Sweet Carolina! Times have never seemed so good!

It has been far too long since I have updated my blog, but to be honest, I was feeling like a former shell of myself. Very little inspiration or drive to just simply write. Now I am back where I had intended, Edinburgh.

Edinburgh is easily the prettiest city that I have laid my eyes on. It's layout is very condensed, and thus, you get so much beauty per square inch than in most cities. Rome as a city beats Edinburgh by a modicum. Quite simply, Italian food is vastly superior to Scottish food.

So many people arrive in this hostel and like me, are determined to find jobs in this gorgeous city so that they may remain just a bit longer. I have been plastering my CV in every pub available. I might have to leave if I don't get something soon.

The past 2 weeks in Edinburgh have been in relative hibernation. Right now, I do not seek company with others, but merely am quite satisfied being on my own. A rather unsettling new development to this social butterfly, but perhaps, it is what I need.

Today



Carolina La Belle Otero was born on November 4, 1868.

Born Agustina Otero Iglesias to an impoverished family in Valga, Spain. She started working as a maid when she was a child. Unfortunately, she was raped at the age of 10, which left her sterile. At the age of 14, she ran off with her dancing partner and boyfriend to Lisbon and began working as a dancer.

She reportedly found a sponsor who wanted to promote her dancing career in France, and she reinvented herself as an Andalusian Gypsy and became popular in the Les Foiles Bergeres productions in Paris.

She became a well-known courtesan, and was the most sought after woman in Europe.
Her short list of lovers include:
- Albert I of Monaco
- Edward VII of the UK
- Kings of Spain and Serbia
- Grand Dukes Peter and Nicholas of Russia

Part of her allure was said to be her very dark piercing eyes, and her breasts, which rumour has it are said to be the inspiration for the cupolas of the Carlton Hotel in Cannes, France. Though it cannot be verified, the very fact that such a legend exists speaks to public infatuation with this woman.

She became very wealthy, and spent her money like it going out of style. She died in 1967, at the age of 97 penniless.

The Past Few Months.....

It has been much too long since I have written on this blog. In the time missed, I have gone to Canada with the boyfriend and returned to my new position as a bartender in the south of England.

Dartmouth....town of 5,000 souls and 10,000 seagulls. To be a bartender here means sometimes witnessing people at their angriest, goofiest, and well, simply worst. The locals that frequent this pub are all well-known to each other and most are friendly. There are many people that I know before I even meet their acquaintance, due to the quick word of mouth and some feel as though they must prepare me for impending disasters that are sure to come.

This town is determined to maintain its mystique, as there are no chains (save for supermarkets), just random kitschy shops, and dozen art galleries (proof that it is no longer a town for the locals, but rather a town catering to the bourgeoisie holidaymakers). We are well known around the town now, and are frequently bombarded with waves of hello as we wander around. Every pub we enter now, we know someone. It is rather unsettling to this city girl, as I am more comfortable in my anonymity when I please. I am rather nonplussed when people know of my business, which is why I try to keep my lips sealed.

This town is a place where everyone knows everyone's business. A death of a local in the town was carried so fast, that within one hour of his death, it was no longer necessary to tell people about it.
The death of the local, Bruno, was one of immense sadness felt by most people in town. He had grown up in this town, and his family had been in this town for generations. His wake, appropriately at our pub his haunt for many years, was crowded and rather joyous given the occasion. He will be greatly missed by all.

As I learn more and more about the town and its inhabitants, the more I realize that the class struggle in Britain is not just a myth. The stories I hear of the lives of the young and the middle aged is that of shock and dismay. Grandfathers raping granddaughters, mothers letting their boyfriends rape their daughters, physical abuse to the nth degree to women and their children. In all of my years in Canada, I have failed to hear so many personal stories of such....... I have no idea what word is appropriate here.


This place frustrates me in many ways. I am know I am stating the obvious, but I am a white Canadian woman. I do get shit from some locals about "us fucking foreigners" stealing British jobs.  I can only imagine what it would be like to be an Indian, Pakistani or Nigerian. Some British purists think that all jobs should automatically go to British people. I work hard, and I am good at what I do. I am on my way to be an amazing bartender, and I do think I deserve to at least not to be castigated for "stealing" English jobs. I find that there are a significant number of young people around these parts are unwilling to work hard or unwilling to "lower" themselves.

Racism is an issue that permeates this town. It is always at the surface, taking a breath. One of my favourite locals calls the Chinese restaurant "That Chinky restaurant", I know I know. I shouldn't be so favourable to a racist. But like I said, almost everyone here is racist and if I was shitty to everyone that was racist, then I would almost never talk to a soul. My favoured locals tend to be those who are friendly, make mostly pleasant banter, and do not cause me grief.  The pleasant banter isn't even required. One would think that those qualities are really simple, but alas, my dear readers, they are not.

The other night, I was in the Indian restaurant waiting for our food, whereupon one of locals came in to order food. Firstly, he grabs a stool and sits at the order desk sprawled across the front of it. He starts out with a half smile and accuses the Bangladeshi workers of being illegals. One of the prior employees was deported for being illegal (or as the UK Border agency calls a lot of them clandestines, oh you Brits:P) and he was accusing the rest of them of the same "crime".  The look of either terror or discomfort was smacked across the face of all of the workers that were there.

Weeks ago, I saw something worse in the Chinese restaurant. A group of locals (the restaurant's waitress knew them) were harassing the older Chinese woman, asking her why she didn't speak proper English and stretching their eyelids and "imitating" her accent. Then one of them "fell" into my crotch. Stay classy.

I've had my confidence increase since working behind the bar. It must be my bar. My bar. My rules.
I have to put up with words of racism. I get a bit upset every time I bite my tongue, but it is an uphill battle and I must pick and choose.


We have had a revolving door of managers at this point. Kevin, Rachel, Richard and now the wonderful Trish/Bloddwyn ( and I am not just saying that because she is on my Facebook).

To work in a pub here requires much dedication. I live in, work in and breathe in the pub. My whole life revolves around the time in the pub.

I am working part time in another pub in time. The oldest pub in Dartmouth, that dates back to the 1320s. In no uncertain terms is it a classy pub, I rather affectionately call it a dive.

Let's call it an imbalance of humours, but this town is really doing a number of me.

I will be Straya far from London. Oh glorious Fulham!

For reasons unbeknown to yours truly, sleep eludes me. Well the reasons aren't quite as confusing as I do think, but I used to be able to sleep through storms and now, the chatter of the rapid tongued Spaniards in our hostel wakens me from my slumber. I want to curse their names, and put a plague upon their houses, but it may be a bit overboard methinks.

I shall be returning to my homeland for a visit in about a month. My excitement is palpable, and even it more so at the thought of eating my missed foods, bathing in an actual bath ( a luxury that I had taken for granted), and being in the company of my missed friends.

I tire of this borough of Fulham. The locals are too rough, and rather unsavoury. I found it enlightening at first, but now it has lost its luster. That being said, some of the locals are rather lovely, but like everything the bad outweighs the good.

Though, I do love me some good chips.

Today is Australia day, and given my recent indoctrination into the Aussie way, that's my event of the day. (I like Vegemite and Milo, shut up).

AUSTRALIA DAY 

On May 11th of 1787, a fleet of 11 ships captained by Captain Arthur Phillip were sent to establish a penal colony in Botany Bay in New South Wales, which had been previously claimed by Captain James Cook.

This particular colony was sought out, due to the loss of the North American colonies.

They arrived in Botany Bay on January 18-20, 1788, but found that it was an unsuitable settlement and went scouting further for a better colony. On the 21st, Captain Phillip and a few others went north to Fort Jackson to ascertain its suitability, and renamed it Sydney Cove after the Home Secretary, Thomas Townshend, 1st Viscount Sydney. They remained for 2 days and in that time had some contact with the aboriginal peoples. They returned to Botany Bay and ordered that the settlement be moved to Sydney Cove.

However, the storms were brewing and prevented them from leaving until the 26th, and on the 26th only one ship left and they landed and claimed the land in the name of King George III.

Nowadays, Australians celebrate by listening to Triple J's Hottest 100, sitting on a beach and barbecuing a good quality steak and a dozen "snags" (guess who said that?), much like the original settlers.

P.S - Dear Britain, I was a criminal. Please send me to paradise too. I swear. I spit on the Queen.

Disappointment is a Porto life. Calloo Calais!

Hello dear readers.

The Holiday Season was full of flurried activity, one in which I made my first Holiday turkey. And managed not to kill anyone. Success!  I went to Porto, Portugal for 4 days, and it was incredibly underwhelming. It lacked any sort of thing that sets it apart from your regular city. One could say that their bridges were nice, but alas, much like one too many cathedrals, bridgitis is a common ailment. The city was rife with graffiti, burned down buildings with no clean-up, and somber looking exteriors. My desire to leave this dank city was much too great. And I had hit the trifecta of horrible vacationing when I had rain for the first couple days and food poisoning for the next couple, and no persons to talk to for any of them. I spent my first New Years Eve in London, and it left little to be desired. I walked around the Tower of London, and Westminster Abbey, but do to unfortunate timing I had spent midnight in a cab trying to find an alternate venue. That night, a few dispossessed persons were robbed of their good times and in my case and another person's, our cash.

And appropriately, on this day England was dispossessed of its last French territory of Calais in the year of 1558.

Calais was a strategic port on the north east coast of France, that was captured by Edward III of England in 1347 in the first stages of the Hundred Years War (1337-1453). Edward III saw himself as the rightful heir to the throne of France when his uncle, Charles VII, had passed away without any heirs. However, his claim was through his mother, Isabella "The She-Wolf" of France, and the French had chosen to only recognize claims through the male lines.

After it was possessed by Edward III, he had the intention to kill ALL of the citizens for holding up the forts for too long. This was changed to having ONLY six prominent members of the town to give themselves up to die. They were later pardoned by the king when his wife, Phillipa of Hainault, had pleaded for their lives (1). Although he spared their lives, the French citizens were not to remain in the town, and they were driven out and replaced with English inhabitants. The town was thus founded as a gateway of trade to the European continent. Calais remained in the English possession for as long as it had due to the rivalry between the neighbouring Burgundy and France, both of whom would rather see Calais in the possession of the English rather than their rival.


Because of these factors and the necessity of upkeeping garrisons and forts, the maintenance of Calais remained a rather costly enterprise.

On January 7th, 1558, the French troops led by the Duke of Guise, took advantage of the weakened forts and garrisons and thus re-conquered Calais, and renamed the surrounding territory Pays Reconquis (Reconquered Territory).

When Mary I had heard about the dreadful loss, it is said that she quothed that "You will find Phillip (II of Spain) and Calais engraved upon my heart".  

The loss of Calais wasn't a mere territorial loss to the English, it symbolised the last territory in the mainland France and we all know how the English feel about the French.


(1) It was common amongst medieval queens to stage an intervention of sorts and a public supplication to the King on behalf of those who are doomed to die. It was a way for the King to remain feared and respected and for the Queen to exert her queenly influence and kindness. For more information about this, please read "Medieval Queens of England, by Lisa Hilton"

I will Navarre forget the King of France!

Ahh gentle readers, it has been quite the past month. Drama. Sex. Greed. Violence  Something that I am well acquainted with even at home. Somehow it follows me like a shadow, but alas, I am magnet for these sorts of intrigues.

Scene: A hostel in Fulham
Characters:
Little Ginger- Don't know much about him, save for the fact that he's a nitwit.
Fat Ginger - Came on to me a few times. Beats up his girlfriend. 21. Has a 3 year old son. Likely drug dealer
Canadia - Thought that Canadia was in the United States and Canada was in Canada. Yeah. I walked away as soon as he said that.
Crotchscratcher - He scratches his crotch. In the middle of the bar. Shoves his hands INTO HIS PANTS. Then bites his nails. No washing takes place between the two.
Crotchscratcher 2.0. -  Canadia's little bro, scratches his crotch and doesn't wash. Delightful.

Locals of the council house area of Fulham.

Plot: The characters were banned from the hostel pub due to their poor behaviour. AS in they harassed the women, and demanded special treatment.

Essentially, total trash.

Since then, we've had them threaten us, try and throw bins through the bar windows, and just cause issues.

Stay classy assholes. They may have lost their head because of their banishment from a pub (really?)

But Henry IV lost his head after his grave was desecrated by Revolutionaries in 1793, but it is suspected that a recently found head does indeed belong to this randy King.

King Henry IV of France 

 Born: 13 December 1553

 Died: 14 May 1610 

 King of France: 1589-1610

 King of Navarre: 1572-1610

   Henry IV was not supposed to be King of France. He was born to Jeanne III of Navarre and her consort, Antoine of Navarre, and was the heir to the throne of Navarre, a small but significant and wealthy kingdom bordering France and Spain. Henry was baptized as Catholic, but was soon converted to Protestantism and Calvinism was declared the official religion of Navarre by his mother.

His first marriage was to the daughter of Henry II of France and Catherine de Medici, Marguerite of Valois. They were married in Paris on August 19, 1572 in splendor, and there was hope that the marriage of a Catholic princess and a Protestant prince would end the violence between French Catholics and the Huguenots ( French Protestants). However, the Protestants that came to Paris to attend wedding were massacred a few days later, what is known as the St. Bartholomew's Day Massacre.  There were many rich and prominent Huguenots in Paris to attend the wedding, and this massacre started with planned assassinations of Admiral Coligny (but failed), and it led to full scale mob violence. Though there isn't a certain death toll, the estimates are between 5,000 and 30,000.  

Henry escaped the violence because of his new bride, and was convinced to convert to Catholicism and live at the court of France. However, he escaped in 1576 and reverted back to Protestantism and joined the Huguenot forces. Henry became the legal heir to the crown of France in 1584, when the last male descendant of Henry II had died, and the French do not recognize claims of woman or even from males who stake their claim to the throne on their mothers. 

Henry III had died in 1589, which meant that the protestant with a nose bigger than his kingdom (as was the popular saying) became King of Catholic France. 

The road was not without its difficulties. The Catholic League was obviously vehemently opposed to this new King, and sought to usurp him from the throne and replace him with someone more to their liking. The Cardinal Charles de Bourbon was proclaimed the leader of the Catholic league and the rightful heir to the throne. However, the Cardinal died in 1590 and there was little agreement between who should replace him as the head. The strongest candidate was Isabella Clara Eugenia, a Princess of Spain and the daughter of Elisabeth of Valois (Henry II's daughter), but this was seen as unsavoury for the French were not apt to become an "agent of Spain".  Soon most of France was well within Henry's control, but not rogue Paris, he was unable to control the mob violence and laid siege to the city.  

In 1593, Henry formally renounced Protestantism and converted to Catholicism. This was at the urging of the love of his life, Gabrielle d'Estrees. He is suspected to have claimed that "Paris is well worth a mass". This ended much of the violence, and he was formally crowned at the Cathedral of Chartes in 1594. 

His first marriage was an unhappy one, and they remained childless and were separated since 1589, before he became king. When he became King, he was expected to have an heir to the throne, and he sought to have his first marriage annulled and marry his beloved Gabrielle. The annulment was obtained in 1599, but sadly Gabrielle died due to premature labour and gave birth to a stillborn son before the marriage could take place. 

 

He married his second wife, Marie de Medici, in 1600, a woman not known for her beauty but her family was known for bearing plenty of sons. He cared little for his new wife, and often neglected her, but he did complete his duty and bear a string of children and heirs. His insatiable sexual appetite was stuff of legend, he caroused with a series of mistresses, much to the chagrin of his new wife. 

Marie thought that she would earn her rightful place as queen when she gave birth to their son, Louis XII, as Henry rushed from the battlefield to attend the birth and rejoiced at the prospect of a son. However, her happiness was short lived when a few weeks later his new principal mistress gave birth to a boy as well, whom the king had declared to much better looking and not so fat. 

King Henry IV died as the died of an assassination made by a Catholic fanatic. He died in 1610, leaving Marie de Medici regent for his son Louis XII.