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.

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.

My Dinner with Annie

Or rather, late lunch.

Yesterday, I ventured to Wapping, a town in East London with a clear view of the sleek financial district just across the Thames, which is much less intimidating and simply serene from afar. It reminds me a bit of the meatpacking district in NYC, with a very chic renovated industrial vibe. Quiet, tucked away- an endearing blend of old and new, converted warehouses huddled against gusts of river wind around curvy cobblestone streets, steely bridges, and stony docks. I went to see the Women: New Portraits by Annie Liebovitz exhibit, which made its debut in the Wapping Hydraulic Power Station, characterized as a "power station turned art gallery."

It was supremely cool.

I stood in line in front of two women with photography careers of their own. One was getting married in July, and extended an informal wedding invite to her friend, who immediately checked her calendar to ensure the date didn't conflict with a different friends wedding in Italy, a friend she had met when living in Afghanistan. They discussed the logistics of setting up a high profile photoshoot a la Liebovitz herself while sipping flat whites courtesy of UBS.

Inside, vivid portraits of Cate Blanchett, Jennifer Lawrence, Ellen Degeneres, Misty Copeland, Ruth Bader Ginsburg, and the Queen of England herself glowed brightly against the warm grays and burgundies of the industrial interior. Their unique eyes, mouths, muscles, and wrinkles formed gleeful smirks, elegant poses, tired postures, electric action shots, warm embraces, bursts of laughter, solemn stares, and every associated emotion in between. Some were glamorous, some raw, but all were striking in their richness- of skin tone, fabric, texture, and emotional response.

Obviously, it was inspiring. But even beyond that, it was comforting. Tucked away from the wind in a bastion of brick and steel, surrounded by some seriously badass ladies from all kinds of backgrounds, hometowns, and educations. There is room for everyone in this world to come together, and it happens in unlikely places. Converted hydraulic power stations or 300 year old pubs, like the one nestled just across the street.

Tomorrow I'll be seeing my first show in the West End- Simon Stephens' Herons. Right now, I'm praying for the Patriots while intermittently checking recaps and denying a growing sinking feeling in my stomach. Apparently, the Super Bowl and American football are gaining popularity here, and it would be wicked cool to watch New England play in the championship over pints of hard cider in the UCL student union.