Look Left

The ideological left, that is.

In the wake of the recent Brexit vote (which is an actual reality that I, and half of the people that voted to leave apparently, never saw coming), I thought I'd share a bit about my internship experience while abroad, in which I was honored to work in the office of Jeremy Corbyn MP of Islington North and Leader of the Opposition Government which is the, of late, slightly chaotic Labour Party.

The following comprises a journal assignment for one of my classes. Not exactly my finest writing, but it's truly difficult to convey my gratitude for and the utter coolness of my experience in Parliament and London in general. I wish, wholeheartedly, that I was still there, but I anticipate a swift return following graduation and before this whole Brexit thing gets too messy. Also, I over-use the word constantly, like, constantly. To my credit, about 50% of this was written in a pub, 25% on the tube, and the final quarter in a jet lagged, post-abroad melancholia stupor. Anyway, I present to you "An American in Parliament; A Poorly Written Recollection Of A Culturally Enriching, Immersive Learning Experience in Westminster."

Week 1: 11/4 – 15/4

            My first day as an intern for Jeremy Corbyn MP came just a few days after the Panama Papers reveal. On Monday, I joined Jeremy and David Cameron himself in the House of Commons for the latter’s hearing (albeit I was behind a thick panel of glass in a viewing gallery) in which he attempted to provide a tenuous rationale for his connection to money in offshore bank accounts, prompting speculation of tax evasion. Jeremy and the Prime Minister debated the need for Cabinet ministers to publish their tax returns in order to ensure complete transparency. The Prime Minister, of course, opposed this idea- which begs the question, how much money is the Conservative front bench actually hiding? If the answer is really none, than complete transparency shouldn’t be an issue. Dodgy, indeed.

            For the most part, however, I help sort and respond to correspondence from constituents from Islington North and beyond. I read a lot of letters from people who are either frustrated with their local MP’s or simply think Jeremy will be able to directly intervene and solve all their problems. Some people are clearly mentally ill or perhaps just bored, but some are truly disadvantaged, frustrated, and struggling with the current austerity government.

            I am constantly grateful for my crash course in British Politics courtesy of Andreas for providing me with a solid background in the major political events of the 20^th and 21^st centuries, and I am equally grateful of my awareness of the current socio-economic climate of the UK courtesy of EGL. My internship requires I draw from both courses in order to better understand the frustrations of those who write to Jeremy asking for help or (sometimes vehemently) expressing concerns  and critiques of both Conservative and Opposition policy initiatives.

            It is particularly fascinating to see how quickly the populous is affected by and responds to changes in policy, or even just proposed changes.  I’m constantly shocked by how a government meant to justly serve its people is failing so many of them. I know that Jeremy is a controversial figure in the Labour Party- frankly, he’s left of the left. But at the heart of the hundreds of letters and complaints from people who don’t know who to turn to or who just need to feel validated is a belief that Jeremy is someone who can help, and who can change things. Otherwise, they wouldn’t even both turning to him.

            Also, I answered the phone call of a constituent asking for a “surgery” and had to stop myself from directing him to St. Thomas’ Hospital across the bridge. On the same day I participated in a discussion about the possibility of Donald Trump becoming the next American president. I honestly don’t know which was more embarrassing.

  

Week 2: 18/4 – 22/4

             A couple months ago, I wrote a paper for British Politics in response to the prompt “Is Jeremy Corbyn’s Britain’s next Prime Minister? Discuss.” After doing a bit of research on Jeremy’s long and impressive political history and the circumstances that lead to his election as Leader of the Opposition Party, I decided that I did not believe Jeremy will be Britain’s next PM, but that his current position and the accompanying surge in Labour Party membership will usher a necessary change in British Politics. The fact that Jeremy was elected to replace Ed Miliband on September 12^th indicates that people are unhappy with the austerity policies of the Conservative Party, but I found many of his socialist policies and beliefs to be a bit too leftist for New Labour MPs and supporters (the Blairites) to stomach- though many of them are admirable and seem to be aimed at getting back to the welfare surge of the Post War Labour government. However, the United Kingdom needs someone like Jeremy to come in, against great odds and against a rowdy bench of privileged private school buddies who favour their tax brackets with neoliberal economic policies that disadvantage the middle and lower classes, and represent those who suffer the most from disability cuts and the housing crunch, from cuts to local pharmacies and changes in the NHS, among many other issues. I still strongly believe that Jeremy is a modest, but genuine and intuitive voice that the Labour Party needs to reunite it with its roots in social welfare policies, though perhaps he is a bit before his time.

                However, you can’t tell an office of hardcore Corbyn supporters that you don’t think the man they have complete faith in can be the next Prime Minister, though I am critiquing the stubborn, unsupportiveness of the Labour Party and not the capabilities of the man himself.

                That being said, I am amazed at how hardworking Jeremy’s team is, and this internship has given me remarkable exposure to all that goes into packaging a leader and managing his image and schedule while still ensuring he is communicating with the people that matter most- the constituents.

                I am inspired by their belief in Jeremy and their disbelief that anyone could support any other cause.

                I still don’t think Jeremy will end up being Prime Minister in four years. But this was a particularly hopeful week. During Prime Minister’s Question Time, Jeremy drilled David Cameron on his plans for the government to academize local schools and, accordingly, initiate top-down organization of academics and administration. The Labour backbenchers cheered like they actually supported him.  Back in the office, Jeremy’s team was hopeful. It felt like we were doing something good- standing up for the people who can’t stand up for themselves. Stickin’ it to the man.

  

Week 3: 25/4 – 29/4

            This was easily the best and worst week in the office. High’s include the historic Junior Doctor’s strike and marching with Jeremy and John McDonnell across Westminster Bridge and to the Ministry of Health, where both politicians declared their support for Junior Doctors across the UK. The turnout was incredible. I’ve been wearing my “We are the BMA” badge since the strike and have been approached by multiple supportive strangers in coffee shops and on the street. It was a victorious event for Jeremy.

            The big low, of course, was the resurgence in the Anti-Semitism rumors, spurned by old Tweets from MP Naz Shah. I feel as if I’ve discussed this topic extensively- see Gower Street barbeque, 29 April 2016. Regardless of whether or not what Ken Livingstone said was Anti-Semitic, the statements were poorly timed and serve to further fuel the relentless Conservative attack, right before the local and Mayoral elections.  It’s a petty distraction from the real, important issues that Jeremy continuously campaigns for, and it’s disheartening that this issue is in the forefront of people’s minds, as opposed to the righteous justice of the Junior Doctor’s strike and the academization debate. Labour party divides re-emerged and re-solidified. One step forward, two steps back.

            It was interesting to witness the “damage control” process and to see the media team hard at work, releasing statements and drawing attention away from the whole Anti-Semitism controversy, and toward Jeremy’s aforementioned recent accomplishments.

            Also, the whole team went out for team-building drinks on Wednesday night after participating in the Sadiq Khan phone bank , where I, an American, encouraged British citizens to participate in their government for the good of a city I’ll be leaving in a week and a half. All in all, a good night before a pretty rough second half of the week.

Week 4: 02/05 – 06/05 (and beyond)

            During my last week, I was part of a historic election in London’s history. The day of the May 4^th Mayoral Election I, and quite a few other team members, woke up early to campaign for Sadiq Khan, London’s first ever Muslim Mayor. While I still wonder what people think when they open their doors to an American telling them how to vote in an election that will have minimal impact on her American life (but might in her future London life?), it’s probably not too strange considering London is such a multicultural hub. I learned that campaigning, even in the 21^st century, takes feet on the ground to get every vote out. It’s hard, sometimes tedious endurance work. Sadiq’s victory, though predicted, was satisfying and exciting. Almost as satisfying as finally saying goodbye to Boris. 

It is so hard to encapsulate in a handful of pages and various rearrangements of 26 letters all that my time in Parliament and London in general has taught me. In short, I loved it. I don’t believe I’m home. I don’t believe it’s over. My parents came and visited for a week after the program ended. Their first night in town, we went out for dinner in drinks in Kentish Town with my wonderful manager and some equally lovely coworkers and it was so indescribably cool for both of my worlds to collide. My one comfortable, reliable, warm, and familiar home world with the world that has challenged, surprised, frustrated, amazed, and utterly delighted and enlightened me while abroad. They got along swimmingly.

On Monday, we went on a tour of Parliament and then to the office of the Leader of the Opposition, where I introduced my parents to more co-workers and my manager had prepared a little goodbye gathering. We ate banana cake and toasted the last four weeks, all while taking in the view of the looming Eye across the Thames. I felt so content. I felt like I was in the right place, even though I was leaving soon.

The rest of the week with my parents was spent touring the city and trying to show them how I’d been living for the past few months, which was mostly fun by also frustrating because it’s impossible to purely express the absolute study abroad experience to anyone who hasn’t done it. But I did my best to show them the London I’ve grown to love, which included some live theatre, lots of good food in quirky restaurants, and more than one adventure in East London.

I have absolutely loved my time abroad. I learned self-assuredness, something I’ve always struggled with both professionally and personally. I learned to channel curiosity and adventurousness into every outing. I honed navigation skills. I communicated with people from all over the country and the globe. And of course I was scared sometimes, I was frustrated more than a few times. But mostly I was just happy and amazed and grateful and just totally in love. Mostly, I was home.

London Underground

In the past few weeks, I've spent more time underground than a miner. Which is a gross exaggeration and I apologize to any hardworking and highly respectable miners that may be reading this blog. However, since my preferred method of transportation (after running/walking) runs on a track below the surface of the earth, it's safe to say I've become inured to the stresses of spending extended periods of time in small spaces of questionable air quality.  Sunshine and fresh air is all fine and dandy, but Londoners have so acclimated to subterranean environments, that they've become drawn to them. And I know you're going to argue "I thought Londoners loathed the tube? Don't they complain about it constantly? The smell. The occasional signal failure. The colorful cast of characters that only seem to emerge past 10 pm." Yes. But they (we) loathe it fondly. Because it's our crowd. It's our agonizing rush hour. They're our post 22:00 weirdos. And as I was saying, perhaps years of underground commutes have bred a hereditary proclivity to a life below. Because some of the coolest places I've been have been hidden underground. In fact, some of the hippest bars, clubs, and restaurants require a downward ascension to reach.

Just a few nights ago, I danced underground in a nightclub/bar called The Queen of Hoxton in uber cool Shoreditch, East London, where hipsters mingle with soft grunge punks and suited City folk. The air (breathable, but questionable- nothing new here) is smoky and thick, electrified by magenta bolts of strobe lightening and laser green LED rays shattered into glitter by disco ball diamonds. A DJ, grinning as he spins to an entranced crowd, one hand on his headphones and the other dancing on his turntable. And people, nodding and twisting, shaking, shimmying. Packed together and moving in rapid snapshots of light and sound, under the surface everybody is anybody and nobody. There's something about partying in a basement that's so much more fun.

A couple weeks ago my friend Sydney visited from Rome and I wanted to show her the vibrant, quirky London that I've come to love and have had the privilege of getting to know as a temporary inhabitant. So we, plus another friend, ventured to Brixton (home of the late, great David Bowie [they're in the process of re-naming a street after him], as well as a thriving Afro-Carribbean market scene, and some of the best jerk chicken I've ever eaten), where there's a massive church not too far from the Underground station. But it's so much more than a church. It's home to a nightclub, bar, and restaurant... and guess where all the good stuff is? Underground. Below Saint Matthew's Church. In the crypts. The restaurant/bar, Gremio De Brixton (it's the first thing that comes up when you Google "Brixton church bar"), serves a tempting range of authentic tapas and Spanish wine, and the exposed brick low archways aglow in candlelight make for an intimate and warm interior despite the fact that guests are dining in a a former sacred resting place. We ordered a range of dishes, from patatas bravas to suckling pig, and split a bottle of wine. Yet another amazing dining experience with lovely people, good conversation, and a vibrant atmosphere made all the more alluring because of its subterranean location.

Conversely, London is home to the tallest building in Western Europe- a towering glass masterpiece appropriately titled the Shard for its jarringly jagged appearance that pierces the atmosphere like a crystal dagger. It's an extreme opposite to subterranean life- a heightened alternative, a stratospheric escape. In the spirit of going to extremes, I went to a silent disco on the top of the Shard last night. Approximately 70 floors about street level, I sipped Prosecco and specialty cocktails and looked out at the illuminated veins of the city below while jamming out to the different tunes pulsing through my headphones in the company of strangers doing the same.

London is as much of a subterranean metropolis as it is a supra-terranean one. There's a novelty to the secrecy of all that goes on below the surface- from travel to dancing to dining. That being said, sometimes it's necessary to get a little high. For a healthy balance.

I'm fascinated, shocked, humbled, and invigorated by London at every altitude.

Roman Holiday

Welcome to my first official unofficial short novel. You may want to get yourself a nice cup of tea and settle in for a bit for this one. Maybe limber up your scrolling finger with some light calisthenics. Additionally, this took me a solid week plus two weeks of procrastinating to write.

I've done the thing I said I wouldn't, which is not being on top of the whole "semi-regular posting" thing. The past few weeks got a bit hectic and, as always, time has flown much faster than expected. Which means it's already spring break and I'm sitting in a modest flat in Athens typing this on my phone, missing London just a little bit, but getting excited to look at a ton of old stuff tomorrow and Saturday.

I spent the first half of the week in Rome, exploring the Eternal City almost entirely on foot, having a pasta-piphany (which is the symptomatic enlightenment that occurs when one eats the best bolognese of his or her life), munching on artisanal pizza, fumbling through the language while attempting to remedy my incompetence with patchwork AP Spanish, and catching up with two of my best St. Lawrence friends.

I'd wager that Rome tops the hypothetical list of most desirable getaways. It's romantic, picturesque, steeped in ancient history and aged beautifully and robustly. Additionally, us mangy millennials covet a special Roman fantasy heavily influenced by the seminal classic, Disney's The Lizzie McGuire Movie, in which title character and charming heroine Lizzie embarks on an uncanny adventure, zipping through the winding streets on a Vespa, trying on designer clothes in a goofy music montage showcase of eclectic outfits, and is ultimately mistaken for an Italian born, international pop sensation. There's self discovery and a long awaited romance, all sealed with a kiss at twilight. It also has a killer soundtrack, which played on a continuous loop during a decent chunk of my preteen years. And so, my travel/romance/tween fantasy fulfillment expectations set impossibly high, I hit the cobblestone to make the most of my four days in Roma. 

I stayed in a neighborhood called Trastevere, home of the Basilicia di Santa Maria and it's accompanying Piazza. One could wander the ancient streets for hours and never lose the feeling of being utterly smitten with the colorful terraced buildings, tucked away bars, and lively piazzas, where students, tourists, and locals gather. The best way to find stuff in Rome is to stumble upon it. Eventually, you find what you're looking for or you find something else and it's exciting because you've found it through your own, semi. This, I found, is a very Roman philosophy. Hold the hustle and bustle, lay on the leisure. 

I was totally charmed by Trastevere and definitely overdid it on the artsy street shots.

Of course, there is no shame in consulting a good old fashioned guide book. Particularly for the many of us that find certainty=sanity. I navigated by guide book, map, Gabby (my SLU roomie), and once by flashlight and tour guide during and excursion through the catacombs where Saint Cecilia was buried (oldest Christian cemetery in Rome!). 

On day one, I ambled (though my ambling pace was considerably quicker and more destination oriented than my Italian counterparts') to the center of Rome, stopping for espresso twice along the way. Once the second bitter-sweet shot of caffeinated gold hit I was not only ready to walk the original Marathon but super psyched about the Roman Forum, Rome's first meeting and marketplace where ancient Romans bought and sold goods. It's remarkable how well preserved this area is; one can easily envision the daily activities that took place amidst the crumbled stalls and columns.

Even though it's a forum, I think it deserves *five* stars 

Side note: there so many ruins just around Rome. While traversing the streets through alleys and piazzas, I was constantly passing by ancient architecture. But, whatever, just casually passing another ancient ruin from the 3rd century. Oh, is that just more tangible proof of a highly skilled and advanced society millennia before our modern technology and construction tools and dependence on digital screens? No big deal. Mere lawn ornaments. 

Anyway, I headed in the general direction of the Pantheon, admired the famous dome and temple front, and then wandered until I encountered the masses at the Trevi Fountain, where I was a minority as one of a few other tourists without a selfie stick. The fountain itself is enchanting. Completely pristine white marble. Hunky Roman heroes, chiseled to classical perfection. The whole intriguing  sea/horse metaphor, in which the panicky, wild horse on the left represents a rough sea and the placid, tame horse to the right a calm one. It would be a perfect backdrop for a happy love story if the imaginary lovers weren't constantly at risk of getting selfie-sticked (which is the term for when one is impaled by a waywardly wielded prosthetic appendage used for the sole purpose of photographing oneself with his or her iPhone) Anyway, I tossed in a five pence coin and a wish deep from my heart of hearts (that WAS NOT to return in eight to ten years to my own Trevi Fountain  romance scene) and was off.

"Drove my Chevy to the Trevi 'cuz the levy was dry."-Don McLean, after visiting ancient Rome.

That night, I wandered Trastevere in search of artisanal pizza and founded it at Ivo Trastevere, where I also savored a fried zucchini flower- crispy, melty, and cheesy, a truly tantalizing trifecta of taste. I went for a white pizza with salmon, arugula, Pecorino Romano, and roe. It was salty and crunchy and I shamelessly devoured the whole damn thing. Add arugula to anything and it instantly becomes a health food.

Day two involved another wandering session throughout Trastevere, which was quickly becoming my favorite place in the area, and  a trek to the Vatican. I'm not a particularly religious person, but so much of faith is spirituality, and St. Peter's Basilica is magnificent enough to inspire the good spirit in even the unholiest of visitors... Probably. First of all, it's absolutely massive. Secondly, it positively glows. When the stained glass and gold leaf are infused by sunlight, the atmosphere is illuminated by a welcoming warmth.

Basking in the beauty of the Basilica. There were countless languages and nationalities represented among the varied visitors to this sacred space. 

I also climbed 520 steps to the top of the Basilica for a heightened, panoramic view of Rome. At this point, I was thankful for both the espresso and the countless hours of endurance work I've put in as a runner. After a fine showing of stair climbing prestige, I'm proud to announce that I'll be representing the US in the First  Annual St. Peter's Basilica Stair Olympics. Currently looking for sponsors.

Anyway, the view was stunning and breath stealing and almost dizzying if it wasn't so interesting. I could have gazed across the Vatican and beyond at the crowded landscape for hours. It's a transfixing mosaic of grand domed roofs and terraced houses, winding streets dotted with cyprus spruce trees, and intermittent patches of verdant greenery, all melding together and sprawling out toward the mountains in the distance. Eventually, I got most of my marveling out and descended back down to inhabit the mosaic again.

I went to Rome and got super high (pictured, the Vatican and everything else). 

And before you ask, no, I did not see the Sistine Chapel. I know, "how can you go to The Vatican and not see the Sistine Chapel?" I'll tell you how. Sometimes, one just has to draw the line when the queue is too insufferable. This is an admittedly lame excuse, considering Michelangelo spent four years suffering the physical pain of the world's worst neck crick and going nearly blind while painting the masterpiece. But alas.

In the evening (after refueling with yet another pizza, this time with fresh tomatoes and mozzarella, folded like a sandwich to go) I met up with friends at an enoteca, where Gabby (who has been taking a wine class) assembled an excellent pairing of wines and cheeses for us to sample. We tried two wines, both from the north, one red and one white with some complimentary northern cheeses. A brie, a Pecorino Romano, a blue (I think), and another one that was baked and warm and creamy. When a wine and cheese are paired well, one should be left with a clean palette- no unsavory aftertaste or sour-sweetness lingering on the tongue. It wasn't until we had left the enoteca and, feeling a little flushed and giddy from the tasting, I realized that my palette was completely clean. I have composed a formal letter to Gabby's wine professor insisting she deserves a 4.0 for her impeccable demonstration of gastronomic knowledge in the subject. Also the fact that this counted as homework is baffling in the best possible way. Which means I'll also be composing a formal suggestion to the SLU London Programme insisting they consider adding an intensive course-study on fish and chips. Or bangers and mash. Or pudding (which is English for dessert. And Brits love their desserts. See: Great British Bake Off).

Day three began with a rainy hike to the top of Gianicolo, which is sandwiched between Trastevere and the Vatican. I hid under a tiny archway for about 10 minutes while puddles widened on the cobblestone. Gianicolo is a little bit off the beaten path, and it was a sleepy morning. The rain brought a temporary hush as wispy gray clouds swept over the tiny homes and stirring streets. Also, there were no gypsies around to push a cheap  umbrella and/or selfie stick on me, a welcome reprieve from their constant presence near popular tourist sites. Eventually, the sun broke over the city again, and the uphill trek and rain delay was worth it.

Next stop, Colosseum (after another casual ruins-appreciation stroll). It also happened to be International Women's Day, so I got in completely free! Props to all the International Women who saved me €8 that day (but, let's be honest, every day should be International Women's Day, am I right, ladies?). The Colosseum is as massive and astounding and you'd imagine. The sturdy walls have seen everything. From battles to the death between gladiators and wild beasts, to visits from the Pope, to a frenzied arrest after some miscreant tried to carve his name into the stone. And it still maintains its grandeur and dignity. I really hope I age as well as Ancient Rome. Perhaps the most amazing thing, however, is all the languages, nations, and countries represented among the tourists that visit. Though everyone communicates a bit differently, we all want to be humbled or stunned in the presence of something incredible. Awe is a unifying experience.

1,946 years and a few blood battles to the death later and still pretty damn spectacular.

For my final excursion of the day, I trekked along Appia Antica to the Christian burial site/catacombs where Saint Cecilia was buried. This would probably go in my "absolute must do activities in Rome that don't involve battling with selfie-sticks for viewing space" list. I was the last tour of the day, along with two other English speakers. We descended into the subterranean obscurity and were guided past graves of varying sizes (smaller for infants and larger for adults). The catacombs occupy about 90 acres and four levels underground, and the ancient Romans maximized every last corner and nook of space. It was, oxymoronically, pleasantly eerie. Our guide pointed out remarkably well preserved frescoes, a few of which date back to the 3rd century, decorating the crypts of popes and wealthy families. The ordinary graves are dug into the wall and covered with plaster, so there are multiple rows on one wall. It resembles a slightly macabre dormitory, which is exactly what it was intended to be (minus the macabre)- simply a resting place before ascending to the next life. Kind of peaceful, really. We did get to see some exposed bone fragments, however. Apparently, all other pieces had been removed from the level that's open to the public, either by archaeologists or curious tourists who beat them to it and pocketed rather grim souvenirs.

Later that night (considerably later- Romans eat late and stay long), I met up with Gabby and Sydney for authentic Italian specialities in a homey little hole in the wall place to the east of Via Trastevere (less touristy than the west) called Da Enzo. Gabby and I split a carafe of their house red wine, and the three of us piqued our palettes with a crispy fried artichoke- a dish influenced by local Jewish culture. The main course was absolutely divine. We ordered three dishes to split and spent the following twenty minutes attempting to maintain the self control necessary to allot the meal the thoughtful savoring it deserved but also battling the urge to reenact Meg Ryan's famous When Harry Met Sally restaurant scene in order to adequately convey out satisfaction. Gabby insisted on the bolognese, Sydney the amatriciana, and we all agreed to try the tripe, based on a recommendation from one of Gabby's professors. The pasta was cooked al dente, as it is in most Italian restaurants, to the perfect degree of slight chewiness. The bolognese, which is properly made with egg yolk and not cream, was still creamy and buttery and the porchetta basically tasted like meat candy. I give equally rave reviews to the amatriciana, which is served with tender pieces of pork cheek, and the tripe, which practically melted in my mouth. I would have been perfectly satisfied to drown in any of the sauces and spend my sweet (and savory) final hours in the aforementioned pasta-piphany bliss. Fresh ingredients and perfect portion sizes made for a hearty, filling, and comforting meal.

By far the best part of the evening was getting to sit down with two of my favorite humans in that tiny spot where each of our European adventures intersected. Rome, while mysterious and seductive and dazzling in many respects, can be frustrating. It is a city that has seen so much time that it seems to disregard it, or has at least adapted it to its own design. There are thousands of years in the streets, what difference does it make if the tram is 15 minutes late? The unhurried attitude toward everything from public transportation to dining to customer service feels tedious and exasperating, especially combined with the mass movement of visitors and locals throughout the city on a daily basis. This was a culture shock until I conceded to the uncertainty and (after promptly deciding to abandon a reliance on public transport) reveled in lengthy strolls from points A to B. And one thing the Romans do especially well is dine. I would argue that, of all the great art to emerge from Italy, the art of the languid, endless dinner is the most universally appreciated. It's one that takes a bit of patience to fully perfect, but doing so means getting the most out of the food and the company it's being shared with. It's good for the soul- fortifying for the body and the kinship around the table. We talked about everything and caught up through the main meal and a delectable tiramisu and it was just like being cozied up in our dorm room at SLU (only I wouldn't eat the tripe at SLU). By the time we'd scraped the tiramisu dish clean, split the tab, and reluctantly got up to go, my watch read 11:30, a bitter reminder that time still exists in Rome, though much of its beauty seems to be frozen in it. But, to our credit, we sat and ate and talked for almost three hours, so I'd say we nailed the whole "cultural immersion" thing. Though for a place called the Eternal City, you'd like it'd have a little eternity to spare.

On my final day, I slept late, did more wandering, and met up with Gabby and Sydney near the Spanish steps for some quality people watching and then a long walk through the Villa Borghese gardens, an sprawling and verdant property which houses the late Borghese's art collection, among other equally impressive villas. At this point, I was only a Vespa and chain-smoking habit short of fully assimilating to the Roman lifestyle. We sat down for apertivo at around five, which is basically a happy hour thing in which you get a little snack or appetizer with each round of drinks. I ordered a glass of Prosecco from THE motherland of Prosecco, Veneto. I have just now dubbed myself a connoisseur of cheap Prosecco, and even though it's hard to compete with Costco's Kirkland brand of the bubbly stuff, I'm gonna have to give Italy the win for this one.

We apertivo'd for a good two hours and stayed well after the the fuzzy affect of the bubbles and wine had come and gone to our heads. Then, not ready to part ways and in want of something sweet, we found a gelato place that met Gabby's Essential Statute of Gelato Limitations, which are as follows:
Do not offer patronage to a gelato establishment if a.) a small is more than 2 euro and b.) one is not allowed at least two different flavors in a small. There are gelato places on every corner in Rome, so its important to have very specific standards in order to ensure one is getting the most bang for her buck. We found a bright little place and got our fix and, essentially, I had Nutella and caramel gelato for dinner. Later that night, Sydney and I met up again for drinks at a local bar in Trastevere until a drunk, bearded backpacker repeatedly stumbled into our conversation and we decided to call it for an evening. We both had early flights the next day.

Rome is very much a twilight zone. Sydney commented that being there for the semester sometimes feels like "living in someone else's vacation," which can definitely get exhausting. Hordes of people come to look and leave (just imagine the place at Easter), looking for an "authentic" experience and taking the same pictures as everyone else. Meanwhile, the whole atmosphere has been altered to attract, convenience, and extract money from tourists- lights, handicap accessible ramps, bathrooms, cafes, tours, souvenir shops. And there are gypsies all over the place, buzzing about like mosquitos trying to force flowers into the hands of unassuming tourists or trying to push selfie sticks/umbrellas on those who appeared to be lacking. I learned immediately that a pointed lack of eye contact and a touch of resting bitch face, paired with a purposeful stride, usually kept them from swarming. Still, I think there should be a law against the aggressive peddling of selfie sticks in sacred spaces, namely the Vatican (if you can't tell, my mind is still a little blown by the prevalence of selfie sticks. As humans continue to evolve, we will develop a new appendage solely for the taking of selfies). I kept asking myself "why am I looking at this?" Why was it important for me to see the Colosseum? Did it make me a better person to tour the Vatican (the answer: doubtful)? Sometimes, I felt self conscious of my tourist-ness- embarrassed when I couldn't speak Italian or when I gawked at a national architectural treasure.

Now (nearly three weeks later) in the end, I've come to terms with the fact that, when visiting famous places and sites, I may never be able to carve out a truly, purely authentic experience. But that's because I'm not an ancient roman selling oranges in the forum or an armored gladiator waiting in the wings of the Colosseum. And that's perfectly fine. In fact, I kind of prefer being me.

There is definitely a novelty to seeing all the things we're taught in history books and art classes, and to feel connected to an ancient civilization. Like I said earlier, awe is unifying. It brings us together, regardless of class or language or culture. Also, looking at super old stuff is just pretty damn cool. 

Happy Anniversary (Almost)

On this annual day of love, chocolate, Hallmark cards, heart-shaped everything, and socially sanctioned PDA, I celebrated my one month anniversary with London. Some people are cynical about Valentine's Day, and while I can't deny that I am enthusiastically cynical about a lot of things, I kind of like the holiday. It's nice when people tell the people they love that they love them. And so what if I didn't receive a spontaneous declaration of love from the cute barista who waited patiently as I fumbled through my change purse, unintentionally flaunting my Americanness in the length of time it took to identify and collect 67 pence? There are still plenty of opportunities for me to attract the opposite sex with charming displays of incompetence. These include failing to count change correctly, walking on the wrong side of the stairs, and getting stuck between closing doors on the tube. I digress.

It was quite lovely to see husbands accompanying kids holding bouquets of vibrant flowers on the bus ride home to Mom, boyfriends toting balloons, and wives or girlfriends dressed up for dates. The air chimed with the delicate clinks of champagne glasses in mid-toast across the city as loved ones met up for brunch in favorite restaurants or tea in cozy cafés. X's and O's marked spots on the tube, in parks, pubs, tiny flats, and terraced houses and among family, lovers, friends, and friends who are also lovers. I suppose maybe this was not the scenario for everyone (my apologies to the man with red eyes outside of the Tottenham Court Road station, who was either super high or attempting to hide the lingering tears of an unfortunate breakup or unrequited love), but it's such a nice image of London- a city full of silently judgmental people who specialize in passive aggressive side-eye and are required to appear utterly miserable while on public transport (I fit right in!)- that I'm just going to leave it here for you all. 

And yes, London and I celebrated our one month anniversary, which is actually tomorrow, but I have British Politics tomorrow and nothing kills the mood quite like George Osborne's economic policy. As I roamed a new borough in the city I'm loving more and more, we reminisced on all the memories that have shaped these past four weeks and enjoyed an absolutely chilling walk through Old Spitalfields Market, at the end of which I literally could not feel my face. And this is really just a convenient segue for me to recount some of the events of my first month that I haven't yet written about. Because there are a lot. I'll start with the most important thing:

Best Thing I Ate (besides the curry from several posts ago): A medium sized smorgasbord of Ethiopian food from a modest and spicy smelling stand called Ethiopian Fresh Food in the street food mecca of Camden Lock market. I sometimes day-dream about this particular area of Camden... weaving through the eclectic and varied stands with a cup of mulled wine in my hands... tasting pieces of pulled pork and homemade fudge... stopping by the falafel stand twice and hoping the guys that work there don't notice that I'm taking advantage of  their free samples. I agonized over whether I wanted to try the Colombian cart, or maybe the Polish sausage? But ultimately, I settled on the warm lentil stew and beef tips on injera from Ethiopian Fresh. And it was heavenly.

Best Thing I Drank: "The Perfect Lady" from Portobello Star- made with their signature Portobello Road Dry Gin, Peach Brandy, lemon juice, and "a dash of the white of an egg." I actually quite like gin when it's not poured from a plastic handle into kitschy shot glasses, downed in painfully quick succession, and chased with whatever is on hand (which is sometimes grapefruit juice and sometimes Raisin Bran). There is a time and place for this kind of consumption, but it is not late afternoon at the Portobello Star bar, while cocktail artisans/alchemists shake and mix craft martinis and mixers with expert technique. The Perfect Lady (a clear reflection of the drinker or an ironic declaration of what the drinker clearly isn't, depending on the drinker) was a little frothy, tangy, and sweet. The egg white added a welcome creaminess and the lemon just enough tartness to offset the sweetness. Top notch gin, too. Which, as someone accustomed to drinking the opposite, I feel qualified to acknowledge.

Best View: The skyline from Hampstead Heath, a sprawl of countryside in London. I had just finished running up a TERRIBLE hill which is probably equivalent in rigor to the (in)famous Heartbreak Hill of the Boston Marathon and was struck by the glowing panorama of central London in the distance, a juxtaposition of greenery and clouds and steel and glass. 

In addition to the view, there were a lot of really happy dogs running around. I apologize for the lack of dogs in the image (and for the general injustice it does to the view) 

Best Touristy Indulgence: Well, I saw Book of Mormon and Kinky Boots in the same week. I can't decide if I feel guilty about overdosing on musical theater, but I think I'm too giddy to care. Book of Mormon was honestly unlike anything I've ever seen. Highly offensive and politically incorrect but absolutely hilarious, self-mocking, and, paradoxically, completely correct. Also, so catchy. I've listened to the album from the original Broadway production so many times that I've had to start setting Spotify to "Private Session" so people don't think I'm obsessive. Which I am. Earlier today I felt like maybe I was sick of it, but that ridiculous thought passed almost immediately and I'm listening to it as I write. Kinky Boots was everything I want in a musical- flashy costumes, intricate sets, glitter, kick lines, tremendous vocals, drag queens in stilettos, and an infectious sentiment that anything is possible if you just be yourself. I poured into those theaters with all the tourists and ate it up and loved every second. 

But I'm cutting myself off from musical theater for a little while before I require an anonymous support group. 

Time I Felt Most Out of Place: There have been two instances where I've felt like a complete outsider. And they happened consecutively, on the same day. A few Friday's ago, I spent the morning in Canary Wharf, a pristine center of commerce and capitalism. The streets are spotless, not even a scuff from a polished corporate shoe. Buildings, with steel bones and placid glass facades, tower over the Thames. This area of London used to be the docklands, before neoliberalism squandered the manufacturing sector and capitalism reigned supreme. Now, it's strictly business. I wore sneakers and leggings and was denied entry into several swanky, over-priced pubs, established to cater specifically to the perfectly tailored suits and skirts that stop in to sip expensive cocktails and refuel for the second half of the day at their desks. There is a lot of money on Canary Wharf, but it's quite boring, clad in industrious shades of shale and grey. 

Immediately after, I went to Peckham, as part of a demonstration in juxtaposition. Peckham is a diverse neighborhood in the early stages of gentrification. Peckham Rye Road is crowded with Afro-Caribbean markets, Irish meat markets, bargain clothing shops, hair and nail salons, and fruit stands. A few fast food joints hint at corporate encroachment. Various languages call and clash and laugh across market aisles boasting cases of raw meat, children skip and skid in and out of legs. There are people of all ages, abilities, races selling, buying, meeting up, making a living. I was immediately self conscious of my white, American middle class-ness. I wanted to blend in, fall into the to and fro of the street movement. Again, I was out of place. But it's good to place oneself outside of what one is used to. And in a week, I'll be going back to Peckham to see a multi-ethnic production of Hamlet. What's more, the people of Peckham and the corporate cronies of Canary Wharf are all Londoners navigating a series of complex, intertwined international markets and relationships. 

Best Painting of Two Crabs: "Two Crabs" by Vincent van Gogh. This is just an excuse to post a picture of a painting in the National Gallery that I really like. 

A quality crab painting. Something about the vibrant colors, bold brush strokes, and subtle tragedy of the floundering crab on the left really speaks to me. 

Best Night Out: Craft cocktails at The Mayor of Scaredy Cat Town, which is a modern speakeasy, accessible by uttering a secret phrase to the host and, after receiving confirmation (and waiting up to an hour because, apparently, it's not much of a secret anymore), being lead through the door of a vintage refrigerator, down a flight of stairs, and into an intimate basement bar. 

And a few more things... 

Favorite Cheap Beer: Carlsberg.

What I'm Reading: Great Expectations by Charles Dickens (it just feels appropriate) and The Evening Standard, almost religiously. I was pleasantly surprised by the amount of print news that people still read here. It's the most convenient preventative measure against claustrophobia-induced insanity during the evening commute and a perfect barrier between you and your fellow commuters. 

What I'm Wearing: Layers. Lots of them. My favorite leather jacket. A life-saving, neck-warming blanket scarf from the Portobello Road market.

What I'm Delighted By: The enthusiasm for Pancake Day. Street art in Shoreditch. Ubiquity and sacredness of tea. 

What I'm Still Kind of Unsure Of: The night bus. 

What I'm Terrified Of: Tube strikes.... and the night bus.

What I've Gone Out of My Way For: Vietnamese food (what a surprise) in Dalston. 

What I've Learned: Acknowledge the musicians in the Underground. You can't outright tell people to stop feeding the pigeons goddammit, but you can aim sternly disapproving glances in their direction and hope they get the point. Walk farther from home than you did yesterday, just keep to the left when you do it.

Right this way to secret underground cocktails, please.

The best advice is immortalized in paint in public spaces.

My favorite houses, near Connaught Gardens and Highgate Wood on the walk to my professor's house on Tuesday and Thursday mornings for tea and theater talk.

A Series of Incredibly Fortunate Events

Friday evening, at about 6:45, I was found myself standing in the basement of Waterstones, amongst stacks of books and complimentary glasses of wine, marveling at the series of events that had lead me to that particular spot.

Although I'm here seeing the sights and eating the food and (un)consciously immersing myself in British culture, I still attend the mandatory 16 hours of class per week and complete the accompanying homework (sometimes [a lot of the time] begrudgingly). Class itself is awesome. It involves sitting in on sessions of Parliament, wandering the exhibits of the British Museum and the National Gallery while taking notes on the works of little known artists like Botticelli and Da Vinci, and at least once a week (sometimes twice), hitting the West End for a night at the theater and then (on Tuesdays and Thursdays) bringing thoughts and interpretations to my professor's charming house in Muswell Hill to dissect the evening's performance over tea.

This aspect of the London program's curriculum is ultimately why I decided to apply to go to London. We are exposed to a wide range of shows, all plays- from titles in glowing marquees in sight of Trafalgar Square, to fringe productions in tiny second story theaters. Last week we saw Thomas Pinter's The Homecoming (hauntingly bizarre and reminiscent of plunging one's feet in cold water on a warm day, and the sudden shift in temperature spikes an unsettling chill from the nerves in your feet to the top of your head via a discomforting shiver in your spine), and the week before we witnessed a rather artistic and quite overwrought interpretation of Herons by Simon Stephens. Tomorrow we've got tickets for Pink Mist by Owen Sheers, which was published first as a poem about three young Brits who go off to fight in Afghanistan and has since when translated to the stage.

Every student is assigned to present on one show, which requires that they A.) see the show but also B.) read the original script, so that they may compare, contrast, and decide whether the "heart of the play" as intended by the author was adequately justified by the director on stage. I volunteered to present on Pink Mist, which meant acquiring a personal copy of the poem/play. Aside from deciding to go to London and signing up for the Advanced Theater course, this is Important Event #1 That Lead Me To Waterstones at 6:45 PM Wondering How I Had Gotten There.

Since Pink Mist isn't exactly main stream, I quickly learned it wouldn't be available in every bookstore. Or most bookstores, for that matter. After perusing the Poetry, Drama, and Fiction sections (to no avail) of the Waterstones across the street from my school, I was informed by a lovely employee that the last (and only) copy had been nabbed from the premises just a few days earlier. Important Event #2.

She said they had a copy at their Picadilly and Trafalgar Square locations. I decided an early evening jaunt to Trafalgar Square sounded just fine (ehem, #3).

Upon arriving to the store, I saw a chalkboard sign advertising upcoming visits from various authors. John Irving's name topped the list (to my delight) with the words "Sold Out!" in thick chalk lettering right next to it (to my dismay). So I continued on in my pursuit of Pink Mist.

Which required going to the basement, only to find the whole between the Biography and Art and Hobby sections blocked off by chairs and guarded by the speculative eyes of clipboard clutching Waterstones employees. Fully focused on my quest and Poetry section in sight, I fumbled past one woman and clumsily avoided collision with a table of wine glasses, in which complimentary chardonnay was being served and offered to the people with names on the aforementioned clipboards.

It appeared I had walked into an intimate event. An intimate sold out event? An intimate sold out event featuring John Irving? An intimate sold out event featuring John Irving that I hadn't bought a ticket to and wasn't on the list for but it didn't appear as if they were kicking casual bystanders and shoppers out of the basement so maybe if I pretended to be reading or looking for more books or something I could hang around until it started and listen to the author of one of my all time favorite literary works (A Prayer for Owen Meany of course, in case you were wondering) talk about his latest literary work, all the time reflecting on the series of events that lead me to this basement in this bookstore in Trafalgar Square in one of the greatest cities in the world?

Which is, of course, exactly what I had walked into. Important Event #4.

I had unsuspectingly dropped into a reading and moderated question and answer session with John Irving, just a mere ten minutes before it was scheduled to begin. When he walked out and took his seat, a copy of Avenue of Mysteries in his hands, I shyly ducked out of the Poetry section and edged closer to Biography until it didn't appear they were telling people who hadn't accounted for a name on a list to leave. I could have probably even taken a seat next to someone who had actually paid for the event as opposed to myself, who had just been in the right place at the right time.

Which is what I would believe if I was Thomas Pinter, an expert in the absurd who thinks that nothing happens for a reason and everything is random. Well I would like to inform Mr. Pinter that this particular occurrence was not random and I have documentation of the chain of events to prove it. So blah blah blah everything happens for a reason. Fate. Horoscopic stuff.

Whatever it was, it was really cool and I felt very lucky. Irving read from his latest novel, and answered questions about grief and sex and why disastrous things happen to his characters at the most impressionable points in their lives, and whether it's better to know our fate before it happens or to be proven wrong once it does. He told us about auditioning for Romeo and Juliet multiple times hoping for the role of Mercutio, only to be repeatedly scorned with the part of Tybault. He went back and forth with the moderator for a good hour and ten minutes and told us he couldn't do a book signing because he writes all his books by hand and, as a result, has had multiple surgeries on various ligaments and tendons and likes to save vigorous scribbling for his novels at the expense of personal signatures and signings at events. Which was okay. We forgave him. There were a bunch of pre-signed copies available.

After it was over, I paid for Pink Mist and left the bookstore. I wandered until I found a Turkish restaurant, where I ate some lamb kebabs with grilled vegetables and rice, cracked open my newest purchase in an attempt to get some reading done (the thought of the presentation in four days too distant to be real), but was distracted by kebabs and recent Important Events. I wondered if I was really lucky or if I was just where I was supposed to be.

Why Not Both?

Right before I left for London, after my trench coat had been folded and tucked into my brand new suitcase (which required sitting on in order to achieve maximum compactness) and the last last-minute pairs of socks and underwear were scrunched into every available pocket, my mother asked me "what's most important to you right now?"

I looked at her and blinked.

"Uh, I just want to get to London and get settled and focus on making the most of my time there." Generic. Obvious. A bit nondescript, but an an overarching goal for my forthcoming experience with lots of possibility in its lack of specificity. 

And then I thought about my never been worn Mizuno sneakers comprising a small portion of the bulk in my unwieldy luggage. Not yet stained by street sludge or matted with mud, their imaginary odometer read 0. Their first miles would be collected on cobblestone sidewalks and paved city streets of London. Because, admittedly, running is important to me. 

Go ahead, groan. Please. We'll do it together:

Ugh. 

Yes, there are more important things than weekly mileages, long runs on Sunday, and finding the most immediate source of protein to inhale post workout. There is thought that exists outside how to prevent recurring knee pain or which brand of shoe has the most durable shoelace or whatever. There is a city to explore, late nights to get lost in, underground transportation to navigate. 

But, I ask you, why not both? There are a million ways to experience a city, and thus far I've looked down upon Londinium from the Monument commemorating the Fire of London in 1666. I've braved the Night Bus as it cradled me and my fellow passengers away from the hazy post apocalyptic scene that is the routine aftermath of the Saturday night/Sunday morning night club diaspora of Picadilly Circus. I've seen questionable experimental theatrical performances in the West End and, as a truly committed reader already knows, recently announced my engagement to a particularly heavenly plate of curry. Also I've consumed an amount of tea equivalent to that dumped into Boston Harbor by those ungrateful American colonists. If only they knew what they were missing by wasting it all instead of enjoying it with a dash of sugar and a tablespoon of milk. Is national sovereignty really more preferable than the simple comfort of Earl Grey on a blustery winter afternoon? But, I digress. Why not both? 

I've also experienced miles of the city in my Mizunos. They are two separate canvases, carelessly decorated with river spray and post-rain mud and general street junk. They are filled with miles of London street. And, as far as the big debate on shoe-lace durability, they definitely pass the test. 

It is really effing cool to run past Big Ben and across the Millennium Bridge and down around Parliament and all along the Thames. Past thousands of people and languages and families. Navigating the streets in this way helps me to place myself in a new location, and it also helps me to feel like an extension of the place I'm in. A Londoner. Or more, a part of the landscape and all of its landmarks and history.

I met up with the London City Runners in Southwark on Sunday for a brisk 11 km. It's a free running club that meets at a brewery three times a week to run and, on Tuesdays and Thursdays, celebrate what is perhaps the greatest joy of vigorous physical activity- guiltless consumption of sausage rolls and pints of beer. We ran 5.5 km one way, and 5.5 km back along the Thames with clear, glittering views of the Gherkin and it's other post-modern pals in the financial district in right over our shoulders. The morning began gray and drizzly, but warmed up a bit as the run went on, and clouds that once threatened a downpour assumed their regular protective role of blanketing the horizon in a feathery blur. Beautiful. Invigorating. 

It was a little bit my Wordsworth "Composed Upon Westminster Bridge" moment. 

After I did get to talk about weekly mileages and training plans and how to dress for inclement weather with people from all around the city. Running is arguably the only way you can bond with others over unmentionable foot problems and the benefits of sweat wicking fabrics, among other things.

And now I've got footprints all over this place.

An incredible view (from the aforementioned Monument) of the City of London/Londinium/The Square Mile for the low price of only 311 steps!

The Walkie Talkie, Gherkin (the universal name for pickle), and Cheese Grater, named in the order of what they look like. London's wealthiest gang of architectural feats. These guys love to flaunt their wallets. 

The Shard through a classical alleyway. Beautiful, but built with absolutely no intended purposes and is currently owned by a rich Saudi Arabian guy.

A tranquil meeting place. Perfect for a smoke break or a covert extra-marital affair. 

Curry Up and Eat

It is a fact universally acknowledged that a young lady in London in possession of a fairly tight dinner budget must be in want of cheap Indian food. The kind that skimps on the price but not on the spice. An inexpensive kick in the mouth. A real bang for your buck (or pow for your pound?).

I'm sure this is exactly how Jane Austen, while dreaming of cumin and coriander, imagined her timeless Pride and Prejudice would one day be interpreted. Well, I can wait for my Mr. Darcy but I cannot do the same for the curry. Which is why I've eaten it four times in the past almost two weeks.

If you want good Indian food, I suppose you go to India. But if you want really good Indian food, you roam the serpentine streets of London, following the ginger and cardamom breeze as it wafts from street side carts and through restaurant doors. Or, you find the highest rated places on Yelp and work your way down the list. What did we do before Yelp? Forage?

Of course, word of mouth from long time Londoners and locals is equally as helpful, and perhaps even better.

Just a few blocks away from my classroom building on Gower Street is a relatively large cart called Simply Thai that sets up around lunchtime and dishes out red, green, and yellow curries with chicken, beef, or veggies on a plentiful bed of white rice. I ordered the green chicken curry- a classic. It's quick and cheap, with a rich coconuttiness that is balanced nicely by the tangy sweetness of ginger and a kick of spicy chili, which delivers a slow, subtle burn that starts on the tongue and works its way through the sinuses, lingering for only a few minutes after the last inch of the bowl has been licked. The serving size is just right for lunch- it's definitely on the heavier side, and too much more would require a nap, in which the satiated consumer experiences trippy, curry-induced dreams. Lucy in the sky with turmeric. So far, this is the second best curry I've eaten while here.

But the best curry I've eaten, to date, in my entire 21.25 years of existence was served to me right before closing by the kind folks of the Gujarati Rasoi stand in the Borough Market. Maybe I'm biased because it was my first meal after sitting through nearly six hours of Britain's economic policies during the Thatcher years/the dangers of neoliberalism and, delirious from the pangs of an empty stomach, was desperate for some hearty nourishment to revitalize my wary soul. But the warmth of the cardboard container in my cold hands combined with the silkiness of the golden-brown sauce on my palette and the warm smolder of spices in my stomach was enough to melt Margaret Thatcher herself, I believe. Gujarati Rasoi is a vegetarian place, but the abundance of lentils, peas, and potato made the dish (a combo of everything they had left) hearty and filling. Cumin, cloves, cinnamon, turmeric, a bit of ginger, and probably other spices I can't recall because I was too busy raving about the deliciousness in my mouth, flickered harmoniously in a comforting culinary symphony. The veggies were tender but not mushy, and a healthy finishing garnish of cilantro and onion added a refreshing crispness to each spoonful. Add in a swirl of their tangy yogurt sauce, and I was in curry Nirvana. Cur-vana.

As I returned to earth from my out of body experience, I reached for a tissue to blot my nose (clear sinuses post curry are always a good sign) and my eyes, which now shone brightly with a single tear of gratitude and a curry-kindled eagerness to return to the bustle and blend of the London nightlife. Perfection.

If this sub-par picture isn't doing it for you, please purchase a plane ticket to London now and I will gladly guide your spiritual journey to the mecca of masalas. 

Stay tuned for my upcoming take on a British classic with a culinary twist- Spice and Prejudice. Or maybe Great Ex-spice-tations. A Tale of Two Curries? Okay, I'm done.