you take any pictures of Plymouth?”

Eliot: “Plymouth isn’t an interesting place visually.”

Me: “I completely disagree! I see things here all the time that I think would make great pictures, especially along your grunge style. Have you seen the graffiti below the motorway by Sainsbury’s on the way to Plympton?” Eliot: “I guess I just never feel inspired to walk around Plymouth and explore.”

It’s as if someone drops a Discman in my brain. Here we are, listening to a great track about the merits of Plymouth, lamenting the apathy and lack of engagement, then the track skips a beat. Me: “Eliot! Are you serious? You’ve already written off Plymouth, just like everyone else! You won’t even give it a try.”

Ever the English stoic, Eliot laughs and changes topic. We finish his exhibit in good spirits and walk together down the Royal Parade. We elevate our volume to accommodate honking buses and screaming seagulls. Eliot hugs and kisses me; I thank him profusely for his willingness. As we turn to go, he shouts not to get sunburned. I shout back, “Go explore!” We both laugh.

The Plymothian Chronicles: Sweeties

Last weekend marked the annual broadcast of the Eurovision Song Contest (dubbed Eurovision). Since its inception in1956, Eurovision has become a venerable competition for the NEXT BIG STAR. Mathematically, Eurovision = (Bollywood) + (Europe). ABBA famously launched their career here. What’s odd is that this over-the-top, hyper-sanguine event is a cherished institution in one of the most reserved, caustic, and emotionally lethargic social groups: the British. One particular moment during this year’s Eurovision contest highlights a fascinating social element that seems to juxtapose British temperament: British obsession for sweet treats. I believe the British must maintain their saccharine diet to psychologically balance their cultural bitterness.

While waiting for telephone votes tally, the Danish host of this year’s Eurovision, Liza, surprised the French, Maltese, and British performers with their favourite foods. Liza good-naturedly quizzed the artists about their preferences before presenting their treats. The French and Maltese buoyed back, engaging in smiley and supportive verbal tennis. The French group even kissed Liza when she handed them bowls of Asian noodles. Then came the British performer, Molly, whose singular moniker mirrored her aloof attitude. Liza was visibly frustrated by Molly’s inability to respond except to shrug and mutter, “I guess.” The presenter eventually persuaded Molly to admit that she liked a certain cake shop. Liza then handed the singer one of the bakery’s special caramel concoctions. With a confused look on her face, Molly stretched a single hand out and barely squeaked, “Oh, wow, thanks…”

In the UK, cakes are more ubiquitous than coffee. For instance, a local museum café currently offers a special deal: buy a cake between 9AM and 11:30AM and receive a free coffee. There’s no chicken-or-egg argument here; it’s obvious which product comes first. It’s nearly impossible to enter a place of business without seeing a cardboard box of £1 charity sweets, be it a bar, clothier, or corporation. On the honour system, insert £1 and choose a baggie from the pile. While you can’t get green leafy lettuce at the Harvester Salad and Grill, you better believe those charity sweet containers are ALWAYS stocked.

What really spurned my sweetie-awareness is the copious amounts of half-eaten or unopened sweets littering the ground. I have never been to a place with so many sugary confections ditched along the side of the road. The UK is ostensibly so inundated with sweets that they can afford to take the treats for granted. Sick of your Lion Bar? Toss it to the ground and switch to Fruit Pastilles at the next Tesco.

On any given day you can watch the citizens of my town conversing on their daily errands. Many of them briefly pop into a shop to purchase a Yorkie bar or Bonaffe biscuit. They discuss the weather (“supposed to get bad this weekend”), the government (“complete mentalists”), their jobs (“I can’t be bothered to look for something else”), etcetera. It’s as they replace each salty word with a sugar-packed bite. Out goes sour; in goes sweet.

At first, I pitied the British for their chaffing ethos. Until I realized that this culture chooses and protects its conversational folkways. After watching many satirical jokes fly over my vapid American noggin, a friend kindly advised me to watch the British comedy, Peep Show. It’s a witty, dark, and irate sitcom that “perfectly explains British humour.” Despite my steadfast YouTube-ing of the series, I was still taken aback when recently talking to my flatmate about her relationship. She was annoyed by her boyfriend who kept apologizing for not spending time with her and doling out compliments like a 17-year-old after his first kiss. “See, when we broke up a while ago, it was because he never complimented me and we didn’t see each other a lot. Now, he keeps saying nice things and communicating! I can’t win!” I look at her wide-eyed. Doesn’t that mean you did win?

To an expat, the omnipresence of cakes and sweets in the British diet seems ironic. Upon further consideration, I am grateful for their national sweet-tooth. I think the sweeties provide a pleasant yin to the British yang. It’s their daily vitamin, the missing nutrient not produced naturally in their collective psyche. As my waistline will attest, the pursuit of cake is one British tradition I’ve gladly adopted. If a caramel cake is required for the average Brit to crack a smile on live television or a Curly Wurly for my flatmate to give her boyfriend a smack on the lips after dinner, then Long Live the Queen Victoria Sponge Cake!

Emily's Notes: A Poor Poet's Present (Happy Mother's Day)

Because you're my Mom
You always care about
The things I always care about.
Even if you really don't care
At all
(Except you DO really care about
What I REALLY do care about)

Caring this way
Is a specific skill
Only mom's have.

Mom, the thing is:
I really care about you.

So, in caring about me
You have learned about caring
About you.

And in caring about you,
I have learned about caring
About me.

Caring about me, caring about you.

Only you and I know
Why this is so true.

Why all of this means,
That I love you.

Photo courtesy of Sarah Casewit photography: www.sarahcasewit.com

The Plymouth Planner: Foundle (Or, The Brave Plymothian finds themselves in Oundle)

Overview: Every once in a while, the Brave Plymothian finds themselves in a county far away from Devon. This Plymouth Planner details one’s itinerary on such a day, taking you on a tour of the quirky town of Oundle, Northamptonshire.
Expected Cost: Around £13. This planner does not include transit costs, because it is a little odd for a Plymothian to Foundle (find themselves in Oundle). Therefore, on this Plan one can expect to pay £2 for postcards at the museum, £7 or so for lunch at the café, £.80 for sending their postcard(s), and around £4 for a local brew.
Solo Savvy?: This is an excellent adventure for the solo traveller. The museum guides are two jolly old men. Even if they made a move, you would have plenty of time to react.
Expected Duration: Two hours, depending on your question volume and the guides’ naptimes.
Requirements: Other than the actual nature of Foundle (finding oneself in Oundle), this Planner requires very little. As usual, rain jacket recommended.
The Plan: It’s suggested to begin one’s Toundle (Tour of Oundle) by walking in to the city from the outskirts. It is recommended to cross in via Oundle Wharf. Pause for a moment at the bridge. Across the river and hidden from view is the massive Roman archaeological dig that you will learn about later on your museum tour.
Walk into town via Station Road, past cute doorways that make Hobbits feel tall. You will meander to a group of imposing stone buildings on your right. If you Foundle on a weekday during the school term, you may see students in their long pin-striped culottes. This is the very modern school uniform for 1,100 students who attend Oundle School, of which only 250 are local. According to your (eventual) museum guides, Oundle School owns 45% of the land in Oundle. The school consistently places in top ranks for testing standards and is, according to one former biology teacher, “One of the best schools in the UK.” After passing Oundle School, round a corner into the main city centre. Market Place, the thoroughfare, is divided by a building erected in the center of the streets (the tree in the middle of the river). On the right are charity shops and banks; on the left are traditional sweet shops, grocers, and other store fronts. Pick your side and continue past. You will return to this location later.
The museum is located in the old courthouse at the end of Market Place. When you reach the fork in the road, cross the street and enter the museum on your left. Don’t worry if there is a sign on the door that says it’s closed; it’s probably open and a lady named Terry simply forgot to take down the sign.
The museum entrance is the first door on your left. If you’re lucky, two gentlemen named Keith and Ioan will be there. They are the museum guides. If it’s been a slow day, Ioan will probably exclaim, “We have a visitor? Wonderful!” The Brave Plymothian must ask for a personal tour led by Keith and colored by Ioan. The front room of the museum is the former courtroom. Keith will use the scaled version of the previous layout to explain how the room has changed. Before that he will explain that Oundle was first a trading hub for Romans, who had a massive Christian burial ground nearby (the famed archaeological dig you saw across the river). Ioan will pepper Keith’s explanations with descriptions of what the town was like 63 years ago. That’s when he moved there for a one-year Biology teaching gig at Oundle School that extended to his retirement. Be sure to ask Ioan his perspective on teaching Biology as the human genome was being discovered (“marvellous”). At some point, you may end up sprawled on the ground with Keith, examining the map of Oundle painted below your feet. You will be impressed by the technical details added to the museum, like interactive videos. Apparently, some members of the Museum Board are willing IT contributors.
But wait: there’s more! After touring the front room, Keith will bring you to the superb, fantastic, confounding, “Cabinets of Curiosities.” This is where local Oundle-ites donate their special collections for public viewing. Other than the prerequisite Elvis paraphernalia, there exists a collection of egg cups, teddy bears, impressive Victorian clothing, custom machinery, and more. Keith may look forlornly at the collections; you see, the owner of everything Elvis lives near Keith and keeps the good stuff at his house. Apparently, you can’t even trust the courthouse security these days…
When you can’t possibly handle any more stimulation, sign your name in the guestbook and buy a postcard or two at the desk. A £1 donation is sufficient. Wish the boys farewell and head back toward Beans Coffee Stop on New Street. You probably noticed the cheery exterior and big windows when you walked past earlier; it’s now on your left. Order a tuna salad (the greens and homemade dressing are excellent). Pull up a seat in the window and pen your postcards as you watch townspeople stroll by. When you’ve finished your meal and rested your tired noggin, exit Beans to the left. Next to the café is a little shop; at the back of the shop is the Post Office (you will see the red sign hanging above the shop entrance).
This is one of the best post offices in all of England. You will be called “sir” and “darling” from the moment you walk in. There will probably be two tellers who may argue for the honour to serve you. You will wonder how UK customer service was ever considered lacking. You will wish you had a million heavy, awkward, expensive packages to send, and may be tempted to purchase something ridiculous just to spend more time at the incredible institution.
Now that your long day of touring and errand-running is complete, it’s time for a brew. You’re going to the Ship Inn, a local pub where many a Coundle (Couple from Oundle) have met their soulmate. Exit the post office, go back toward the museum, and it’s through the well-labelled alleyway on your left. Order a beer from the local brwery, Nene Valley. If it’s sunny, pull up a seat outside in the courtyard; if it’s rainy, you will find plenty of friends at the dark bar. Pull out the “History of our Landscape” brochure picked up at the museum. It was written by Ioan himself. Read it just to make sure you didn’t miss any important details on today’s tour. See if you can taste the history of Oundle in the hops (or is that just the flavour or Roman bones from the local river…?)
That’s the end of this edition of the Plymouth Planner, Foundle! Stay tuned for next week’s Plan: Heavenly Hobbies.

The Plymothian Chronicles: Finding Marilyn's Swimsuit

To find Marilyn Monroe’s black swimsuit, you’ve got to navigate the bumpy cobblestone streets of the Barbican in the heart of Plymouth’s pier district. My suggested route meanders past the copper-hued front entrance to Drake Circus on the Charles Cross roundabout. The architect of this magnificent design is controversial for the careful placement of the flame-like façade behind the bombed ruins of Charles Church (victim of the Lutwaffe “Plymouth Blitz” that rocked the naval base in World War II). While the “flaming abbey” may bode sacrilege, one must remember that a vast majority of Plymouthians claim resolute atheism.
As you navigate through Drake Circus (built in 2006) you may wonder if the painted, brightly-hued goblins around you designate this a real circus rather than a modern shopping mall. Alas, these “goblins” are actually the hip Plymouth youth, window-shopping. Luckily, their profuse colognes likely encourage you to bumble out the nearest exit like a clown in a mini-car.
Exit Drake Circus through the Pavilions. Walk across the Royal Parade (a major thoroughfare; there’s no Prince Harry here, unfortunately) to pass the Guildhall on your left. This hall is now used as a meeting space and it’s worth a quick stop for two reasons. One, the moldy-but-detailed replica of Plymouth during its earliest years as a township. It’s most oddly located in a half-hidden location behind the main staircase. Someone must have placed it there for safekeeping…Second, the Main Hall upstairs. It’s dark wood interior with pointed frame accents and painted folkloric glass lie suspended in a “hold-your-breath” silence interspersed with honks from the street outside. You are actually here for the ceiling, worth craning your neck upwards for. Its edges are lined with a clay images depicting some warrior in various states of trial and success. This warrior is utterly naked and very well-endowed. Watching him lift a helpless lamb is shocking, hilarious, and maybe a little inspiring.
Leave the Guildhall and continue to The Hoe. Despite the content of the latter paragraph, The Hoe is not another sexual innuendo. Etymologically, “the hoe” means “highest point.” This is where the lookout stations for maritime Plymouth were built in 1670. Widen your stride to climb the smooth grass to the Lighthouse. Feel the greenish-blue water in the wind and hear a family laughing nearby. Watch the hulking marine ships float lazily in the protected sound. Look across the bay to Mt. Edgecumbe, where the mansion of Johnny Depp’s Alice in Wonderland was filmed. Follow the roads left the boatyard. You will come to a fork in the cobble-stone road: to your right is the infamous Capn’ Jaspers Burgers. Capn’ Jaspers is an outdoor burger shack, a day-time motorbike haven and late-night drunken snack stop. Look diagonally left to see a row of posh restaurant patios. Directly left is a smaller, winding street; turn there. You will see a white arch and a chalkboard sign exclaiming that four floors of vintage await.
Marilyn’s suit is in the ground-floor antique shop in front of you. The shop is owned by a man and his younger male assistants. Wear some lipstick, girls; they’re good-looking fellows who love antiques. Feign ignorance and ask them to show you Marilyn’s cabinet (on the left). The cupboard also contains a namesake bracelet, personal letters, and other memorabilia. Your strapping aid may explain that Plymouth was one of the first oceanic cities rebuilt after World War II. Many stars who normally haunted Brighton escaped instead to Plymouth. Marilyn’s suit is another testament to the culture of Plymouth, an ocean-front city full of peculiar discoveries for those willing to dive in.

The Plymothian Chronicles: A (Re)Introduction

Picture Courtesy of Damir Huskic
As you may have noticed, the last post in the "Denver Do" series centered on the crowning Do of all Done: moving out of Denver completely. The Denver Do was intended to be a practical, budget-friendly guide to leisure for those new to/seeking newness in Denver. It is therefore impossible to continue the Denver Do from my new locale, Plymouth (United Kingdom). I gladly invite any curious, word-savvy Denverite to pick up the Torch of Do. I've got a new fire to burn: The Plymothian Chronicles!
After receiving positive feedback about the Do series, I've decided that the Plymothian Chronicles utilize that Do-filled model. They are geared toward the newcomer, the expat, or the generally curious. (It's easy to orient toward the very market from which one writes, you see). As expats, we will explore the city's best offers to it's oft-solo and budget-minded "locals." What is it like to live somewhere, have a free weekend there, and be just a little bit foreign? What does one do when they are alone, car-less, money-shy and staring at an empty day resting before them like a perfectly clean room just before two toddlers arrive? Let the Plymothian chronicles guide you, dear Reader, and you're sure to experience such small explosions and rippling giggles.
You may be thinking, "Gosh, I bet [insert small city name here] is such a boring place. I'm only here for [insert economic incentive or love interest's name here] and will probably leave in a year anyway. Why bother to explore this city when I can go to [insert romantic, unrealistic, and warm destination here]." Well, my friend, because you are curious, stuck, and cultured (or trying to become that way). You know that sometimes the most fulfilling excursions begin and end with the comfort of your own bed. That you love the sound of the keys of your laptop clicking away as you reflect upon your wonderful and miniature discoveries. Yes, you can hike to the top of a Jain shrine in Hampi, India, to view the thousands-year-old ruins dotting the countryside around you. Or, you can stumble upon a Civil War era farm still being tilled using traditional methods on a random forest jog in Pittsboro, North Carolina. Both of these experience incite wisdom, awe, and energy. One of them just happens to end in a home-cooked meal, courtesy of your friend's mom.
At some point in life, I believe that we all feel a bit foreign in our respective city. Maybe we lived there for years. We realize that in our complacency we never visited a new museum or took time to try a Mom-n-Pop corner breakfast bar. I mean, what are we going to do with our friends when they come visit?! Or you may, like myself and so many others, find yourself actually foreign but not travelling. You will be "living" somewhere, maybe for a finite time and or specific reason. You will be local enough to have an address but foreign enough to look, sound, and think differently. In both these cases you will be curious. In both these cases, the microcosm of the macrcosm in which you currently find yourself has wonderful, wacky, and weird possibilities. They are waiting to be explored. All you need is clothes with pockets, a comfortable pair of shoes, and a credit card (just in case).
In the next section of the Plymothian Chronicles, we will explore a brief background of Plymouth before launching into the first travel guide, "Snooze on a Sunday."

The Denver Do: Move to Plymouth

Overview: Up to this point, the Denver Do has focused on getting you, my friends and fellow travelers, assimilated and creative in Denver. It was a series aimed at transplants to the little city. Well, my articles must have been so great that so many of you transplants showed up and pushed me right out! The Denver Do now focuses on what a Denver-ite ought to do when traveling the world. The first episode is Step 1: migrate! Join me, Do-ers, as I guide you through this next series of fun, economical, and silly adventures...
Expected Cost: Variable. Ways to save include booking flights on Icelandair, where popular conspiracy theorists surmise that every flight encounters an unexpected layover in the capital. Once there, you will surely decide that staying in the airport all day is less desirable that paying who-knows-what in Icelandic currency to day-trip to the Blue Lagoon. Moreover, costs of the move can be displaced by the sales of personal items, like bikes/ cars/ apartments, and the good luck to smile at the right stranger. Therefore, this Denver-ite recommends you save $4,000 USD, pray for a job when you arrive, and dive in.
Solo Savvy: This trip is best when taken alone. After all, saving money and exploring is much easier when you've only got one mouth to feed and two legs to guide.
Expected Time: Total transit from Denver to Iceland to London to Plymouth, for this traveler, was around 30 hours. Variables include burst pipes on planes, forays into natural fountains, the good graces of a kind-hearted employer, compassionate cab-drivers from Romnania, and more.
Requirements: Three large suitcases; international chargers for electronic devices; flexibility that allows one to fold in half to sleep in transit; being at least 18 years of age, so when all is lost, one can apply the age-old coping mechanisms of beer and barstools.
The Do: The most important part of this "do" is following the guidelines outlined in my previous post, "Intentuition." To begin with, let The World know about your goals. Decide that you will be nice and confidant with every person you meet and begin meeting them. Start small: put in some applications to see why you are denied...sell a few household items you definitely don't need...nurture the ideas of senior citizens and fathers...continuously re-evaluate your expectations and your gut. If possible, get a job, but if not possible, have faith that the World Machine will probably recognize your lack of income and adjust accordingly. Move in with your grandparents for a month and get a second job at a "fast-casual" restaurant so that you can save money. Added benefits include free food and re-learning the ability to be with people 24/7 after years of living alone (a handy skill when one encounters "flatmates" upon arrival). Book your trip in advance but pay the extra money to avoid too many layovers- you will save money by not losing your luggage or your brain. Smile honestly when you put your two-weeks in; say goodbye.
You will most definitely encounter "problems" when traveling, which should be interpreted as little opportunities. For instance, you will most likely get stuck in Iceland. Iceland makes its money by allowing people like you to get stuck within it's volcanic borders, so say "thank-you" and book the bus to the Blue Lagoon. Don't waste money on a swimsuit in case you didn't pack one on your carry-on; wear a sports bra and stretchy gym pants because it's Europe so nobody cares. Or, if they do, you don't. Promptly float to the furthest corner and dig your hands into the mineral sand on the bottom of the weird bath/lake. Coat your face in the white sludge and float, head above water, to the nearest rock-seat. Pass out carefully, because if you let your head roll you will find yourself snoring into a mixture of water and sludge. Pause mid-nap to purchase a cold salmon salad for threethousandjillionIcelandicdollars; grab a juice; and fall back asleep. Retreat to the locker room with plenty of time to spare. You will have to be creative with your shower/changing, because you're probably not prepared for this excursion and may need to reallocate personal items to serve as towels, shoes, etc. Make sure you stop by the bar to buy a beer before hopping back on the bus to the airport!
If at all possible, try to organize a cab to take you from the airport in London to your home in Plymouth. All that beer and spring water will make you tired. Your cab driver is a great first conversational resource to keep you awake and excited. Ask him where he's from, because it's probably not London. Don't worry about falling asleep in mid-sentence; it makes me you seem "mysterious" or "insane," which are both perfectly interesting and acceptable things to be. Hopefully, you will arrive to a group of flatmates shouting "USA" in "football" cheers, beers in hand. Smile graciously, chug your beer, and thank God that you are tired enough to fall asleep despite the noise.
That's all for this week, Do-ers. You've got quite the adventure ahead of you. Remember the key lessons of Intentuition, be prepared to be completely unprepared, and giggle the entire way. The World Machine is on your side!

Intentuition

Intentuition: The reflective and faithful active pursuit of one's dreams; best when used in conjunction with "wine" and "Zumba."

I am currently sitting in a greasy-spoon café at Denver International Airport waiting for my infinitely delayed Icelandic flight. It will take me to Reykjavik, where I will attempt to woo a cute Icelandic boy before my connection to Gatwick, London. Then, I will not attempt to woo Clive, the nice man my new company hired to drive me to Plymouth, UK. When I arrive, I will be "here:" the pinnacle of my most recent ambition. I will be here because a few months ago I decided that it was time for me to get serious about checking one big item off my bucket list: to live and work abroad. Rather than plummet toward my goal like March 3000 jet(a route for which I boast many frequent flyer miles), I decided to tie a scarf around my neck and cruise in on the wings of a glider. And in this decidedly observant focus on my dream, I learned the power of two words: intention and intuition.
Any halfway new-age (annually or mentally) person has probably encountered some pseudo-yogi or dreamy entrepreneur talk about "setting an intention" for whatever pursuit they find thieves in. In the 90's the same concept was explored through workshops about "vision boards;" in the 80's, it was found in self-help books about "visualizing your dreams coming true." In the 70's, I believe this was called "take acid while hitchhiking," but I might be wrong about that (I'm only 25, see). Although the term "intention" may be a new buzzword, it's simply the new means to explain the power of positive thought. When these confidant yogis and executives describe "setting an intention," it can seem like some sort of magical process. Want it, see it, believe it, live it. Buy now for an instant rebate! However, I think intention actually has a lot more to do with another fundamental principle in self-realization: setting goals. For instance, "I intend to eat a cookie" is less likely to come true unless paired with an actionable means of pursuit; I.e. "I intend to get all the ingredients I need to make and eat a cookie." We can intend anything we want, but unless we put ourselves in the right position to receive it, it's actualization is akin to miraculous. Isn't "I intend to get wet" a lot more sensical than "I intend it to rain?"
I readily acknowledge the vagaries and benefits of setting intentions around qualitative values and self-fulfillment. "I intend to live a happy, healthy life" is the goal of one important woman I know (my Mom, duh). In that expansive intention, she doesn't always know how to explicitly state what will lead to happiness or health. In fact, it's counterproductive to create a set of rules around that intention. You are going to be a lot happier if you intend to wear sunglasses on a bright day, for instance. Herein lies the real difficulty in intending something to be true: setting intentions involves a certain allotment for that which cannot be controlled. To really grab an intention, you must also let go of so many attempts to control it. An intention really means, "I am going to be really good and hopefully Santa/God will notice." How does one know when our intentions pull us too far from the nearest airport? How do they know when to replace the gas line with the top of the clouds? That determination is called intuition.
Intuition allows us to know when our souls want something. It shows us when to take and when to leave, when to try harder or to stop trying, and when you better hop on that jet because the glider is so obsolete. I don't think that this grand adventure on which I now embark could have worked 1/2 as well if I hadn't navigated my intention with a constant intuitive dialogue. I decided from day one that this needed to be a gradual process. I chose a route that felt valid but kept snacks onboard just in case. It involved a lot of outward discussion: What does my Dad think about this economic decision? Does my former boss think this job would be a good fit? Am I about to sublet my apartment to a crazy woman? I listened, slept on it, and then made a move. Rinse and repeat. And guess what? With each minor intention, my planes assembled themselves for liftoff. I took some advice and applied for a job...and got an interview...and an offer...and a flat...and a friend...and a flight...What was this luck, I kept wondering? I rode that wind of delight. I acted when acting felt right and went to bed when my Grandma did. Intuitively, I just knew that my ambitions would find their way directly to my intentions, if I stayed observant within them. Intuitively, enough people and Zumba classes just made it feel right.
I don't think I could have achieved this goal if it hadn't been for many years of delayed flights. And considering that this plane still hasn't lifted off, I bet I'll have quite a few more. But guess what? I know I'll get here! Somehow, I intuitively understand that this is here and where I'm going. I've set the intuitive intention. Maybe I'll end up back on my parent's couch tonight or next year. But hey, I hear the new jetliners have beds in them. There's nowhere to go but up!