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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| Right this way to secret underground cocktails, please. |
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| The best advice is immortalized in paint in public spaces. |
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| 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. |
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