
Three weeks into my London life, I've developed a taste for fiery ginger beer, flea markets and full disclosure. Perhaps the latter of the three needs the most explanation, but I'll tackle all of them in order.
Fiery ginger beer is the extra-spicy and not-as-sweet British version of root beer.
Flea markets are ubiquitous, especially in charming neighborhoods on weekends. At the one on Portobello Road, I bought a 100-year-old copy of
The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy by Lewis Sterne for only 3 pounds 50.
In terms of full disclosure: British people are rightly known for being reserved, but when they actually open up it's beyond any sort of intimacy I've ever experienced in the US. It's a crisp, roaring gush of truth, tingling in your soul just like fiery ginger beer; neither too sweet nor too self-indulgent. It's not the emotional exhibitionism of American reality TV, but a pure, innocent sort of exposure. It's not to be taken lightly.
I speak from the experience of my first creative writing class, in which each of us had to speak for two uninterrupted minutes about ourselves. I went first, babbling uncomfortably about being new to London and not really saying much. I had no idea how honest and therapeutic the class was about to become. The girl who went next was from Wales. She talked about meeting her best friend, her soul in another body, who knew her better than she knew herself. It might sound trite on paper, but at the time everyone around the class nodded in complete comprehension. The next girl discussed her disconnection with her Ugandan heritage, and the girl after that talked about attending both church and mosque regularly in a secret effort to overcome a spiritual crisis. She said she suspects her Muslim dad has found out, and that's why he's not speaking to her anymore. One guy admitted to not having any friends. Another girl told us she had run away from home twice, once to live with a South African barman when she was 16, the other time just to go to India and work in various charities. Another girl was 22 and married with a child. She went to Oxford and hated it, and worked in China restoring antique motorcycles with her husband. One American talked about the death of two of his close friends in high school and how he become a pothead in order to deal with it. In each case, the person speaking managed to be fascinating, surprising, insightful and honest. When the class was over, we all emerged wide-eyed, in awe of what a few minutes of full disclosure can yield.
These stories are supposed to be confidential and kept within the walls of the classroom. Our teacher, a tiny man whose hands are bunched by arthritis, told us that the class is a "safe space" in which we can do or say whatever we want (including booze it up). But since I haven't named any names I suppose I'm not betraying any confidences. The class really taught me, in a rapid and memorable way, that first impressions are utterly misleading. Every single person in that classroom had a story, even the girl from Idaho (she's looking for a home to identify with and be proud of). I feel like I've learned to be less judgmental and more admiring of all people -- they're such mesmerizing creatures.
So that was my first week of class. Besides creative writing, I had Jacobean Theatre (in which everyone knows way more about the history of England than they ever bothered to teach us Americans in school), Spanish Travel Writing (conducted in English, despite the Castilian readings) and 18th Century Travel Writing (yes, there's a theme here). Up to this point I've learned more at the campus bar than I have in the classroom (excepting my Friday morning creative writing class). What sort of things have I learned, you might wonder. Well, since you ask: I have a very low tolerance, and should stick to half-pints. There's an entrenched culture of alcoholism in this country, and people regularly "don't remember" their weekends. After a certain time of night, one should assume that everybody in London is drunk, and act accordingly.
In terms of nightlife, I've done more than just hang out at the campus bar. I've been to my fair share of pubs, clubs and bars, preferring the pubs above all. They have a wicked sense of grandmotherly fashion to them, the best ones decked out in mismatched crystal chandeliers, overstuffed couches and stodgy floral wallpaper. There's a place right near my flat that is the epitome of this decorating style, plus free live music every Sunday. Needless to say, it's my new favorite hangout. Here's a pic:

The pub is the quintessential British meeting ground, intimate and alcohol-soaked and sufficiently dark to provide the ideal sense of cover. It's a safe place to be British. Speaking of British, as I said before it's not the real term for the people of this island, all of whom are so different from each other. Going by their accents, I'd say the following: the English are smart and sophisticated, the Irish are friendly, and the Scottish are just ridiculous. All of them add and drop r's in exotic and divergent ways.
To close, I'd like to describe my walk through Northeast London at 7 in the morning. London early in the morning is like a quieter city at midnight. The sky is still an inky blue-black and nothing is open. Cars pass by on the streets like secrets. They whisper on the gleaming pavement, slick from the invariable nightly drizzle. It makes one remember that things in every country are regulated by the sun -- England opens

late and closes early for this reason.
I take a route I've never walked before, down High Holborn Road and through the Smithfield Market, a big arching fin-de-siècle wrought iron structure. Despite the fact that I've never been to this widely spaced part of town, I'm frustrated by the familiar repetition of coffee and sandwich chains. Isn't there any inch of London untouched by Pret, Starbucks, Tesco, Costa, Pizza Express and Caffè Nero?
When the day breaks, at 8, things look different. The light lifts itself from the sparkling pavement to the sky, and that uniquely British form of daylight takes hold. A gray instead of an indigo hue prevails. It's hard to fathom, unless you live here, how a perpetually gray sky can inspire such affection. A soggy love for the clouds has soaked through my heart these past few weeks. The sky is just so consistent and unassuming, like English people, holding back until absolutely necessary. Sheilding us all from UV radiation.
At the end of my walk, I find myself in King's College chapel, a gaudy-beautiful room decorated in an obscene mix of styles. There are byzantine portraits on the walls, scarlet and gold corinthian columns, austere wooden pews, and spaceship chandeliers. Everything is inlaid, brassy and/or floral. I've found my new writing retreat.
Cheerio mates,
Ali
post script: Anne from Idaho is fucking awesome!