Wading Through Milky Tea Country

A List of Things Stolen From Me in Europe

2009-04-08T16:01:00.000-07:00

1. my digital camera
2. my blackberry
3. my inhibitions
4. my cigarettes
5. my desire to come home
6. any tendency to be academic
7. my heart
8. my aversion to gray skies
9. my naïvité
10. my heart, my heart, my heart

European Laziness

2009-03-27T02:15:00.000-07:00

Hey,

So, I've become rather lackadaisical about these blog posts. This is probably due to the fact that a) my classes have ended, leaving me utterly free from all pseudo-responsibilities I once possessed, and b) I've been busy.

What have I been doing? Well, I went to Dans le Noir on Monday night with a group of friends. We all agreed that the eating-in-complete-darkness concept was fun and nifty but not worth the 40 pounds a head. It was quite risky, as we kept taking swigs of wine when we were reaching for our water glasses. And we all ended up eating with our hands.

The rest of the week has been spent frolicking in Regent's park among the daffodils, eating pork buns and ice cream and generally being young and frivolous. Not doing the dishes. Sleeping until late in the afternoon. Growing a beard. Letting laundry accumulate on the floor.

In all fairness, I do manage to keep my room very tidy. And I continue with my sporadic German learning. But I haven't been writing. This I must admit. Right now I should be packing for Dublin.

I think I'll eat some soup for breakfast.

Cheers and such,
Ali

Life Takes You Strange Places... And You Can't Always Talk About It

2009-03-21T20:44:00.000-07:00

Yes, that title is a quote from Watchmen. For anyone who hasn't seen the film or read the graphic novel, I highly recommend both.

I've discovered that England has no shortage of self-involved narcissists and mixed-signal senders, and dirty bearded men in camo jackets who eat sandwiches out of rubbish bins. Despite all this, I've still managed to make some meaningful connections while I've been here. Friends fo' life. It's a nice feeling, to be so far away from everything I know and still to gouge a few trenches of familiarity in the streets of this foreign city. The corner pub and the tube stops that echo with my name. Etching myself into civic memory.

Sometimes I try to etch against surfaces too hard for my chisel. Helas, I need to learn to quit while I'm ahead. A London word I picked up recently is 'long.' It means not worth the effort. As in "longshot." In America we preach the value of persistence. In England they think that most things aren't worth the bother; it's better to leave well enough alone.

I'm not sure which philosophy I prescribe to more at the moment. But I think the passive British mindsit doesn't sit well with my natural boldness. Perhaps I don't quite feel American all the time, but I've soaked up the pioneering spirit somehow, in my two decades of residence in the USA. Sure, Americans are forward, but is there anything wrong with that?

Cheers peeps,
Ali

World-Traveler-Am-I

2009-03-18T05:18:00.000-07:00

Classes are winding down, and spring is winding up. So naturally I don't plan to spend much time standing still in the next few months. Here's my itinerary:

- This weekend I'm going to Paris with the two most fabulous gay men ever invented.

- Next week classes end, and on Friday I'm heading off to Dublin with Anne, my pseudo-Irish friend from Idaho.

- For April I'm trying to organize a trip through Germany and Austria, with a stop in Amsterdam along the way

- My creative writing final is due at the end of April

- In May, I'm heading to Portugal and southern Spain (Seville, Granada and Alicante)

- My final exams take place May 11-June 12, don't know exactly when yet.

- I'm currently applying for a teaching position at an English summer camp in Italy, which would start in the middle of June

And that's that.

Talk soon,
Ali

Spring Is Here: La Primavera Trompetera Ya Llegó

2009-03-10T14:16:00.000-07:00

Spring has come to foggy depressive overcast London, and the sun is too damn bright. Where did you go, lovely cloud cover? It's like the sky took off its sunglasses.

I've ditched my down coat for the light trench I bought in Spain. Otherwise, my winter habits persist. Coffee, markets, cider, & AJ, the hyper-stylish man in my life.

We go to either Portobello market, or Brick Lane market, or both, every weekend.

I sleep over his flat and he cooks for me. When we go out, people ask permission to photograph him. And he sometimes photographs me. He's been cited by vogue twice for his blog: http://www.stitchsociety.blogspot.com/
Someday he will be a fashion icon (if he's not one already.)

For his birthday on March 16th we've decided to stage a public engagement party, with a scandalous conclusion in which I catch him making out with our future best man.

In other news
I read a book,saw a film,started a writing group, and began learning German (Das Mädchen isst ein belegtes Brot = the girl is eating a sandwich.)

I chipped my front tooth biting down too hard in my sleep.

As you can see, I'm growing and changing as a person.

The other day I saw a man walking down the street eating a cup of custard. Straight custard. A big cup.

Walking home on Portobello Road, I get a strong whiff of arugula coming from someone's ciabatta sandwich. I spot lots of skinny ankles sprouting from vintage boots. Watch yellow-red paella swirling around a giant pan. Watch people trying on fedoras. Watch tourism and home-bred style sharing the same space. On the tube, a pink-clad baby plays with a stranger's oyster card and reaches hungrily for her iphone.

There's no place like London.

Cheerz palz,
Ali

Rafael, Portrait of the Artist

2009-03-04T16:08:00.000-08:00

Rafael is from Belo Horizonte, Brazil. He lives in the same building as me. He's here in London on his summer vacation (which happens in winter!) to study English at the EC School in the West End. Back home he's a second year law student. But what he really wants to do is write poetry.

He reads lots of poetry, in Portuguese, French and English. He bought so many books while he was here that he'll have to ship them home. Another thing he did while in London: he got a tattoo on his arm in Russian. It says "the Death of Ivan Ilyich."
In his last few days here, he worked furiously on a leatherbound book of poetry for a girl back home named Julia. He painstakingly illustrated every other page, while listening to Wagner. (And Vampire Weekend, at my insistence). The book was 100 pages long when he finished.

I found his work ethic rather beautiful, so I asked permission to take some photos.

Rafa, there's a girl on your bed... But he's too busy to notice. Now that's dedication.

I'm going to miss him now that he's leaving. He was a good friend.

Adeus, mi brasileiro
Ali

Quarterly Review: The Weird American Girl Takes Europe By Storm

2009-03-03T04:52:00.000-08:00

I've been abroad for two entire months now (January and February), so I feel like it's about time for a review of the things I've seen and what I've learned about myself thus far. I have four months left. Perhaps I can apply the lessons I garner from this review to my remaining time in London and elsewhere.

I've learned not to try to drink a diet coke while running up the stairs (it's a disaster waiting to happen.)

I've discovered a fire escape crushed up between my building and the one next to it, giving it the allure of a secret passageway. It leads into a small private courtyard littered with cigarette butts and empty beer cans (so I guess it's not that secret, but still. I like it.)I love Lily Allen. She is London to me. She's just so damn cool. Sometimes life here feels just like a nouvelle vague French film. I won't elaborate how.

According to my friend Andrea: alcohol is the ultimate time machine.

According to a girl from my writing class: if you kiss someone when they're sleeping, they always kiss you back.

I've been called weird American girl, strange American girl, unique American girl, more times and by more people than I'd care to admit. Am I really so weird, strange and unique? Given, sometimes people just call me "the American girl." And I am - that is, American.

My friends here tell me "I can't believe your life" and even "I love your life" and more rarely still (but most preciously) "I love you." They call me crazy just as often as they call me weird.

I've discovered I'm not neurotic after all. I'm actually a genuine "free spirit," excusing the stupidity of that phrase. I do what feels right at the time. I make opportunities for myself, or rather, I recognize them when I see them and I take full advantage. I guess that makes me weird, and strange, and crazy, and unique. But it doesn't make me American. I was just born that way.
Cheers, amantes
*Ali, the Weird American Girl*

Spain Part IV: Don't Forget About the Duck

2009-03-01T17:02:00.000-08:00

This is where I talk about the miscellany of my trip, which I couldn't fit into my more coherent posts about Spain.

The streets in Barcelona’s older districts are about the width of almost one car. Sometimes the narrowness can make you do crazy things.

One night I bought a duckling on La Rambla. His name was Pascal. Beth tried to convince the vendor not to sell him to me, saying that I didn't live in Spain and I had no place to put him. But money talks, and the man took my 5 euros without listening to Beth's objections.

He put Pascal in a little cardboard box. I patted his head and gently slid him out into my hand. He immediately ran up my sleeve and hid in my right armpit for most of our time together.

Beth and I walked into the fruit and vegetable market, with Pascal tucked snugly into my upper arm. He was tickling me. We bought some fresh-squeezed juice, and I informed those around me that I had a patito in my coat. One person offered to help me extract him, and together we managed to get him into the palm of my left hand without any injuries. He then ran up my other sleeve. And peed on me.

I returned Pascal to the vendor about 45 minutes later. He didn't give refunds, but he agreed to let the duckling return to his friends nesting in the wood shavings of their cage. Now he has probably sold the same duck twice.

La Rambla also has bunnies and songbirds and fish for sale. If there had been puppies, I'd be a goner by now.

While shopping in Tudela, I ran into one of my former students from teaching English over the summer. Aranzazu (another Basque name), the beautiful blonde, the smartest girl in the class, the one who cried for a week straight and felt homesick even though she lived 5 minutes away. She smiled at me but was too shy to talk. When I asked her in Spanish if she remembered me, she nodded sheepishly, and I remembered the time when she grabbed my hand in her little tan fingers and asked podemos dar una vuelta a Tudela? Por favor? with tears streaming down her face. She wanted me to take her home, but I had 10 other fourth graders to take care of. Her mother asked if I was coming back to teach again. I told her "Um... not exactly" and explained that it was very expensive for me to travel between my home in New York, and Spain.

In only a few days with Edurne and her brother, I learned lots of new Spanish colloquialisms. Hostia, en plan, botellón, cojonudo, joder. The last two are the easiest to translate. They mean "fucking awesome" and "fuck," respectively.

Edurne and my ability to speak English together sometimes felt like a secret power, in a country where most people don't understand my native tongue. The day after the Carnaval festivities, when we met up with gorilla suit and Moroccan soldier for tapas and decided we wanted to go home early, Edurne told me rather blatantly in English “lean against this wall and act like you’re really sick.” I followed her instructions, but couldn't help laughing a bit. The gorilla (now in human form) sympathized, saying "she must be ill from last night. But at least she's smiling." We successfully avoided going to the movies with them without any hurt feelings.

The last tourist attraction I visited before my plane flight was Casa Milà. It's where I want to live. Instead of describing that amazing place, I'll just post some photos. And let me say, when you can design buildings like that, why does anyone build normal things?When I got back, I noticed how odd it felt to be speaking only English. A foreign city in which no foreign language is required? How bizarre. The orderly queues of London were a stark contrast to the airport in Spain. Taxis light up yellow again, instead of green, and the cabbies really know where they're going here (in Barcelona they just use a GPS). Good ol’ gray skies greeted me on my return. I love London.

Cheerio, y saludos. x
Ali

Spain part III: Churros and a Train Ride

2009-02-28T15:17:00.000-08:00

In Barcelona, I get churros con chocolate for breakfast. They serve sugar with the chocolate. The churros are laid out in rings, like stylized flower petals on the plate. Crisp with a chewy center.

One street vendor sells fat churros filled with cream. Beth gets one covered in chocolate as well, while I stick with the simpler version. Both are unforgettable.

At the Café del Teatre, on Calle de Torrijos, a shaggy dog walks around the tables, under the ancient mirror that hangs across the entire length of the wall. There are a few fresh croissants on display at the bar, bought three at a time from the bakery across the street, still warm and crispy with a subtle glaze on the top.

On Friday of my Spanish week (viernes) I hop on the train to visit dear Edurne, my amiga Española who goes to university in San Sebastián and lives in the town of Tudela, at the southern edge of Navarra. She goes back home almost every weekend (she's only a freshman, and very close to her family), so that is where I visit her.

Riding across the countryside in a Renfe train, tourist class, I see green hills and yellow fields, occasional crumbling stone farmhouses with tile rooves, wiry cypress trees, snow white wind turbines. Sheep and cows.

The train goes right beside the Costa Brava. You can see the ocean hitting the rocks. Sometimes it’s as if you’re suspended over the sea. The train ride is much longer than the plane flight. I eat a bocadillo in the café car, read my book, and arrive.

Edurne runs across the train tracks to hug me hello. We are both thrilled to see each other after 7 months apart. We met teaching English in Pamplona last summer. Edurne (her Basque name is pronounced with a short initial "e," a deep "u" and a softly rolled "r") looks just the same, dark feathery hair, angular eyes, tawny face. She is perhaps the sweetest saintliest girl in the world.

Her father drives me and my bags to their apartment, near the Plaza Nueva right in the center of town. It's a modern building, and the apartment is spare in size, with just a small entry hall, living room, office and kitchen along with the three bedrooms and two bathrooms. But it is perfect, extremely comfortable and clean and homey. No space is wasted. The furniture is as harmonious as the family that uses it.

It is late at night by the time I arrive, so Edurne and I go to sleep, me in a cot set up beside her bed and draped with quilts. Well, we update each other on our lives for a few hours, and finally drift off around three in the morning, waking up close to noon the next day. It is the first day of Carnaval.

Edurne's parents seem happily married. They spent all their free time together while I was there. Her mother is a teacher of Euskera (Basque language). I forget what her father does. She has a 16-year-old brother named Aitor (another Basque name). He plays tennis obsessively, eats Colacao and chocolate bars for breakfast, and in Edurne's words is "too cute for his own good." Her father and brother both wear Barça team slippers around the house. Her mom makes me wear socks inside for the whole time I am there, so I won't catch a chill.

Every day her family cooks a three course comida for the mid-day meal, and eat it all together around their small expandable dining table in the living room. Aitor sets the table, Edurne makes the salad, and both of the parents cook together. We have paella and fried fish one day, tortilla de patata and lamb chops another. I only stay long enough to have two of these wonderful meals, leaving on Monday before I can partake in a third. For dinner later in the day, they just eat a small sandwich, and breakfast is usually some form of hot milk and pastry, but for lunch they go all out.

Her mother is surprised that I eat her food (don’t Americans just eat ketchup?) but thinks I don’t eat enough. Ali, you are eating very well, but you eat poquito.

And during the mid-day almuerzo, the family talks. Over one afternoon meal, Edurne makes a comment about the silly clichés people associate with Spain, and her mother shoots back with an impassioned speech about how every stereotype of Spanish culture is true (flamenco, tortilla, torros). At one point she even gets up and dances around to demonstrate the ubiquity of flamenco in Andalucia. They also argue about the governmental position of Catalan vs Basque in public schools. Edurne's mother asks me all sorts of questions about my family, my life, the US. She asks about the availability of university scholarships for the underprivileged, and the intimacy between parents and children in the states versus in Spain.

The apartment is littered with English novels in translation (Paul Auster's Brooklyn Follies, William Styron's Sophie's Choice) and their bookshelves are stocked with classics, essay collections, and modern Spanish literature. Neither of her parents, nor her brother, speak any English, but they read American writers. It's an educated family, with good taste.

Besides eating the food her family cooked, Edurne and I walked around Tudela, went shopping (I bought an utterly white coat) and celebrated Carnaval on Saturday night. As we canvassed the town, Edurne kept asking me "why do you walk so fast? What's the rush?" All I could say was "I’m from New York!" Despacio, despacio, she instructed. "You're in Spain now."

We buy matching red masks and wear them to the Carnaval parade. It is a bit make-shift compared to the larger, more polished and touristy Carnaval celebrations in Barcelona and Venice, but it is an incredibly exuberant crowd. There are three different bands with drumlines and dancers, a line of women dressed in white tinsel wedding dresses holding cardboard husbands with celebrity faces pasted onto them, several twirling giants, a chiquita banana lady girating on a truckbed. There are Mexicans in ponchos and Chinamen in Mao jackets, pregnant cheerleaders and garage mechanics, giant ants and a tiny toddler elephant. I start to think that this is Spain's impression of every other country, with a special focus on America. There are a few fallen stockbrokers, with fake stubble and hobo bindles, plenty of cowboys and Indians and surfer dudes and many other quintessential American types. There is one little burger king. My favorite is the homeless beggar with a sign that says "I have 17 kids."

We go out at 1 am to El Tubo, the old neighborhood in Tudela where all the bars are crowded together. Edurne insists that 1 am is the absolute earliest we can go, since nothing will be happening before then. When we get there, the streets are filled with costumed kids, and I mean kids - some are not more than twelve years old. Edurne says "it's like a nursery." They are running amok. Lots of boys are dressed as girls - french maids, snow white, goldilocks. A few are dressed as Scotsmen. One extremely tall pink panther is charging down the street holding a bottle of Absinthe aloft.

No one cares about the carousing children. At one point, I spot a group of policia standing on the edge of the street with their arms crossed, but Edurne informs me that they are just people dressed up like them. For Carnaval.

We go into a bar and order a few chupitos (shots). They are flavored like strawberries and go down easy. One is called the Rafa Nadal, another "Que duro es ser vasco" (how hard it is to be basque).

At 2:30 Edurne decides it is finally late enough to go to a club, though we will still have to wait for it to fill up. The people there are in costume as well. I dance with a gorilla, and one of the Scotsmen, while E occupies herself with a Moroccan training for the civil guard. At one point a sinister looking clown offers to buy me a drink, but I say no because evil clowns are scary.

We get back at 6:30 am on the last bus, and I collapse onto my cot.

On my final day, her mother packs me a bocadillo de tortilla de jamón and a natillas chocolate pudding for the train ride back.

Edurne, I miss you!
Besos,
Ali

Spain Part II: Feeling Barcelonely, aka Haciendo Amigos

2009-02-26T02:37:00.001-08:00

Seeing as I travelled to Barcelona by myself, I was alone for a lot of my trip, despite the presence of Beth, my friend from Barnard who is studying abroad at the IES program there. With all of my time spent wandering about leisurely seeing the sights, walking down whatever street looked most interesting, I had plenty of opportunity to make some amigos. And I did.

First, I made friends with Cesar Alegre Can you believe that name? Cesar Cheerful, in Spanish. He’s the director of Beth’s IES program. We bonded over his “installation art piece,” a box marked Found + Lost.
“You do know that it’s supposed to be the other way around, right?” I asked.
“Yes, but this way it makes you think. How can something be found before it is lost? It also means that the box will always be empty.”
“Oh you crazy Barcelonians, with your silly pretensions at art!” I said. And we were friends. I even let him read the creative writing assignment I had to do over reading week, which I had scribbled in my notebook a few hours before, while eating paella.

I also did some shopping. Feeling chilly one day, I stopped into a Chinese store (as bargain stores here are called), which looks like an overstuffed storage unit, and bought myself a 12 euro beige trench coat, which I was later told made me look like Humphrey Bogart. Not too shabby, eh?

My second friend was the barman of a really good Basque-style tapas restaurant that I went to twice. The second time, I went by myself, since I had a bit of time to kill before Beth finally finished with her class, and what better way to kill time than to eat? He recognized me from the other day and treated me to a free café con leche (god I love the stuff), inviting me out for a drink after his shift was over. He took me to the Spanish equivalent of TGI Fridays, which I found very amusing, even more so after I had finished off a double malt Voll Damm. His name was José Rubian, and he made me guess what country he was from (I guessed right – Colombia). As usual when I meet anyone slightly older than me, he gave me a lecture about life and such, topped off with the sage advice “La vida es un periódico. Hay que pasar página” (Life is a newspaper. You have to turn the page). He was adorably small and rotund, leading me to dub him my roly-poly Colombian friend.

Later on, when I met up with Beth, I told the roly-poly Colombian that we were going to the Ovella Negra (the black sheep), a historic old drinking hole in Barcelona. He said he was going out with his friends to a bar around the corner from his restaurant, wouldn’t we like to join him there instead? No, we wouldn’t, so we left him at the corner, essentially forever. “Have a nice life,” I shouted as we walked away.

Beth and I wandered around for about 20 minutes, trying to find L’Ovella Negra, when someone grabs me by the shoulders. I turn, and it’s José Rubian, the little Colombian! “He’s a leprechaun!” I cried at Beth, who was laughing hysterically along with me. “It was magic!” she shouted. “How did he find us?”

From then on, I’ve always believed there was gold at the end of the rainbow. (He bought us lots of sangria.)

On the topic of new friends, I should mention my stay at the Ciutat Hostel. I got there the first night around 2 am, after meeting Beth under the Arc de Triomf and walking along Passeig de Gràcia, seeing the Gaudi buildings by night, and eating a bocadillo de tortilla washed down with some cerveza con limón. Being late, I was tired, but my night wasn’t over just yet. The night manager of the hostel, a gray-haired middle-aged man, took down my information, but instead of just leading me to my room he got confused at the fact that I was only one person, when I had reserved space for two. I had booked it that way because I made my reservation online, and it was the only way the website had allowed me to reserve a private room. But the manager wasn’t satisfied with this explanation, and refused to charge me a 2-person rate. Instead he changed all my bookings by hand, and put me in an en-suite single. This took a LONG time.

Finally, he showed me to my room and gave me my key. I dropped my bags, which by then had worn a groove into my shoulders, and went downstairs to buy a cup of coffee from the vending machine. The night manager was there as well. He asked me if, being American, I knew of Johns Hopkins University. When I said yes, he began telling me about his multi-talented son who turned down a scholarship to go there, who played the flute and won awards and was studying to be an engineer. By the end of this story, he insisted on taking me back to the office to show me pictures of his pride and joy. I became convinced that he wanted me to marry his son.

After that, whenever I got back to the hostel late at night we exchanged a few words. He called me “Alexandra” with affection and tried recommending old Western films to me, saying that they were how he had learned to love and admire the US. He was a nice man.

The hostel was more like a low budget dorm than a bunker of student travelers. It had a defunct boarding school attached to it, and I barely saw anyone else there during my stay, except for a rambunctious group of French 4th graders who decided to befriend me one night while I was checking my email. They ran around unsupervised and the precocious boys all tried flirting with me.

In Barcelona there are no leash laws for pets. None for children either. I came just before the start of Carnaval, and there were children running around everywhere dressed as little zebras, little princesses, little chicken men and little ice cream cones. They screamed and flailed through the streets, always ahead of their parents, always just about to be hit by a moped. It was adorable, and slightly disconcerting.

One of the last things I did in Barcelona before heading to my friend’s house in Tudela for the weekend was to see La Iglesia de la Sagrada Familia. As if the traditional Gothic Cathedral in the center of the city weren’t interesting enough. That one is composed of intricate Mediterranean trellis work, punctuated by gardens, covered in saintly statues plunging out of the façade and into the world, suffering, some wrapped in snakes. Outside there’s a little flea market where I bought some used postcards.

On the other hand, Sagrada Familia looks like it just grew there. Columns like trees, honeycomb windows that seem to intensify the light that pass through them, a cavelike coolness to it all. It’s perpetually under construction, but that doesn’t undercut the power of simply being inside such an incredible, supernatural space.

Entonces, te dejo.
Cheers, pals,
Ali

Wild But True Iberian Tales Part I: Saga of the Sexy Beer

2009-02-24T23:43:00.000-08:00

It's been 2 weeks since I've written, and it feels so good to be writing again. I just got back to London last night from Barcelona, and I have so much to say about my trip I've decided to divide it up into several installments. Here is the first:

I departed London on February 16th, just after my weekend trip to Oxford and a surprisingly lovely Valentine's day. The bouquet of paperwhites that I got for Valentine's from mein süß Deutsche ended up in a glass of water on the table of an Oxford pub, as well as woven into my hair as I wandered the city. It's a pretty neat place, that medieval braintrust, with beige cigarette buts twined between the cobblestones. It's so neurotic, but in a distinctly British way, closed up, walled in and cravated, with little patches of green garden, and a big green mound set randomly beside Oxford Castle. It seems like a good place to bury yourself in a giant tome of analytic philosophy.Seeing as I don't plan to do that anytime soon, I'm glad I chose to study in London instead. I love it here. I must admit, I was a bit anxious about going to Spain. I was afraid of leaving London and never finding it again. Just to be safe, I collected a few more crazy street names on the busride to the airport: Knightrider Street, Bread Street, and Little Britain (presaging the bad TV shows of the future, as my theatre prof told us).

Ryanair is amazing. It got me to Spain earlier than expected. And the flight only cost 2 pounds 67p.
Immediately after stepping off the plane and into the line for passport control, I was Spain-ified. I said hi to the man at the desk and he responded "hola." Ah, I exclaimed, tengo que recordar que debo hablar español ahora. (I have to remember that I must speak Spanish now). The other people in line chuckled at me.

My first impressions of Barcelona were thus (transcribed from my notebook): sand-colored, palm trees, lots of dreadlocks, Catalan written before Spanish. The Spaniards are helpful, and the English-speaking tourists can't speak any Spanish for their lives. So many dogs, so many tiny dogs! I saw one man jogging with his Yorkshire terrier, who is about the size of his foot.

I arrived Monday night, so the first real touristing I did was on Tuesday. I went to the Park Güell, a paradise on earth. Even the pigeons there purr. There's graffiti on the trees, as if nature can't contain its joy and must struggle to express it in words. I'd love to live there, in the temple of so many columns, listening to the buskers playing Spanish guitar and smelling the unreal perfume of flowers and sun-drenched air and the street mime's joint. Gaudí was such a genius.

That evening I discovered that Absinthe tastes awful. I also convinced a few Spaniards that I had directed the Blair Witch Project. And Cloverfield. While walking back across La Rambla, a guy on the street corner held out a partially consumed six pack of beer to us, and tried to interest us in buying one. Strange, I thought, but surely an anomaly. Several dozen beer sellers later, I realized that it was a transparent front for selling drugs. And yet, some of the men seemed genuinely interested in pushing their beer on me. One of them, deducing that I spoke English, mustered all the linguistic skills at his disposal and exclaiming "Sexy beer! Beer sexy beer!"

The next day I slept in and wandered through the Gràcia district surrounding my hostel, waiting for my friend Beth to get out of class. I found two amazing cafés on the same street, one for breakfast and another for being intellectual over a cup of coffee. I also had some Mexican food, huevos rancheros in a surprisingly beautiful Frida Kahlo-themed restaurant with worn turquoise wooden tables, painted tiles set into the stucco walls and colored paper hangings everywhere. The waiter said qué pena that I was alone, and tried to offer me a free shot of tequila, but seeing as it was only 3 pm I declined.

The best thing ever happened to me that day. I actually got recognized in some way for my writing. I was nominated for a scholarship at the New York State Summer Writer's Institute, a sort of writing retreat on the campus of Skidmore college that lasts for 4 weeks over the summer. I was quite pleased.

That's the end of Part I, mis amigos.
Hasta Luego,
Ali

Blue Mondays, Orange Wednesdays, Freaky Fridays and Everything in Between

2009-02-11T10:30:00.000-08:00

This week was a week of shopping (sorry mom!). I bought myself everything from a wallet to a friend (Mr. Winkworth, see below):Mr. Winkworth only cost 3 pounds at a shop on Brick Lane. But to me, he's priceless. He's taken up permanent residence in my bed, head resting on the pillow, smiling that devious neon grin.

I also bought a second-hand Marc Jacobs coat, two sun dresses for Spain, a 2 pound wallet, and an amazing leather bag from the landmark vintage store "One of a Kind."
I love all of my purchases, so I have no buyer's remorse. Maybe guiltless living is a European thing?

I went to two markets, Portobello Road and Brick Lane (which is actually several markets all collected around the heavily Bengali Brick Lane neighborhood). Both places were delightful, but I must say Brick Lane is the best place to shop in the world. Not only do they have acres of unique designer boutique/stands, vintage and second-hand stalls, and fascinatingly fashionable people walking the streets, they also have the Sunday-Up Market, which has the most fantastic food court EVER. It's got every ethnicity represented, even those tiny countries on Africa's west coast that nobody remembers the names of. When I was there I went Japanese, eating a curious vegetable pancake with soy-soaked rice cake wrapped in seaweed. They make it right in front of you:It was very tasty. I also had some tiny sugared banana donuts for desert.

Despite my relatively carefree and easy life here, I was exhausted for class on Monday, and ended up falling asleep during our five-minute break. Perhaps I no longer have the energy to sit still?

The reference to Orange Wednesdays is the half-priced movie tickets that I get through my cell phone plan. I saw Frost/Nixon today for less than 3 pounds.

This weekend will be another whirlwind. I'm celebrating Friday the 13th with another Royal Shakespeare Company show, the Taming of the Shrew this time. On Valentine's, I'm visiting Oxford and staying through Sunday, then I'm off to Spain for 8 days, leaving me just Monday to pack and prepare. I probably won't write until I get back, but once I do, expect some proper travel writing.

Now I'm off to a dinner party with all of my favorite people (except the ones who couldn't come).
Cheerio mates,
Ali

Laundry Night = Blog Entry Night

2009-02-06T21:51:00.000-08:00

I love the familiar use of "love" and "darling" from lower class British men when addressing women here. It might be sexist but it sounds sweet to me. Some other peculiar verbal ticks include saying "inn'it" after every sentence, in place of "oh really?" or "yeah?"; and saying "bless her" to express pleasure at one of my utterances.

I had another great creative writing class today, in which all of us sat reciting our work and admiring each other. We had to write a story in 15 minutes based on a series of pictures, a sort of silent comic strip. We all got the same set of pictures, but all of the stories came out completely differently, especially mine - in which I ignored all the pictures but one and just wrote 2 paragraphs about it. Here it is:

"He's moving in today. Taking the second floor. A small man with yellow skin and a shiny bald pate. Behind his glasses are the most exquisitely turned Oriental eyes. Almonds in milk. He stands outside the flat, and I watch him. We are both stroking our chins right now, him in a solitary contemplation of the cusp of change, me in a contemplation of him.

He must be 60 years old at the very least, I think, as I play with the frayed tie on my bathrobe. His English is probably not very good. It never is, when you move here that late in life. They say there's a threshold age. They say that after a certain age, you can never really become fluent in another language. I sip my coffee, lean further into the window. I wonder, is that true for love as well?

I wonder if he's missed that threshold too."

I got really nice feedback from my brilliant classmates, many of whom wrote lovely pieces of their own. A few of my favorite bits from the class were the phrase "that dense awkwardness," and a cactus named 'Prickly Pete.' Most had to be enjoyed in context. One girl has severe dyslexia; she struggled to read her piece aloud - a very spare, excellently detailed and matter-of-fact story about a working class woman having a nervous breakdown in the bath.

Afterward we talked for a bit about how much we all feel a communal aura of magic emanating from the class and the professor. I'm not exaggerating when I say this class is changing my worldview. Well, maybe I'm exaggerating a little.

Here's some more street names (I've been slacking off in my collection of them) : Swallow Street, Air Street, and Man in the Moon Passage are all right next to each other, off Regent Street near Piccadilly Circus.

Going to fetch clothes from the dryer now. Peace out,

Ali

I Finally Found A Gangsta!

2009-02-04T02:48:00.000-08:00

This post should be subtitled "Ministry of Sound: Only Fun When You're Drunk," or alternately, "Around the World in 80 Guys," or perhaps "More Things Ali Will Never Do Again." Or, if I wanted to go for the big bucks, I would just call it "I Kissed Coolio!"

So, here's how it happened. My friends and I went to the Ministry of Sound at 10.30 pm, or 22.30 as the say hereabouts, and the club was packed with Indian schoolchildren. It was so lame, we decided to get some booze, or as I like to call it, "instant fun juice."

Ministry has 4 rooms, but only two of them were open for most of the night. Then I ran into a fellow American study abroader, and he said "Hey, did you know that Coolio is performing live in the other room?" At this point I was heavily enthusiastic about almost everything, and images of the Keenan and Kel intro were flashing through my mind. I suddenly loved Coolio! All I wanted was to get close to him!

I ran bouncing into the performance room, and lo and behold, there he was. In a white t-shirt and matching dewrag, dripping with sweat, making everyone shout "Fuck yeah!" I immediately joined in, dancing with the first guy who crossed my path. This guy took a liking to me, and he happened to be part of the film crew for the show. "You're a big Coolio fan?" he asked. And at that moment, I was the biggest. So he took me backstage, bought me a drink, and after Coolio finished his performance with a stirring rendition of Gangsta's Paradise, he brought me to the VIP room to meet him. I kissed him, on the cheek (some bathos there for ya), and sat down, asking if I could interview him for my blog. The end of the story is I was escorted out of the room by several burly bouncers.

I ran off, leaving the film-crew guy to eat my dust, while I rejoined my friends. A lovely night was had by all.

If you think I'm leaving a few things out, you have no idea.

Cheers playas,
Ali

I Really Wasn't Expecting This

2009-02-02T18:13:00.000-08:00

Today London was paralyzed by snow. The city had the biggest snowfall of the past 20 years, half a foot of this wonderfully powdery, glittering soap-flake downpour that lasted the better part of 36 hours. Classes were cancelled, public transport shut down, and people built snowmen in the streets. With a day off from uni, students built snow forts in which to smoke hookah until the roof caved in. Then they took pictures and posted them on facebook.

Kids ran around throwing snowballs at anyone who passed by, and grown-ups joined in their massive snowball wars. The snow is really excellent for packing. I may have flung some of it at a 12-year-old myself.

Londoners everywhere were super-enthusiastic about the weather, since many of them have only seen snow a few times in their lives. I've never seen snow this beautiful before. Due to a massive lack of snow plows, and a salt shortage, there was apparently a 1.2 billion pound loss of work hours. I suspect the city's snow equipment consists of a single shovel locked in a vault in the Tower of London. The newspapers describe the situation as chaos, and one transport spokesman was quoted as saying "We're not in Russia here!" In the words of a friend of mine, snow is more disastrous to daily life in London than the war ever was.

By now, the streets have become wet slush, and buses have started running again (very slowly) but I'm hoping class will be off tomorrow as well. And considering the facts, it probably will.

Last night, when the snow had just begun to accumulate, I was watching the Super Bowl with a bunch of Americans at a pub. By the time we got out, at 2 am, there were absolutely no cabs on the street (buses and trains had already stopped running by then). I sprinted down possibly the only cab left in the entire city, which my friends and I ended up sharing with a prickly couple from Buenos Aires on a very very long ride.

Cheerio from the snowiest city in the WORLD,

Ali

Of Funky Snow

2009-02-01T08:38:00.000-08:00

It's snowing in London today, in big pure flakes that perform balletic twirls and shuffles across the windswept pavement. Snow here is rare, and it doesn't stick. It just gets on your eyelashes and freezes your hands off.

Next weekend I'm going to Cambridge, and the week after that to Barcelona. Until then, my time will be spent bent over Shakespeare's plays and Fielding's travel diary (if I ever actually get to my reading). More likely than not, I will end up at the Ministry of Sound, or the pub, or the Superbowl party tonight being thrown by some study abroad group for all of us football-worshiping Americans (don't they just know us inside out?).

Friday night, a friend and I went to see the Royal Shakespeare Company's showing of A Midsummer Night's Dream (one of my favorites) for only 5 pounds each. The student deals here are amazing. This morning I had a full English breakfast with a banana blueberry smoothie, walked around Camden Market and bought a vintage dress and a pair of boots.

And right now, I'm so tired (insert White Album lyrics here).

British Sex (aka "Being Intimate")

2009-01-30T06:07:00.000-08:00

Honestly, I just put that title there to get more hits on google for my blog. But it is true that people love their euphemisms here, and most of them are cute/creepy/sound like snoring: snoggging, shagging, getting off, buggering, or the more oblique "how's your father." (Never actually heard that last one used).

I got some real fish and chips yesterday, wrapped in paper and everything, at this place right around the corner from my flat. Flaky white cod in a springy crisp batter. It was lovely. But the restaurant, with the rather blatant name of "Fish and Chips Restaurant" (along with its connected "Fish and Chips Take-Away) is now undergoing renovations and won't be open again for a week.

Something I've learned recently about the world of blogs that has a direct relationship to life in London is that you never know who is watching/reading. It's important to be a bit vigilant, in order not to do or say something irrevocably stupid. You may have noticed a few of my entries recently disappeared. Then again, you may not have. Who knows?

What does this have to do with London? Security cameras are everywhere here. Bathrooms, dressing rooms, intersections, public squares. In fact, London may very well be the Panopticon. Observe:
So, on that note, I am not signing this entry. You'll never trace it back to me! Ha ha ha.

Now You Know What It's Like Inside My Head

2009-01-29T08:47:00.000-08:00

Blogging has become a sort of addiction, so please forgive the frequency of updates. Better than smoking, right?

London is a different city from anywhere else on the planet. It’s a constant surprise. Capacious yet intimate, European yet English, international yet local, throbbing yet quiet, wary yet welcoming: well, you get the idea. There’s plenty to complain about over here, and even more to celebrate. There are more languages spoken here than in any other city in the world, all with a British accent. On every street sign, I’m confronted with unique names for my future children (“Ave Maria Lane, come over here and clean up this mess! And you, Floral Lane, don’t tease your sister!”)

This morning I discovered the local version of the Onion, except with a bit more topical and pointed satire. It’s called “Private Eye” and it makes fun of everything. Here’s an excerpt:

Woman ‘Born With Two Breasts’
JOURNALISTS were last night hailing a medical miracle after reports were confirmed that a woman had been born with two breasts.

The woman, who turned up to an awards ceremony wearing a skimpy dress, was featured very heavily in all newspapers.

Some other good ones are “Bush Announces ‘War on Geese’” and “Barack Obama is the most popular president of all time, according to a new survey conducted by Youmakeitup. They have seen him top the poll by some million billion percent. ‘His place in history as the most popular President is secure as long as he doesn’t do something stupid,’ said an excitable man in a bowtie, ‘like becoming President.’”

The papers are all talking about the proposed third runway at Heathrow, which is upsetting a lot of environmentalists, as well as neighborhood people who don’t want their ears ringing with thousands of low-flying planes. Look at me, getting all interested in the doings of the locals!

And why not? I may be firmly rooted in my heterosexual male perspective (which the patriarchy enforces even on the best of us) but I think I can objectively say that Londoners aren’t just unusually fashionable and accent-y. They’re also, by and large, very attractive. Men and women, girls and boys display glowingly smooth skin, bright eyes and excellent posture. It’s a smorgasbord of ethnicities and nationalities to boot. If you can’t find your type in London, then you’re probably not interested in the species. They all wear the same vertically striped scarves, in various colors:

Though I have yet to buy one myself, today I did go shopping in a native store (Top Shop) and bought some native apparel (a shirt and a skirt) with more reasonable price tags than my last shopping escapade. I also bought myself a travel backpack for my trip to Barcelona in February.

That’s right, I’ve just gotten here and I’m already leaving. Only for a week. I plan to soak up enough sun to last me for the next month and a half until the university gives me even more time off. I will miss the clouds, though.

Some other things I will miss:
- Passing by the Via-Agra café on my bus route. I realize the italic pronunciation is different, but isn’t it cute the way they don’t know what they’re referencing?
- The concise and beautifully informative lectures by my professors. I actually feel compelled to take notes in class – the profs are that good.
- Listening to students read aloud from the plays in my theatre class. They’re all born actors, with their fantastically natural-sounding British accents.
- Wondering why English girls wear so much eye makeup, and whether or not it makes it more difficult to see things.
- Watching everybody read the daily newspapers on the bus and the tube. Even children! Even little boys! They do the crosswords too!
- Spotting tourists from the less obvious indicators (they’re the only ones who ever wear white, they look the wrong way when they cross the street, they smile more)
I’ll be back soon enough, sloshing around in Piccadilly puddles and making tea in my curry-scented apartment. Despite my relative assimilation to London life, I still carry around a certain traveler’s agitation in my body, a buzz of excitability and eagerness that propels me forward even when I should be sleeping or doing coursework.

To close, here are some little London facts:

There are no rubbish bins in central London because back when the IRA was active, they tended to throw bombs into them. The logical anti-terror response was to remove the bins, thus making it very difficult to dispose of food wrappers. And yet, the streets have no litter.

The Royal Courts of Justice (equivalent to the Supreme Court in the US) look like a big turreted castle.

It's even guarded by a dragon:

This is right across from my university campus.
Ta ta for now, y'all,
Ali

The Story of the Dress, or An American in Harrods

2009-01-27T11:48:00.000-08:00

What I am about to write is strictly confidential. It must stay within these infinite and unfathomable digital walls/screens. Promise?

This is the dress:

100% pure silk, by Elie Tahari. It is a 400 pound dress. About, I don't know, $566.84 at the current market rate.

In an effort to preserve anonymity, this is me in the dress:

(The belt was 40 pounds)

When you buy something at Harrods, they wrap it up in tissue paper, place it in a navy green bag, and tie the bag shut with a green silk ribbon. Across the ribbon, "Harrods" is written again and again in gold leaf. I'm scrapbooking that ribbon.

I bought the dress for an inauguration party at the flat of an ABC news correspondent who my friends and I met outside a gay bar in Soho. I don't know why they call the neighborhood Soho, since I'm pretty sure there's no Houston street in this city. The party was ironically American themed. We ate white trash food with our expensive champagne: hot dogs and hamburgers, peanut butter and jelly on Wonderbread, candy bars and jalepeño poppers. I spilled on the dress twice. And then someone else spilled on it.This morning, before class, I headed over to Harrods to attempt the return. In my oversized men's shirt, I felt a bit underdressed for the Mecca of Luxury Consumption. Walking through room after room of designer showpieces, I felt all the slick sales chicks staring at me.

I had re-wrapped the cold slinky cloth in its original tissue, but when it was handed out by the sales lady, it looked hopelessly rumpled and sad. A skin shed from an exotic breed of lizard. The belt showed a bit of strain too. "What happened?" she asked. It was Veronika (*names have been changed), the very same sales lady who had sold me the dress the week before.
"Well, the party I was going to got cancelled. So I never had the chance to wear it," I said.
"So you didn't wear it?" she looked at me blankly.
"Um.. no."
"Because if you wore it, we cannot take it back."
"Um..."
She picked up the phone. "I will have to talk with my manager."
I waited as she made the call. Then she put her hand over the mouthpiece and turned to me. "We will just tell her that it didn't suit you," she smiled. "Isn't it exciting that you have a new president now?"
"Yes. It really is."
Barack Obama is president and it's good to be American again.
p.s. I do have a conscience. Like many things I've done in Europe, I never plan on doing it again.

There Are No Gangstas in England

2009-01-25T22:20:00.000-08:00

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!

And So I Buttered the Crumpet

2009-01-18T14:32:00.000-08:00

Hello all,

For those of you just tuning in, I've been in London for 2 weeks now. It's enormous, and spread into many extremely diverse regions full of extremely diverse people. Case in point: one night out this week I found myself speaking French, Spanish, Italian, German, learning how to say hello and thank you in Lithuanian (lodosh, ah-cho) and "I love you" in Turkish (sini siviyouro). [Forgive the inaccuracy of my transliterations]

Yesterday I took a walk through Borough market, a famous farmer's market under London Bridge that supplies most of the produce to the fine restaurants here. It also sells a lot of specialty prepared foods, baked artisan breads, coffee and tea. I oggled and nibbled at the acres of samples: greek and spanish cheeses, butternut squash with saffron, roasted eggplant ten different ways, tiny caramelised egg custard cups, almond cherry fruitcakes, fish and chips (of course), and sandwiches dripping with chutney and relish. It was a whole crowd of happy people eating things.

Later I walked to Tower Bridge, the most majestic old bridge in London. From the top you can look out at the gray-blue noblesse of the Thames and the regal gray buildings that surround it, with the gray sky hanging above (in all fairness, the sun did come out twice this weekend). While touristing never really impresses me that much -- I don't enjoy the kitsch artificiality of watching a place attempt to fulfill outsiders' expectation -- I was duly pleased to observe, after walking out of the "bridge exhibition" and back onto the street, a woman draped in a gray peacoat over a bright green and gold sari and a pair of sneakers. Now that, I thought, is the essence of London. All that was missing was a complaint about the weather in the beautiful tucked-in phrases of Anglo-Indian speech.

Indian-ness really has permeated almost every aspect of English culture. It's basically equivalent to the way Latin/Mexican influences are everywhere in America. There are ads for Bollywood movies on the tube, dazzling costumey sari stores on the streets, and the supermarket is just packed with India. You can buy pre-prepared tandoori sauces right next to the tomato sauce, and its easier to find all the spices needed for an Indian meal than to locate salt and pepper. If you're too lazy to cook it yourself, half of the frozen food is Indian. Wherever sandwiches are sold there's always a chicken tikka masala option for the filling. I get the impression that this is because English people LOVE Indian food, since real Indian people probably wouldn't need all that pre-made rubbish in order to cook for themselves.

Certain things about London incorporate themselves into your consciousness immediately, and become a part of the routine that makes a visitor into a regular. The tube is definitely one of them. It's a really easy and interesting way to get around, a rich ground for people-watching, and a vibrant canvas of weird advertisements, civic art projects and hilarious graffiti (one vandal proclaims "Clit!" on the Piccadilly line). There is always at least one slim, fashionable man in pointed leather shoes and a sharp-looking scarf tucked into a tailored black coat; one group of French tourists, their speech flowing from their noses into their curled upper lips; one muscular West-Indian looking like he's returning from a championship cricket match; and a handful of people who cannot be seen through the free tabloids held in front of their faces. The free daily newspapers here are actually quite good, thick with interesting stories as well as a minute analysis of Amy Winehouse's travails.

British people read. They advertise Salman Rushdie's new novel and other real literature on public buses.

British people also hate being called British (it's either "English" or "Scottish" or "Welsh" or "Irish," and make sure to know which is which!) They like eating take out sandwiches from wedge-shaped cardboard containers, and they love using the word "rubbish" (it means bad or garbage or silly or unwise or any other censure of medium-strength harshness). Lots of people walk their bony greyhounds around dressed in doggy jackets, and if I get in their way they instinctively go left while I go right, leading us to walk into each other again and again until we figure it all out.

In my continual quest for interesting street names, I've found "lamb's conduit", "saffron hill", "herbal hill" and "crouch end" to add to the list.

I love the London cinema. It's a bit more grand and padded, with deeper-set and larger screens than back home, and attached cafés or bars. It also has awesome snacks (french pastry, white chocolate-covered raspberries, beer and wine, organic popcorn in both salty and sweet varieties). I go a lot and plan to go more. So far I've seen Che: Part One, Waltz with Bashir and Slumdog Millionare.

Now, I have to go do my homework.
Hope this wasn't too boring.

First Impressions of the Milky Tea Country

2009-01-10T14:29:00.000-08:00

As I write this, I am doing laundry for the first time in the History of England.

I've been here in London a week now, and thus far, these are my findings: "Cheers" is the British "Shalom," used all the time, meaning everything and nothing at once. People really do constantly start conversations with the remark "cold, inn'it?" Everything involving transit goes the opposite way of American expectation: the cars, the pedestrians, even the doors (you push to go in and pull to come out). There is fog, and mist, and the pavement is always wet, even when the sun is shining (generally possible between 10:30 am and 3:30 pm). The streets narrow randomly into cobblestone paths, with the buildings leaning anciently towards each other, even down in the financial district. A city of nooks. It's definitely a "beautiful" city, full of monuments and regal stone edifices and gothic churches, but you can read about that in any guide, so it's not what I've been noting down. Instead, I walk around reading all the signs on storefronts and intersections. A pub called "Fuzzy's Grub." A chip shop named "Fishcoteque." Streets sounding dreamed up by Lewis Carroll and Beatrix Potter: Garlick Hill, Cottons Lane, Furnival, New Fetter, Poultry Street, Cowcross, Rawstorme, Whetstone, Tension, Carnaby, Bridle, Queentithe pier. Named after peculiar objects, provincial events, underused words, from literature. And these are the places I actually walk, where people hail taxis and haggle for mobile plans at Carphone Warehouse.

In terms of food, ale & pie houses dominate, fish bars are everywhere, and the jacket potato (aka baked potato) is as ubiquitous as hot dogs are in New York. Here, "pickle" is not a delicious briney cucumber (that's a "gherkin") but a sweet and tangy chutney-like spread that tastes quite wonderful on a cheese sandwich. The kebabs are excellent. Tea bags are mystically better. Everything is indeed Expensive. I plan to live on tea and promises. (Promises being my word for yogurt). There are lots of cheap outdoor vegetable markets, despite the weather. British people might complain about it a lot, but they seem rather impervious to the cold, sitting outdoors at a cafe for lunch no matter how bracing the air. All the London men dress very well, with a sleek dark coat, leather shoes, and a tidy well-chosen scarf to accent. Londoners are very thin, despite all the pies.

I live in a cosy studio apartment in Islington, with a pint-sized kitchen and a pod-like circular bathroom that reminds one of being on an airplane, if airplanes involved showers. Perhaps "pint-sized" isn't the proper word, since pints here are enormous. Classes don't start for another week, so I haven't met very many actual Brits yet. I've been spending my time with a clique of American study abroad students, and I met a Spanish girl in my dorm just now while doing laundry. She's here to study English, while I suppose I'm here to study English-ness. Last night we all went to a pub quiz in the on-campus bar, and our team won best name (I had suggested "Fishcoteque") and a free round. I have made an elaborate and ambitious tourist itinerary for this week, visits to all major landmarks and such, (every museum is free), though unsure of how much I will actually get done. Taking the public bus and riding on the upper level is enough to entertain me for a day.

I have developed a truly excellent inebriated british accent, which I have been told is styled after "Received Pronunciation." I have been alternately told that it sounds a bit Scotch-Irish, verging on South African.

Cheerio