Hola. Im in a hostel in a Spanish city. I know, its weird.
Ryanair does not bear me the personal vendetta I had initially supposed and did not force me to check my bag or refuse my reservation or anything wretched, and startlingly played trumpets when we landed in Girona. We caught the bus to Barcelona, navigated the metro and the funicular (apparently I was on one but Ive no idea what the funicular actually is, its like a metro with weird seats and too many wires) and climbed up a mountain to our hostel. Like, an actual mountain. The website describing it as a brief stroll was lies.
The several times Ive had to ask for directions or help my mangled Spanish has been met with pained if kind smiles and offers to switch to English, French, German, anything.
Now, off to try to do things. I say try because there is no guarantee anything will actually be managed.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Monday, February 22, 2010
Are You Ready For Some Football? Not Particularly, No.
On Saturday I attended my first (and, let’s be honest here, last) “football” match. As I’ve previously suspected sporting events not taking place in the Oakland Zoo or featuring Sweet Caroline hold no interest for me.
We’d been instructed not to expect or even hope for a win, such is the talentlessness of the team we were there to support, but the Queens Park Rangers pulled off a narrow 2-1 victory. That’s right, three goals the entire 95 minute game. Exciting! Although there were brief bouts of heading the ball that were amusingly not unlike really violent tennis.
Avid fans may have noticed that the typical match should go on for a mere 90 minutes rather than an excruciating 95, but the refs added on five minutes to compensate for the disruption in play caused by the streaker. Yes, the streaker. That actually happened.
When we asked Professor Fosdal about it he said he’d only seen such a thing happen once before, ironically by a CAPA student with the result that student advisor Kieran is now banned from buying QPR tickets.
Other things we asked Professor Fosdal about:
Me: “Where’s the best place to watch the Chinese New Year Parade from?”
Him: “…China”
Rachel: “Where are you going?”
Him: “Into the dark cold void of your absence, the arid desert of banishment from your lovely presence, wherein I shall be sustained only by the flickering hope that I may have the joy of seeing you once again next week.”
He also told me not to turn in any written substantiation for my oral presentation because then he’d have to read it and he’d rather not read papers.
Sunday we went to Trafalgar Square to see the Chinese New Year celebration. Being just barely five foot one on a really good day crowds are not so excellent for me: I could barely see even the giant television thing let alone the actual festivities. I think there was a giant caterpillar on sticks at one point? Might have been a tiger or a dragon or something.
Later we went to Regent’s Park to walk around, then walked to Hyde Park, to walk around more. Lot of walking going on here. I love it, my Tae Kwon Do-worn knees do not. There are times when I can feel my ligaments pulling apart in unnatural ways when I wonder if all those jump spinning hook kicks were worth it, and then I remember the indescribable feeling of breaking boards and I think yes, and then I try to walk up some stairs and I think no.
We’d been instructed not to expect or even hope for a win, such is the talentlessness of the team we were there to support, but the Queens Park Rangers pulled off a narrow 2-1 victory. That’s right, three goals the entire 95 minute game. Exciting! Although there were brief bouts of heading the ball that were amusingly not unlike really violent tennis.
Avid fans may have noticed that the typical match should go on for a mere 90 minutes rather than an excruciating 95, but the refs added on five minutes to compensate for the disruption in play caused by the streaker. Yes, the streaker. That actually happened.
When we asked Professor Fosdal about it he said he’d only seen such a thing happen once before, ironically by a CAPA student with the result that student advisor Kieran is now banned from buying QPR tickets.
Other things we asked Professor Fosdal about:
Me: “Where’s the best place to watch the Chinese New Year Parade from?”
Him: “…China”
Rachel: “Where are you going?”
Him: “Into the dark cold void of your absence, the arid desert of banishment from your lovely presence, wherein I shall be sustained only by the flickering hope that I may have the joy of seeing you once again next week.”
He also told me not to turn in any written substantiation for my oral presentation because then he’d have to read it and he’d rather not read papers.
Sunday we went to Trafalgar Square to see the Chinese New Year celebration. Being just barely five foot one on a really good day crowds are not so excellent for me: I could barely see even the giant television thing let alone the actual festivities. I think there was a giant caterpillar on sticks at one point? Might have been a tiger or a dragon or something.
Later we went to Regent’s Park to walk around, then walked to Hyde Park, to walk around more. Lot of walking going on here. I love it, my Tae Kwon Do-worn knees do not. There are times when I can feel my ligaments pulling apart in unnatural ways when I wonder if all those jump spinning hook kicks were worth it, and then I remember the indescribable feeling of breaking boards and I think yes, and then I try to walk up some stairs and I think no.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
I Just Have A Lot Of Questions
eneral update before I fall even further behind. This is not my preferred format of blogging but those eighteen credits are catching up with me in the form of papers and papers and papers, and we’re planning our weekend trips (Edinburgh, Dublin and/or Belfast, and Oxford), and lately staying up late into the hours of the British night to chat with friends back on the East coast has seemed like a good idea, so… yes. So sorry.
INTERNSHIP
I am doing really cool PR things! I am contacting journalists about feature stories and magazines about product giveaways and drafting copy for websites and media kits and making gift packages for celebrities! Some of whom use currency symbols to spell their names, or won Brit awards, or are ska princesses!
Most exciting was being charged with unraveling the mystery of the incorrect EAVs (Estimated Advertising Value, how one determines what public relations work is worth), which involved politely and professionally harassing the “account manager” who insisted the figures were correct when they were not and then calling the third party who provided the statistics used to calculate the figures and finally eventually getting to the bottom of it. It was very satisfying. And pigeon-free.
THE FLAT
The problem with living in an eight person flat is that when you see a glaring problem, like a sink of dirty dishes or a full garbage bin, you think ‘Hmm. Someone should do something about that,’ and walk away. Diffusion of responsibility and all that.
THE WEEKEND
…why would you start a weekend on Wednesday? I remember freshman year of college when I was utterly mystified and not a little horrified that some people went out drinking on Thursdays even though they were school nights, which at the time seemed an unpardonable sin. Here Thursdays are taken for granted as a party night and Wednesdays and Tuesdays are the new frontier. Some people go out so hard during the week that they don’t even bother to go on the weekends! I just can’t get that logic (possibly because it’s a logic-free equation. Or because I did not do so well in Intro to Logic class last semester. Or both.)
Umlaut and I had managed to avoid having to navigate the night bus system until very recently by either coming back early (before the tubes close) or by only going to walk-able places. The bus that eventually got us home though? Number 27, historically the lucky number of the female side of my family.
HARRY POTTER TOUR
Upon arriving at King’s Cross for our Harry Potter walking tour we immediately noticed the woman in the floor length cloak and elaborate witch hat and debated how mortifying it would be if we approached her and she were in fact not actually the tour guide. But she was, and she was *spectacular*, animated and knowledgeable and everything. How does one see every Potter-related locale in London in two hours? BY FLYING.
If by flying you mean dashing at a flat out sprint over wet cobblestones after a costumed woman with a broomstick, which she did, so yes. She stopped briefly outside a Southwark theater to talk about something and the stage crew came out to shush her because they were midway through a performance of the Scottish Play and she freaked out and yelped “Oh no not the bad one!” and ran away.
PALACE OF WESTMINSTER TOUR
My European Government professor managed to get us in even though I don’t think non-UK citizens are technically supposed to be able to right now, and it was awesome.
INTERNSHIP
I am doing really cool PR things! I am contacting journalists about feature stories and magazines about product giveaways and drafting copy for websites and media kits and making gift packages for celebrities! Some of whom use currency symbols to spell their names, or won Brit awards, or are ska princesses!
Most exciting was being charged with unraveling the mystery of the incorrect EAVs (Estimated Advertising Value, how one determines what public relations work is worth), which involved politely and professionally harassing the “account manager” who insisted the figures were correct when they were not and then calling the third party who provided the statistics used to calculate the figures and finally eventually getting to the bottom of it. It was very satisfying. And pigeon-free.
THE FLAT
The problem with living in an eight person flat is that when you see a glaring problem, like a sink of dirty dishes or a full garbage bin, you think ‘Hmm. Someone should do something about that,’ and walk away. Diffusion of responsibility and all that.
THE WEEKEND
…why would you start a weekend on Wednesday? I remember freshman year of college when I was utterly mystified and not a little horrified that some people went out drinking on Thursdays even though they were school nights, which at the time seemed an unpardonable sin. Here Thursdays are taken for granted as a party night and Wednesdays and Tuesdays are the new frontier. Some people go out so hard during the week that they don’t even bother to go on the weekends! I just can’t get that logic (possibly because it’s a logic-free equation. Or because I did not do so well in Intro to Logic class last semester. Or both.)
Umlaut and I had managed to avoid having to navigate the night bus system until very recently by either coming back early (before the tubes close) or by only going to walk-able places. The bus that eventually got us home though? Number 27, historically the lucky number of the female side of my family.
HARRY POTTER TOUR
Upon arriving at King’s Cross for our Harry Potter walking tour we immediately noticed the woman in the floor length cloak and elaborate witch hat and debated how mortifying it would be if we approached her and she were in fact not actually the tour guide. But she was, and she was *spectacular*, animated and knowledgeable and everything. How does one see every Potter-related locale in London in two hours? BY FLYING.
If by flying you mean dashing at a flat out sprint over wet cobblestones after a costumed woman with a broomstick, which she did, so yes. She stopped briefly outside a Southwark theater to talk about something and the stage crew came out to shush her because they were midway through a performance of the Scottish Play and she freaked out and yelped “Oh no not the bad one!” and ran away.
PALACE OF WESTMINSTER TOUR
My European Government professor managed to get us in even though I don’t think non-UK citizens are technically supposed to be able to right now, and it was awesome.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
A Volunteer To Test A Theory
I recently got a chance to catch up with a few people, on Facebook chat and my Pogolink international calling (how great a name is that?) most notably my literal BFF for life Ally and my beloved Rachel, which was terrific. It’s a great consolation that while I will eventually have to leave this amazing place I have spectacular people to come back to and hang out with all summer.
Summer. By this time last year I think I’d already signed a contract for a summer internship with JPSI, whereas now I am woefully behind on that process. But I get back before the end of April so I should be able to rustle up something gainful, but then with this job market… Alright, no more with things I can’t do anything about right now.
More with things I can justifiably freak out about now, like the labor-intensive process that is crafting a course schedule to carry two majors and two minors, writing my British fiction paper, finishing my postcards, and showing Flat Stanley an appropriately good time around the city. I have so far declined offers to take Flat Stanley clubbing on the pretext that he belongs to an eight year old and that that would be wildly inappropriate albeit hilarious, but we did take in Big Ben (so pretty lit up at night!),the tube, and tea. Photos to follow.
My Introduction to British Culture class involves a lot of walking tours, which actually aren’t rubbish but instead rather educational and cool and get me to parts of the city I’d never go to on my own, but frequently involve spending some forty minutes of would-be class time in the café of a museum drinking tea and eating pastries. Also Professor Fosdal is wonderful if perhaps excessively passionate about his views on architecture.
However: thirty some years ago whenever anyone fell in the Thames the first thing they did upon fishing them out was pump their stomach because the river was so full of toxic sludge that ingesting a bit of water alone could kill you never mind drowning. Professor Fosdal has a theory that attempts to clean up the river have so improved the water quality that you might stand a chance of survival if you fell in today. I’m the smallest in the class, so he started at me quite hard while asking for volunteers to be thrown in…
Chloe has several cousins living in and around the city, one of whom invited us to lunch. Umlaut hadn’t seen some of these people in a decade so while we were reassured that ‘Hugh’ would pick us up from our flat and we wouldn’t have to mess with the weekend tube, we realized we had no idea whatsoever Hugh might look like. Fortunately he was the lost looking gentleman pacing Praed Street who we suspected might be him.
All the cousins were absolutely lovely, lunch was divine, and we got Chloe back to Paddington station in time to catch her train to go see her other cousins, so a perfect afternoon overall. My previous experiences with being an outsider at family reunions (Hello Davitt clan! )had prepared me well for what could have been a potentially daunting occasion, a formal lunch and all, and then everyone was so so nice, so it was fine.
My advice should you find yourself in such a situation however: Do whatever your host is doing if uncertain about accepting or declining offers of hospitality, except in the case of gin and tonics. Always accept a gin and tonic. Remain amiably and unfailing polite and you’ll be fine. Also: don’t be fazed by silverware. If a frightening amount is laid out always use whatever is farthest away from the plate first and work your way inwards as appropriate.
When conversing with native Brits it’s very easy to slip into their vernacular and start to fling about fiercely unnatural phrases like ‘mate’ and ‘dreadful row’ and ‘fancy a cuppa tea’ and other such. Especially since I confess to expressing myself in a somewhat affected manner to begin with and am no stranger to excessive ‘quite’s and ‘lovely’s and other such circuitous articulation. …for an example of that claim, examine the craft of the previous sentence. And then there’s the temptation to put the slant of an accent on certain words where it feels like it belongs, and before you know it your speech is an utter travesty. At all costs, remain true to your own linguistic heritage.
Summer. By this time last year I think I’d already signed a contract for a summer internship with JPSI, whereas now I am woefully behind on that process. But I get back before the end of April so I should be able to rustle up something gainful, but then with this job market… Alright, no more with things I can’t do anything about right now.
More with things I can justifiably freak out about now, like the labor-intensive process that is crafting a course schedule to carry two majors and two minors, writing my British fiction paper, finishing my postcards, and showing Flat Stanley an appropriately good time around the city. I have so far declined offers to take Flat Stanley clubbing on the pretext that he belongs to an eight year old and that that would be wildly inappropriate albeit hilarious, but we did take in Big Ben (so pretty lit up at night!),the tube, and tea. Photos to follow.
My Introduction to British Culture class involves a lot of walking tours, which actually aren’t rubbish but instead rather educational and cool and get me to parts of the city I’d never go to on my own, but frequently involve spending some forty minutes of would-be class time in the café of a museum drinking tea and eating pastries. Also Professor Fosdal is wonderful if perhaps excessively passionate about his views on architecture.
However: thirty some years ago whenever anyone fell in the Thames the first thing they did upon fishing them out was pump their stomach because the river was so full of toxic sludge that ingesting a bit of water alone could kill you never mind drowning. Professor Fosdal has a theory that attempts to clean up the river have so improved the water quality that you might stand a chance of survival if you fell in today. I’m the smallest in the class, so he started at me quite hard while asking for volunteers to be thrown in…
Chloe has several cousins living in and around the city, one of whom invited us to lunch. Umlaut hadn’t seen some of these people in a decade so while we were reassured that ‘Hugh’ would pick us up from our flat and we wouldn’t have to mess with the weekend tube, we realized we had no idea whatsoever Hugh might look like. Fortunately he was the lost looking gentleman pacing Praed Street who we suspected might be him.
All the cousins were absolutely lovely, lunch was divine, and we got Chloe back to Paddington station in time to catch her train to go see her other cousins, so a perfect afternoon overall. My previous experiences with being an outsider at family reunions (Hello Davitt clan! )had prepared me well for what could have been a potentially daunting occasion, a formal lunch and all, and then everyone was so so nice, so it was fine.
My advice should you find yourself in such a situation however: Do whatever your host is doing if uncertain about accepting or declining offers of hospitality, except in the case of gin and tonics. Always accept a gin and tonic. Remain amiably and unfailing polite and you’ll be fine. Also: don’t be fazed by silverware. If a frightening amount is laid out always use whatever is farthest away from the plate first and work your way inwards as appropriate.
When conversing with native Brits it’s very easy to slip into their vernacular and start to fling about fiercely unnatural phrases like ‘mate’ and ‘dreadful row’ and ‘fancy a cuppa tea’ and other such. Especially since I confess to expressing myself in a somewhat affected manner to begin with and am no stranger to excessive ‘quite’s and ‘lovely’s and other such circuitous articulation. …for an example of that claim, examine the craft of the previous sentence. And then there’s the temptation to put the slant of an accent on certain words where it feels like it belongs, and before you know it your speech is an utter travesty. At all costs, remain true to your own linguistic heritage.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Home is Where…
I’ve recently provoked a domestic uproar by referring to all the snow back “home” in Pittsburgh. My mother left a comment detailing a rambling string of events and occurrences pertaining to the house outside Philadelphia she and my father have lived in for the past eighteen some years, outraged that I could possibly think of anywhere else when I thought of home.
Ironically she failed to mention herself, my father, sibling, or the two felines who deign to grace us with their presence in her summation of home, and obviously those are five very crucial factors.
But where is home really?
Is it that house? The general area of Audubon/Norristown/King of Prussia we live in, or the city of Philadelphia as a whole? Is it where my life as an adult arguably began in Oakland? Is it a dorm room that my keycard won’t let me access any more, or an apartment on North Dithridge I’ve signed a lease for but never actually seen?
I remember coming back for Thanksgiving freshman year to find my belongings shuffled and boxed and pilfered, and turning back the cover on my bed to find a reprehensible collection of dirty socks and algebra textbooks and other things my sister had hidden rather than put away, and thinking ‘Well this isn’t home anymore.’
But that’s more of a detached sense of materialism, of not carrying about stuff. I like the things I have, but I wouldn’t not have won my Cappie and Tae Kwon Do medals if I no longer had them physically draped on my desk. Any of my books, minus the ones particularly signed or inscribed to me, could be replaced. Many of the clothes would do well to be replaced. I don’t need the trinkets and the clutter, they just define my space.
I might conclude it’s just the base I’m operating out of. Praed Street right now, the house in Audubon over the summer, Dithridge after that, then who knows where.
When I say I want to go home I usually just mean I don’t want to be wherever I am. So is home more of a negative quality, as it were, defined by where it isn’t? Is it wherever I want to be when I don’t want to be where I am?
I would try not to dream of quoting a lyric, much less an inextricably middle school lyric, but I can’t help but have Something Corporate’s ‘Woke Up In A Car’ run through my head: “I met a girl who kept tattoos for homes that she had loved/If I were her I’d paint my body ‘till all my skin were gone.”
I’d close this up on a sugar-sweet note for you if I could, but I’m not really sure I’ve got one.
Ironically she failed to mention herself, my father, sibling, or the two felines who deign to grace us with their presence in her summation of home, and obviously those are five very crucial factors.
But where is home really?
Is it that house? The general area of Audubon/Norristown/King of Prussia we live in, or the city of Philadelphia as a whole? Is it where my life as an adult arguably began in Oakland? Is it a dorm room that my keycard won’t let me access any more, or an apartment on North Dithridge I’ve signed a lease for but never actually seen?
I remember coming back for Thanksgiving freshman year to find my belongings shuffled and boxed and pilfered, and turning back the cover on my bed to find a reprehensible collection of dirty socks and algebra textbooks and other things my sister had hidden rather than put away, and thinking ‘Well this isn’t home anymore.’
But that’s more of a detached sense of materialism, of not carrying about stuff. I like the things I have, but I wouldn’t not have won my Cappie and Tae Kwon Do medals if I no longer had them physically draped on my desk. Any of my books, minus the ones particularly signed or inscribed to me, could be replaced. Many of the clothes would do well to be replaced. I don’t need the trinkets and the clutter, they just define my space.
I might conclude it’s just the base I’m operating out of. Praed Street right now, the house in Audubon over the summer, Dithridge after that, then who knows where.
When I say I want to go home I usually just mean I don’t want to be wherever I am. So is home more of a negative quality, as it were, defined by where it isn’t? Is it wherever I want to be when I don’t want to be where I am?
I would try not to dream of quoting a lyric, much less an inextricably middle school lyric, but I can’t help but have Something Corporate’s ‘Woke Up In A Car’ run through my head: “I met a girl who kept tattoos for homes that she had loved/If I were her I’d paint my body ‘till all my skin were gone.”
I’d close this up on a sugar-sweet note for you if I could, but I’m not really sure I’ve got one.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Tuesdays with Murad
Chloe, having Tuesdays off from classes as it were, came to visit me at my lunch break and brought me chicken curry. Then we went to see the British library, which has among many other things in its treasure trove of relics the Magna Carta and the Gutenberg Bible.
The fact that we were able to see those wonders of history on a whim is my only comfort in the face of missing Snowpocalypse 2010 back home in Pittsburgh. While, that and the fact that I rode a red double-decker bus to work today. And everything else.
I actually didn’t have any choice in riding the bus to work since the tubes were absolutely abysmal this morning. Go on and shut down the Circle line, take the District if you must, but if you do all that AND abscond with the Hammersmith and City you’d damn well better not take the Piccadilly and Bakerloo too. Fun fact: you can take all of those brightly color-coded lines to basically the same places, with a little maneuvering. I take so many trains in so many directions that I’m often left with a minor panic attack when the peculiarly Andromeda-Strain-esque voice of the speaker system announces a stop other than the one I’d anticipated when I’d forgotten where I was going or how I was trying to get there.
Having finally completed updating the PR databases I’ve moved on to combing through every issue of some several dozen publications for traces of Murad media coverage. So much fun at first but eventually they all started to blur together into a hazy mess of celebrity gossip and feverish consumerism. I’ve picked a fine time to develop a taste for shoes and hand bags and eye creams, now when for the first time in years I don’t actually have any source of income, all this interning being for academic credit as it were.
For a moment it looked like I might be carrying a permanent reminder of my time at Murad UK embedded in the palm of my left hand in the form of a bizarrely accidental splinter from the warehouse door. I didn’t mind terribly and pointed out to Chloe that at least this way she’d have a way of identifying the real me if and when I was replaced with a robot clone, but Rachel displayed a somewhat unnatural delight in digging into my skin and managed to remove most of it. She also braids hair exceedingly well and usually has chocolate with her. I want her to be my nanny.
The fact that we were able to see those wonders of history on a whim is my only comfort in the face of missing Snowpocalypse 2010 back home in Pittsburgh. While, that and the fact that I rode a red double-decker bus to work today. And everything else.
I actually didn’t have any choice in riding the bus to work since the tubes were absolutely abysmal this morning. Go on and shut down the Circle line, take the District if you must, but if you do all that AND abscond with the Hammersmith and City you’d damn well better not take the Piccadilly and Bakerloo too. Fun fact: you can take all of those brightly color-coded lines to basically the same places, with a little maneuvering. I take so many trains in so many directions that I’m often left with a minor panic attack when the peculiarly Andromeda-Strain-esque voice of the speaker system announces a stop other than the one I’d anticipated when I’d forgotten where I was going or how I was trying to get there.
Having finally completed updating the PR databases I’ve moved on to combing through every issue of some several dozen publications for traces of Murad media coverage. So much fun at first but eventually they all started to blur together into a hazy mess of celebrity gossip and feverish consumerism. I’ve picked a fine time to develop a taste for shoes and hand bags and eye creams, now when for the first time in years I don’t actually have any source of income, all this interning being for academic credit as it were.
For a moment it looked like I might be carrying a permanent reminder of my time at Murad UK embedded in the palm of my left hand in the form of a bizarrely accidental splinter from the warehouse door. I didn’t mind terribly and pointed out to Chloe that at least this way she’d have a way of identifying the real me if and when I was replaced with a robot clone, but Rachel displayed a somewhat unnatural delight in digging into my skin and managed to remove most of it. She also braids hair exceedingly well and usually has chocolate with her. I want her to be my nanny.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Escape From the Clutches of Winged Doom
Perhaps that’s a bit much, to describe the Circle Pond in Hyde Park as winged doom, but it did harbor an unsavory quantity of malicious water fowl. Granted I would count even one foul fowl too many, but there were several dozen swans bigger than a third grader there.
And no one stops them from… being there! I don’t know what I’m trying to articulate precisely but I found their degree of freedom to stalk about and flutter most disconcerting.
That aside Chloe and I spent the better part of the afternoon wandering the park and it was gorgeous. Unfortunately it greatly reinforced Chloe’s desire to attain dual citizenship and live here forever, and I will miss her dreadfully if she insists on not living in the same country as me.
Prior to that we navigated dismal tube closures to China Town, only to discover that there wasn’t much in the way of exploration to be done there. Just some paper lanterns and restaurants really. But then we realized we were near the National Portrait Gallery and that was awesome, particularly since I’ve not yet lost all my hard-won AP Euro trivia knowledge of historical figures and it was neat to see them.
All of the above occurred and was composed on Saturday. Today, Sunday, involved a moderately successful trek to Portobello Road market and the Victoria and Albert museum and an extraordinary event wherein I had heard of a place I wanted to go (Hope and Greenwood’s Candy Shop), looked up the address, found the corresponding tube station, navigated a map, and somehow actually got there. I cannot recall that ever happening before.
And no one stops them from… being there! I don’t know what I’m trying to articulate precisely but I found their degree of freedom to stalk about and flutter most disconcerting.
That aside Chloe and I spent the better part of the afternoon wandering the park and it was gorgeous. Unfortunately it greatly reinforced Chloe’s desire to attain dual citizenship and live here forever, and I will miss her dreadfully if she insists on not living in the same country as me.
Prior to that we navigated dismal tube closures to China Town, only to discover that there wasn’t much in the way of exploration to be done there. Just some paper lanterns and restaurants really. But then we realized we were near the National Portrait Gallery and that was awesome, particularly since I’ve not yet lost all my hard-won AP Euro trivia knowledge of historical figures and it was neat to see them.
All of the above occurred and was composed on Saturday. Today, Sunday, involved a moderately successful trek to Portobello Road market and the Victoria and Albert museum and an extraordinary event wherein I had heard of a place I wanted to go (Hope and Greenwood’s Candy Shop), looked up the address, found the corresponding tube station, navigated a map, and somehow actually got there. I cannot recall that ever happening before.
Friday, February 5, 2010
Stop The Pajama Drama: Tesco Has a Dress Code
Britain, being a comparatively tiny country with rather good gun control regulations (i.e. I’m pretty sure Brits do not have the right to bear arms…), has fairly little violence. And if you think about it, what is a US newspaper composed of if not violence?
So here the Brits are, trying to supply enough news for a menagerie of newspapers, and they are reduced to full reports on a parking meter that is misreading in German and a woman who has caused uproar by insisting on doing the grocery shopping in her pajamas, leading to the conclusion that even quick shops like Tesco must uphold some standard of dignity.
Those are the kind of stories I start and end my day with, thanks to the free papers ‘Metro’ and ‘Evening Standard’.
What with the pigeon upset on Monday I’ve been somewhat remiss in proper blog maintenance, so forgive me if I neglect to recap the better part of a week.
Vivid recollection of our Sunday in Camden Market have begun to escape me, but it was absolutely brilliant. A bizarre punk-Mecca meets faerie land, contained in a former horse stable with chandeliers. Little shops and kiosks sell everything whimsical you could imagine. Chloe and I kept remarking upon how much it felt like walking into a Neil Gaiman novel and eventually remembered that’s probably because he lived near here.
I procured several gifts which I shall not describe in the interest of keeping the element of surprise for the reciprocates who happen to be blog followers, and also a lovely dress for myself because all my flat mates are now sporting Camden Market dresses. They basically all have the same empire cut in different fabrics and we all look super cute in them.
You barter for everything, even the food. We negotiated for peculiar Chinese-Indian-Japanese fusion dishes with “free” soda and –drawing upon memories of my mother’s epic forty five minute interaction with a sundress vendor in the streets of St. Thomas over a decade ago- managed to talk my dress down five pounds. The half-turn away and the ‘maybe-for-ten-but-certainly-not-for-twenty’ techniques are key.
Chloe and I had tentatively decided that some Tuesday she should go to Trafalgar Square and see what shows she could get cheap tickets to, since she doesn’t have class that day. Which is how we went from “whatever-maybe” to front row balcony seats for Billy Elliot in the span of a few hours. For under thirty pounds no less!
Between being lucky enough to have culturally-inclined parents and my stint on the Cappie theater reviewing circuit I have seen many, many musical theater productions. Which I only mention because I want the full weight to sink in when I make the statement that Billy Elliot may be the greatest musical in the history of ever.
I laughed, I cried, I smirked smugly when I was able to decipher the thick accents and British slang, and my heart skipped a beat when he started doing pirouettes. You could not ask for anything more.
Classes here consist of walking tours of various qualities (some involving the professor trudging wordlessly onto the tube without mention of where we we're going or why, getting off and walking several blocks before pointing out some landmarks that were totally irrelevant to the course and then getting a pint at a pub Christopher Marlowe used to frequent) and lectures delivered in perturbing lulling accents that are so hard to absorb information from but otherwise quite good.
I’m not sure if I’ve mentioned that every crosswalk has the traffic-direction-appropriate “look right!” or “look left!” painted on the concrete to aid pedestrians in the avoidance of incident. Its little things like that that make you love this city.
So here the Brits are, trying to supply enough news for a menagerie of newspapers, and they are reduced to full reports on a parking meter that is misreading in German and a woman who has caused uproar by insisting on doing the grocery shopping in her pajamas, leading to the conclusion that even quick shops like Tesco must uphold some standard of dignity.
Those are the kind of stories I start and end my day with, thanks to the free papers ‘Metro’ and ‘Evening Standard’.
What with the pigeon upset on Monday I’ve been somewhat remiss in proper blog maintenance, so forgive me if I neglect to recap the better part of a week.
Vivid recollection of our Sunday in Camden Market have begun to escape me, but it was absolutely brilliant. A bizarre punk-Mecca meets faerie land, contained in a former horse stable with chandeliers. Little shops and kiosks sell everything whimsical you could imagine. Chloe and I kept remarking upon how much it felt like walking into a Neil Gaiman novel and eventually remembered that’s probably because he lived near here.
I procured several gifts which I shall not describe in the interest of keeping the element of surprise for the reciprocates who happen to be blog followers, and also a lovely dress for myself because all my flat mates are now sporting Camden Market dresses. They basically all have the same empire cut in different fabrics and we all look super cute in them.
You barter for everything, even the food. We negotiated for peculiar Chinese-Indian-Japanese fusion dishes with “free” soda and –drawing upon memories of my mother’s epic forty five minute interaction with a sundress vendor in the streets of St. Thomas over a decade ago- managed to talk my dress down five pounds. The half-turn away and the ‘maybe-for-ten-but-certainly-not-for-twenty’ techniques are key.
Chloe and I had tentatively decided that some Tuesday she should go to Trafalgar Square and see what shows she could get cheap tickets to, since she doesn’t have class that day. Which is how we went from “whatever-maybe” to front row balcony seats for Billy Elliot in the span of a few hours. For under thirty pounds no less!
Between being lucky enough to have culturally-inclined parents and my stint on the Cappie theater reviewing circuit I have seen many, many musical theater productions. Which I only mention because I want the full weight to sink in when I make the statement that Billy Elliot may be the greatest musical in the history of ever.
I laughed, I cried, I smirked smugly when I was able to decipher the thick accents and British slang, and my heart skipped a beat when he started doing pirouettes. You could not ask for anything more.
Classes here consist of walking tours of various qualities (some involving the professor trudging wordlessly onto the tube without mention of where we we're going or why, getting off and walking several blocks before pointing out some landmarks that were totally irrelevant to the course and then getting a pint at a pub Christopher Marlowe used to frequent) and lectures delivered in perturbing lulling accents that are so hard to absorb information from but otherwise quite good.
I’m not sure if I’ve mentioned that every crosswalk has the traffic-direction-appropriate “look right!” or “look left!” painted on the concrete to aid pedestrians in the avoidance of incident. Its little things like that that make you love this city.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Abysmal Working Conditions- When Pigeons Attack
I always get to work early so I can maintain my visa requirement of twenty hours a week, but today I was the very first person in the office.
I heard a unsettling fluttering sound and a cooing not unlike a winged rat coming from the conference room, but thought nothing of it as I tried to get my internet connection to work.
Suddenly… there was a pigeon on my desk.
A. Freaking. Pigeon.
Just chilling, and flapping around, and being terrifying.
If you didn’t know, I have a deep and abiding fear of birds stemming from the time I was assaulted by a goose as a child. Perhaps that background information is necessary to grasp the full horror of this situation.
Eventually someone wandered in who I pounced on and made call someone, anyone, who could rectify this awful situation.
The guys who work in the warehouse (the Murad office is located in the loft above the Murad warehouse, conveniently enough) found the entire situation hilarious and spent three quarters an hour chasing the foul beast from one rafter to another and throwing jackets at it before concluding that nothing could be done.
When my supervisor arrived I informed her that I was terribly sorry but could not possibly work under these circumstances. She understood and told me to accompany the marketing intern on her adventure to Harrod’s to investigate the Murad counter there and the sales strategies of the other brands.
Bet you didn’t know there was a fitness studio in Harrod’s. Or a life size wax figure of the owner on a pedestal. Or no less than three different escalator areas, one of which is Egypt themed.
When we got back, the pigeon was gone.
Pest Control shot it and tried to clean it up but there were still bits of feathers all over my desk.
That is all.
I heard a unsettling fluttering sound and a cooing not unlike a winged rat coming from the conference room, but thought nothing of it as I tried to get my internet connection to work.
Suddenly… there was a pigeon on my desk.
A. Freaking. Pigeon.
Just chilling, and flapping around, and being terrifying.
If you didn’t know, I have a deep and abiding fear of birds stemming from the time I was assaulted by a goose as a child. Perhaps that background information is necessary to grasp the full horror of this situation.
Eventually someone wandered in who I pounced on and made call someone, anyone, who could rectify this awful situation.
The guys who work in the warehouse (the Murad office is located in the loft above the Murad warehouse, conveniently enough) found the entire situation hilarious and spent three quarters an hour chasing the foul beast from one rafter to another and throwing jackets at it before concluding that nothing could be done.
When my supervisor arrived I informed her that I was terribly sorry but could not possibly work under these circumstances. She understood and told me to accompany the marketing intern on her adventure to Harrod’s to investigate the Murad counter there and the sales strategies of the other brands.
Bet you didn’t know there was a fitness studio in Harrod’s. Or a life size wax figure of the owner on a pedestal. Or no less than three different escalator areas, one of which is Egypt themed.
When we got back, the pigeon was gone.
Pest Control shot it and tried to clean it up but there were still bits of feathers all over my desk.
That is all.
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