This is an old one I never posted.
1. Having "tea" does not necessarily imply drinking brown liquid at 4 in the afternoon. Depending upon one's socioeconomic class, tea time can even indicate supper with the family. The affluent tend to engage in the traditional, tea with scones and crumpets deal, while the middle class use "tea" as a synonym for dinner.
2. London is a caricature of itself. its clean streets, short brick buildings, and grey skies seem to be figments of my own imagination (driven by films like Notting Hill and Love Actually).
3. In the cafeteria at Heythrop College, instead of pricing the salad per pound, there is a set price for a "level" plate and a set price for a "heaped plate."
4. I see more people Indian people in the heart of the fallen empire than I see in Parsippany, NJ.
5. I don't know if it is this city, or the fact that I am alone in this city, or the constant anticipation for rain (an anxiety I have decided I completely love), but I am always inspired to write. New sentences are constantly forming in my head. I cannot capture the excitement and nervousness, the sense of wonderment and freedom, that rushes through my veins. I am invigorated by the smog, the double decker buses, the friendly service.
6. I have seen a few people in need of money on the streets. A few of them simply begged with their dogs, or sat with their heads down in exasperation and a sign of pleading for sympathy. However, many of the poor in the streets engaged the fast-paced, relentless London crowd. I see opera singers and jugglers and classical musicians. (I stroll down the streets with my own background music and performers, my head held high, smiling--until my run down flats hit a bump in the sidewalk and I run into an old man with a walking stick.)
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Monday, June 29, 2009
Best Day Ever
I never knew that I would be escaping to London for the weather.
But this summer, as much as it has been perpetually raining in New Jersey and in New York, it has been sunny and bright in London.
So, instead of running around Westminster to take arbitrary photos of Big Ben and the London Eye, clad in fanny packs and 1.5 liter water bottles, my friends and I decided to head south for the day, to Brighton Beach.
When we reached the typical beach town, it was still early, and the morning fog and cool had not yet been absorbed by the anomalous London sun. So we decided to tour the Royal Pavillion, King George's seaside resort, to kill time. The half-authentic palace was nice, but our minds were on white sands, blue waters--and hopefully some food that did not involve ham or potatoes.
(Our lunch comprised ham sandwiches and various forms of the potato, except for my exceptional Margherita pizza, which dispelled any desires I had to go to Italy, for I could get all of that right in a British beach town reminscent of Seaside Heights.)
We all excited rushed to the beach. There was a pier with rides and ice cream and long hot dogs, and a boardwalk with couples and dogs and little children screaming about current affairs of the state. I took off my flipflops and ran onto the beach--and cried out in pain, as I ran over hot, smooth stones.
It was a rocky beach. The white sand was across the Atlantic, where the stones get washed up and eroded into fine powder upon which our naive American feet could tread. We all hobbled until we could no longer endure the rocks, and set down our bags and towels and rotting fruit from the cafe.
The water was cold. I napped for an hour and when I woke up (rolling around on a natural stone massage) I was peer pressured into braving the waters.
And it was the most refreshing leap of faith in my life. The cold waters sunk deep into the marrow of my bones, but somehow I was unable to come out, my body in sync with the gentle flow of the waves, the mesmerizing convergence of the blue skies and waters at the horizon.
I came out of the water for an hour, only to plunge into the ice bucket once again. I swam far out, until my friends became specks on the sand, indistinguishable from the ravenous seagulls hungry for soft serve vanilla ice cream.
When my friends got hungry for dinner, I was requested to come out of the waters. We found some fancy looking Italian place, which ended up ripping us off but also providing us with the best meal of our trip. We acted like loud, obnoxious Americans, sharing our leftovers and shoving food into our mouths in fear of never again tasting such delicacies (pasta).
The obnoxious American streak continued on the train ride home, when we started playing a game of cards and ended up battling to preserve the dignities of our respective sexes. Essentially, we were cursing and throwing things at each other, and thus receiving the dirty looks of the innocent passengers surrounding our two tables.
As all nights should end, ours terminated with Michael Jackson. We watched a poorly made documentary on Jacko's life, all the while sweating in the hot London night, suffering withdrawal from our dependency on air conditioning.
One by one, we dropped like flies. I had decided to put in my laundry at the last minute, so just another friend of mine and myself were in the student room together, both of us perusing TV shows called "babestation," "sexcetera," and something to the extent of gay rabbits. After exploring the late night semi-pornographic offerings of London television, we decided to call it a night.
And, thanks to the rocky beaches, I slept without any sand in my butt.
But this summer, as much as it has been perpetually raining in New Jersey and in New York, it has been sunny and bright in London.
So, instead of running around Westminster to take arbitrary photos of Big Ben and the London Eye, clad in fanny packs and 1.5 liter water bottles, my friends and I decided to head south for the day, to Brighton Beach.
When we reached the typical beach town, it was still early, and the morning fog and cool had not yet been absorbed by the anomalous London sun. So we decided to tour the Royal Pavillion, King George's seaside resort, to kill time. The half-authentic palace was nice, but our minds were on white sands, blue waters--and hopefully some food that did not involve ham or potatoes.
(Our lunch comprised ham sandwiches and various forms of the potato, except for my exceptional Margherita pizza, which dispelled any desires I had to go to Italy, for I could get all of that right in a British beach town reminscent of Seaside Heights.)
We all excited rushed to the beach. There was a pier with rides and ice cream and long hot dogs, and a boardwalk with couples and dogs and little children screaming about current affairs of the state. I took off my flipflops and ran onto the beach--and cried out in pain, as I ran over hot, smooth stones.
It was a rocky beach. The white sand was across the Atlantic, where the stones get washed up and eroded into fine powder upon which our naive American feet could tread. We all hobbled until we could no longer endure the rocks, and set down our bags and towels and rotting fruit from the cafe.
The water was cold. I napped for an hour and when I woke up (rolling around on a natural stone massage) I was peer pressured into braving the waters.
And it was the most refreshing leap of faith in my life. The cold waters sunk deep into the marrow of my bones, but somehow I was unable to come out, my body in sync with the gentle flow of the waves, the mesmerizing convergence of the blue skies and waters at the horizon.
I came out of the water for an hour, only to plunge into the ice bucket once again. I swam far out, until my friends became specks on the sand, indistinguishable from the ravenous seagulls hungry for soft serve vanilla ice cream.
When my friends got hungry for dinner, I was requested to come out of the waters. We found some fancy looking Italian place, which ended up ripping us off but also providing us with the best meal of our trip. We acted like loud, obnoxious Americans, sharing our leftovers and shoving food into our mouths in fear of never again tasting such delicacies (pasta).
The obnoxious American streak continued on the train ride home, when we started playing a game of cards and ended up battling to preserve the dignities of our respective sexes. Essentially, we were cursing and throwing things at each other, and thus receiving the dirty looks of the innocent passengers surrounding our two tables.
As all nights should end, ours terminated with Michael Jackson. We watched a poorly made documentary on Jacko's life, all the while sweating in the hot London night, suffering withdrawal from our dependency on air conditioning.
One by one, we dropped like flies. I had decided to put in my laundry at the last minute, so just another friend of mine and myself were in the student room together, both of us perusing TV shows called "babestation," "sexcetera," and something to the extent of gay rabbits. After exploring the late night semi-pornographic offerings of London television, we decided to call it a night.
And, thanks to the rocky beaches, I slept without any sand in my butt.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Freedom Fighters
I know that history is important.
But until recently, I didn't realize how relevant, and how much a part of our present, is history.
Our Archiving Africa class went to the National Archives at Kew on Monday. There, we were met with an overwhelming database of over 10 million documents--documents that may not necessarily reveal clues to hidden treasures and ancient mysteries (I saw Angels and Demons just before coming to London)--but seemingly arbitrary documents.
These very documents helped to found the argument of the Mau Mau, the Freedom Fighters from Kenya during the 1960s, who are now suing the British government on claims of inhumane torture techniques, including very graphic accounts of rape, castration, and physical mutilation.
Our class attended the press conference conducted by the law firm and representatives from the Human Rights Commission, the Kenyan Parliament, and Kenyan Lawyers. Various representatives of the original Mau Mau were also present.
These men and women who fought against the colonial regime were considered terrorists, even among many Kenyan politicians who continued to perpetuate the conspiracy and the secrecy revolving around the Mau Mau post-independence.
Radical actions against the state are often considered "terrorist." Anything against the status quo, that challenges the resignation with which we live our lives, is deemed offensive.
And many times, when people are blinded by their passions, their love for a cause or a people, radical actions can cause more harm than good. I thought of Che Guevarra, who essentially worked for the people but ended up becoming a guerilla warrior.
But when I looked at these tired, forlorn, and haggard men and women, who stood up without pride, any thoughts of brutal warfare and killings were dispelled, and I only thought of the atrocities these poor people were put through as punishment for their love of Kenya.
And history and the present merged, its boundaries indistinguishable, encompassing everything we knew and know, laying groundwork for what we can only hope to know.
But until recently, I didn't realize how relevant, and how much a part of our present, is history.
Our Archiving Africa class went to the National Archives at Kew on Monday. There, we were met with an overwhelming database of over 10 million documents--documents that may not necessarily reveal clues to hidden treasures and ancient mysteries (I saw Angels and Demons just before coming to London)--but seemingly arbitrary documents.
These very documents helped to found the argument of the Mau Mau, the Freedom Fighters from Kenya during the 1960s, who are now suing the British government on claims of inhumane torture techniques, including very graphic accounts of rape, castration, and physical mutilation.
Our class attended the press conference conducted by the law firm and representatives from the Human Rights Commission, the Kenyan Parliament, and Kenyan Lawyers. Various representatives of the original Mau Mau were also present.
These men and women who fought against the colonial regime were considered terrorists, even among many Kenyan politicians who continued to perpetuate the conspiracy and the secrecy revolving around the Mau Mau post-independence.
Radical actions against the state are often considered "terrorist." Anything against the status quo, that challenges the resignation with which we live our lives, is deemed offensive.
And many times, when people are blinded by their passions, their love for a cause or a people, radical actions can cause more harm than good. I thought of Che Guevarra, who essentially worked for the people but ended up becoming a guerilla warrior.
But when I looked at these tired, forlorn, and haggard men and women, who stood up without pride, any thoughts of brutal warfare and killings were dispelled, and I only thought of the atrocities these poor people were put through as punishment for their love of Kenya.
And history and the present merged, its boundaries indistinguishable, encompassing everything we knew and know, laying groundwork for what we can only hope to know.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
2 left feet (well, none that is functioning)
So I have been MIA for some time because I have been busy limping around London and getting Tendonitis.
Today, I am hobbling around Liverpool for the day with my class. In the evening I will be sure to update life--with everything including human rights issues, my eyebrows, and the best day of the trip so far (Saturday).
Also, HAPPY BIRTHDAY MANUSHI!
Today, I am hobbling around Liverpool for the day with my class. In the evening I will be sure to update life--with everything including human rights issues, my eyebrows, and the best day of the trip so far (Saturday).
Also, HAPPY BIRTHDAY MANUSHI!
Friday, June 19, 2009
more famous people...dead and alive!
So, I got a tour of London from someone with an IMDB page.
Emily Richard showed us some historic sites around London Bridge, like Francis Drake's ship and the Tower of London, and also the streets through which Dickens walked to visit his parents at a debtor's museum and the cathedral at which Shakespeare buried his younger brother. She would lead us into random pubs and cafes so that we could give our legs some rest, and then any time she would spot a waiter she would abruptly get up and we continued on with the walk outside, enduring the particularly London elements.
She would tell us random facts, and then pause for dramatic effect. Emily Richard is a complete ham, and absolutely brilliant. I saw more on this arbitrary tour of the influences on Shakespeare than I did on the fake tour of the London sights. From Mrs. Dickens' last words to Darwin's commentary on Shakespeare to remarkably relevant lines from MacBeth and Julius Caesar, she managed to quote directly and fluently, as though she had were witness to these men and women, both fictional and real.
Oh, and she is friends with Sir Ian McKellen.
Emily Richard showed us some historic sites around London Bridge, like Francis Drake's ship and the Tower of London, and also the streets through which Dickens walked to visit his parents at a debtor's museum and the cathedral at which Shakespeare buried his younger brother. She would lead us into random pubs and cafes so that we could give our legs some rest, and then any time she would spot a waiter she would abruptly get up and we continued on with the walk outside, enduring the particularly London elements.
She would tell us random facts, and then pause for dramatic effect. Emily Richard is a complete ham, and absolutely brilliant. I saw more on this arbitrary tour of the influences on Shakespeare than I did on the fake tour of the London sights. From Mrs. Dickens' last words to Darwin's commentary on Shakespeare to remarkably relevant lines from MacBeth and Julius Caesar, she managed to quote directly and fluently, as though she had were witness to these men and women, both fictional and real.
Oh, and she is friends with Sir Ian McKellen.
Paparazzi (I'm famous!)
I thought U2 put Fordham on the map.
But apparently, Fordham has a magazine and needs to boost its reputation by documenting a day in the life of the study abroad kids in London.
I was subject to complete interrogation by some pretty reporter who had an English accent, though she grew up in Portland, OR.
Then today, the London Centre had arranged a tour of some of London's sights. They were going to provide us with lunch and underground passes to get to the sights. We had to perform a little bit beforehand.
A mock class, on the day we have off, so that the photographer could put some authentic shots in the Fordham magazine. We all trudged into the classroom, already woken up by the Lithuanian cleaning lady, the defective fire alarm that blared for 18 minutes, and the arbitrary day camp in which children screech English phrases while they play football outside my window. And then we were given random books, some of poetry, some of history, some of explicit (maybe even illicit) material, and we then posed false questions and got irrelevant answers, ("Why am I awake?" "Marks & Spencer has good underwear.")
And then, we walked to Pret A Manger (which has moved to NYC) and I ate a hot, spicy falafel wrap with "all-natural" apple juice. Then we got on the Tube (which we paid for ourselves) and travelled to Westminster. I began to get excited--these were a bunch of sites I had wanted to check off my list (I was in a sari and sneakers state of mind). Of course, we were not to go inside Parliament, or even walk towards the Abbey, or ride the London Eye--we had to pretend we were tourists ("but, Bill, we are tourists!") and then we had to pretend to take pictures of the Thames ("but, Bill, I am taking a picture of the Thames!") and then we had to pretend to like each other and laugh with one another ("but, Bill, we are genuinely having fun together!"). Essentially, he wanted to capture "token" moments on camera--the token hippie, the token British phone booth, the token look of wonderment.
He then offered to buy us drinks and dinner if we would let him take pictures when we go out. Paid for by Fordham, the hottest Catholic school in the nation.
But apparently, Fordham has a magazine and needs to boost its reputation by documenting a day in the life of the study abroad kids in London.
I was subject to complete interrogation by some pretty reporter who had an English accent, though she grew up in Portland, OR.
Then today, the London Centre had arranged a tour of some of London's sights. They were going to provide us with lunch and underground passes to get to the sights. We had to perform a little bit beforehand.
A mock class, on the day we have off, so that the photographer could put some authentic shots in the Fordham magazine. We all trudged into the classroom, already woken up by the Lithuanian cleaning lady, the defective fire alarm that blared for 18 minutes, and the arbitrary day camp in which children screech English phrases while they play football outside my window. And then we were given random books, some of poetry, some of history, some of explicit (maybe even illicit) material, and we then posed false questions and got irrelevant answers, ("Why am I awake?" "Marks & Spencer has good underwear.")
And then, we walked to Pret A Manger (which has moved to NYC) and I ate a hot, spicy falafel wrap with "all-natural" apple juice. Then we got on the Tube (which we paid for ourselves) and travelled to Westminster. I began to get excited--these were a bunch of sites I had wanted to check off my list (I was in a sari and sneakers state of mind). Of course, we were not to go inside Parliament, or even walk towards the Abbey, or ride the London Eye--we had to pretend we were tourists ("but, Bill, we are tourists!") and then we had to pretend to take pictures of the Thames ("but, Bill, I am taking a picture of the Thames!") and then we had to pretend to like each other and laugh with one another ("but, Bill, we are genuinely having fun together!"). Essentially, he wanted to capture "token" moments on camera--the token hippie, the token British phone booth, the token look of wonderment.
He then offered to buy us drinks and dinner if we would let him take pictures when we go out. Paid for by Fordham, the hottest Catholic school in the nation.
the Ocean Blue
We went down to SOHO last night. We found some chic little restaurant/bar and decided to go in, and seek refuge from the icy winds.
The place was nice; there were many young people sitting in couches and benches, stooped over tables eating "chips" and drinking from colorful glasses. A sign at the stairs piqued my interest. "PRIVATE PARTY DOWNSTAIRS. Mechelle A..." I turned to my friend. "Let's go."
So we decided to tell people we were friends with an Anna, who we decided was Mechelle's colleague.
We found two blokes standing near the DJ and went to talk to them. Somehow they managed to figure out, almost immediately, that we were not from London. The shorter one, from Brixton, said, "This is a private party. But you guys had the balls to come down here. And for that you are officially invited." And the other one, the blonde, added, "Yea. The minute you two came over to talk to us, we knew you had to be American. The English just aren't brazen enough."
They continued to give us tips on cheap eats and trendy, young areas in the city. The reason they were all there was because two of the company's bosses were retiring. The shorter one from Brixton told us to go and say good bye to the boss by the couch, the one flirting with the young blond.
My friend and I walked up to him, and tapped him on the shoulder. "Sir," we said, in our most brazen, balls-y accents, "I am really sorry to see you go. It was truly a pleasure working with you." He look flustered. "Um, right. Well, I'm sorry I didn't get the chance to get to know you." And then he abandoned his girlfriend to sit on the couch, wondering when his architectural empire had reached the shores of the New World.
The place was nice; there were many young people sitting in couches and benches, stooped over tables eating "chips" and drinking from colorful glasses. A sign at the stairs piqued my interest. "PRIVATE PARTY DOWNSTAIRS. Mechelle A..." I turned to my friend. "Let's go."
So we decided to tell people we were friends with an Anna, who we decided was Mechelle's colleague.
We found two blokes standing near the DJ and went to talk to them. Somehow they managed to figure out, almost immediately, that we were not from London. The shorter one, from Brixton, said, "This is a private party. But you guys had the balls to come down here. And for that you are officially invited." And the other one, the blonde, added, "Yea. The minute you two came over to talk to us, we knew you had to be American. The English just aren't brazen enough."
They continued to give us tips on cheap eats and trendy, young areas in the city. The reason they were all there was because two of the company's bosses were retiring. The shorter one from Brixton told us to go and say good bye to the boss by the couch, the one flirting with the young blond.
My friend and I walked up to him, and tapped him on the shoulder. "Sir," we said, in our most brazen, balls-y accents, "I am really sorry to see you go. It was truly a pleasure working with you." He look flustered. "Um, right. Well, I'm sorry I didn't get the chance to get to know you." And then he abandoned his girlfriend to sit on the couch, wondering when his architectural empire had reached the shores of the New World.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Jolly Gay Fun (and Yuvraj Singh)
I met a Gujarati trannie last night. He was a Patel, who had given Prince William a lap dance and was kissed on his right hand by Kylie Minogue (Daniel Minogue had kissed the left). I suppose he was a trannie of the upper crust.
His stage name is ChiChi ConCarne. (His birth name is Chirag Patel.) And when his grandmother died, she had left for him her anklets.
Oh yes, and I saw Yuvraj Singh last night. Google him if you don't know who he is; I didn't know his face, but knew of his name, and knew that no matter what, I must take a picture with this man, if only for my father's sake. So my friend took a pic with his cell phone (of course, I left my camera in the room). My list of famous people whom I have touched now includes Hillary Clinton, Anderson Cooper, Ashton Kutcher, and now Yuvraj Singh. (Dreaming counts, too).
And the trannie. For some reason, even though I knew I should have been trying to befriend Mr. Singh, (I did tell him I would have my people call his people), I could not resist spending time with ChiChi. He embodied the duality of my existence--the Gujjus at home, and the gays at Fordham. I fell in love, completely enraptured by this walking and talking mirror of my life.
Basically, no matter where I run, I won't hide. Either the radical Gujarati diaspora or the homosexual population will find me.
Sometimes, as a packaged deal.
His stage name is ChiChi ConCarne. (His birth name is Chirag Patel.) And when his grandmother died, she had left for him her anklets.
Oh yes, and I saw Yuvraj Singh last night. Google him if you don't know who he is; I didn't know his face, but knew of his name, and knew that no matter what, I must take a picture with this man, if only for my father's sake. So my friend took a pic with his cell phone (of course, I left my camera in the room). My list of famous people whom I have touched now includes Hillary Clinton, Anderson Cooper, Ashton Kutcher, and now Yuvraj Singh. (Dreaming counts, too).
And the trannie. For some reason, even though I knew I should have been trying to befriend Mr. Singh, (I did tell him I would have my people call his people), I could not resist spending time with ChiChi. He embodied the duality of my existence--the Gujjus at home, and the gays at Fordham. I fell in love, completely enraptured by this walking and talking mirror of my life.
Basically, no matter where I run, I won't hide. Either the radical Gujarati diaspora or the homosexual population will find me.
Sometimes, as a packaged deal.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Orient This!
We had Orientation and our very first class today.
Everyone's first impression of me is a crazy, old hag.
I wanted to buy eyeliner and pens today, and took a little stroll before Orientation this morning. I walked into Boots (a pharmacy), found a cheap eyeliner, and went to the cashier. She was Korean and had on bright purple eye shadow. She asked me if I wanted to try their new mascara; I told her I didn't want to buy anything, but she offered to put it on me anyways.
Just for fun, she said.
She seduced me with her innocent British accent, and before I knew it I was sitting on a high swively chair, and she was smearing lumps of mascara onto my lashes.
"Can you see the difference?" I looked in the mirror, and jumped back slightly. I didn't want to disappoint her, so I pretended I liked the tarantula effect on my eyes. She smiled and said, "It's because you have such nice eyes!" I looked again, and blinked, hoping tears would smudge the hyperbole that was my eyelashes.
Of course, it was waterproof.
I walked out of the store, my head leaning towards the floor, weighed down by my lashes.
I would have been a perfect fit at Lucky Cheng's or Lips. Or maybe even Barnum and Bailey's Circus.
And yet, instead of being on a stage, or dancing on a table in a purple leopard skin leotard and red shoes, I walked into Heythrop College, into a room full of my classmates and professors.
As long as it made the Korean woman with the British accent happy.
Everyone's first impression of me is a crazy, old hag.
I wanted to buy eyeliner and pens today, and took a little stroll before Orientation this morning. I walked into Boots (a pharmacy), found a cheap eyeliner, and went to the cashier. She was Korean and had on bright purple eye shadow. She asked me if I wanted to try their new mascara; I told her I didn't want to buy anything, but she offered to put it on me anyways.
Just for fun, she said.
She seduced me with her innocent British accent, and before I knew it I was sitting on a high swively chair, and she was smearing lumps of mascara onto my lashes.
"Can you see the difference?" I looked in the mirror, and jumped back slightly. I didn't want to disappoint her, so I pretended I liked the tarantula effect on my eyes. She smiled and said, "It's because you have such nice eyes!" I looked again, and blinked, hoping tears would smudge the hyperbole that was my eyelashes.
Of course, it was waterproof.
I walked out of the store, my head leaning towards the floor, weighed down by my lashes.
I would have been a perfect fit at Lucky Cheng's or Lips. Or maybe even Barnum and Bailey's Circus.
And yet, instead of being on a stage, or dancing on a table in a purple leopard skin leotard and red shoes, I walked into Heythrop College, into a room full of my classmates and professors.
As long as it made the Korean woman with the British accent happy.
DISCLAIMER: READ EVERY POST FOR THE NEXT MONTH WITH A BRITISH ACCENT
I was not given fair warning before I boarded my flight. No one from the Study Abroad office told me; not even anyone working at the British Embassy let me know.
Everyone here has a British accent.
Just like in the movies. And because of this, I keep thinking that I am seeing famous people; but neither the homeless man on the street, the thiry something year olds working at Boots pharmacy, nor the homicidal bus drivers are famous. Everything is authentic. This is actually London.
I stepped off the plane, which fed me cheesy tortellini, offered free wine, individual bottles of olive oil, with chocolates and chocolate cake, (a conspiracy probably devised by my father so I gain unseemly weight and fend off male suitors), and walked into a clean airport. The airport was peppered with arbitrary metal and steel structures protruding from the ground and ceiling, providing an inconvenient (especially for those with large suitcases trying to fit through two random steel obstructions) glimpse into the future.
After heading to the other terminal to be picked up, we (I met one of my classmates on the flight to Newark) stepped outside for some fresh air. My body clock was running at 3 in the morning, and yet the sun was out in London, people were smoking, and a small grey pigeon was busy eating a cucumber sandwich off the street. For some strange reason, that mangled cucumber sandwich reminded me of home, and my stomach suddenly lurched forward with a sophomoric feeling of homesickness. (Later in the day I had steamed cucumbers with my dinner, which again made me miss home, but only because the veggies at my house are usually edible, let alone tasty.)
We waited in the airport for a few hours, and one by one I watched the other students trudge through the terminal, and to our meeting spot, all with heavy bags, both in their hands and under their eyes.
We decided to take the Tube back to Heythrop College. All I can remember from this trip is stairs. Lots of stairs. (and blood, sweat, and tears. jolly good.)
The college is in a beautiful area. It is kind of like the Upper West Side meets Soho meets Greenwich Village meets a stampede of people with British accents (because, again, everyone here has one. even the American people!!) It is very safe. It is very rich (hint: car brands). And there are a lot of phone stores around.
So I ran around in the heat and with my inferior American face (I am trying to think like an English woman so that I look more like one) running from one phone store to the next. The whole chase started with one Indian guy who kind of screwed me over with a SIM card. Long story not worth telling on the blog. But I essentially went to each phone store twice before finding a good deal and a --keyword--FUNCTIONAL deal. (Of course, the SIM is still not activated and I am still without contact with my family. Oh well, I guess I can't get trouble for texting too much.) Oh and I stayed true to my Indian and Jersey roots (and honestly, thought of my dad when I did this) and made sure I got a refund from the Indian guy. He didn't even have a cool accent--why should I surrender to his worthless, expatriate rule?
Dinner was glorious. And by glorious I mean, I am so happy I brought craisins to London. Still, I cannot completely agree with the "Cold food, Cold people" label of London. Yes, I had an ice-cold samosa today, and a luke warm frittata for dinner last night; but I got a garlic tofu stir fry on the way to the 12th (120th) phone store and it was so incredibly hot I almost dropped it on a black poodle.
And more importantly, the people are incredibly nice. Maybe it's because they sympathize with me--I clearly looked lost (and I looked corpse-like because I couldn't find my eyeliner)---but either way, everyone in the phone stores has been eager to get me on my way (for the third time in most cases).
No one here is that good looking, per se, but I am still weirdly attracted to every single bumbling bloke (and girl) that walks across the cobblestone streets (okay they are actually black and concrete like the ones in New York, but sometimes I like to pretend). Maybe it is because they all look like they have something interesting to say, something interesting to contribute to (my) life. Or maybe it is because I know that whatever they do say will sound interesting.
Oh, and I heard the Resident Director (Hostel Manager) tell someone that when they are in London again, they should "get together for a cup of tea."
Seriously.
Everyone here has a British accent.
Just like in the movies. And because of this, I keep thinking that I am seeing famous people; but neither the homeless man on the street, the thiry something year olds working at Boots pharmacy, nor the homicidal bus drivers are famous. Everything is authentic. This is actually London.
I stepped off the plane, which fed me cheesy tortellini, offered free wine, individual bottles of olive oil, with chocolates and chocolate cake, (a conspiracy probably devised by my father so I gain unseemly weight and fend off male suitors), and walked into a clean airport. The airport was peppered with arbitrary metal and steel structures protruding from the ground and ceiling, providing an inconvenient (especially for those with large suitcases trying to fit through two random steel obstructions) glimpse into the future.
After heading to the other terminal to be picked up, we (I met one of my classmates on the flight to Newark) stepped outside for some fresh air. My body clock was running at 3 in the morning, and yet the sun was out in London, people were smoking, and a small grey pigeon was busy eating a cucumber sandwich off the street. For some strange reason, that mangled cucumber sandwich reminded me of home, and my stomach suddenly lurched forward with a sophomoric feeling of homesickness. (Later in the day I had steamed cucumbers with my dinner, which again made me miss home, but only because the veggies at my house are usually edible, let alone tasty.)
We waited in the airport for a few hours, and one by one I watched the other students trudge through the terminal, and to our meeting spot, all with heavy bags, both in their hands and under their eyes.
We decided to take the Tube back to Heythrop College. All I can remember from this trip is stairs. Lots of stairs. (and blood, sweat, and tears. jolly good.)
The college is in a beautiful area. It is kind of like the Upper West Side meets Soho meets Greenwich Village meets a stampede of people with British accents (because, again, everyone here has one. even the American people!!) It is very safe. It is very rich (hint: car brands). And there are a lot of phone stores around.
So I ran around in the heat and with my inferior American face (I am trying to think like an English woman so that I look more like one) running from one phone store to the next. The whole chase started with one Indian guy who kind of screwed me over with a SIM card. Long story not worth telling on the blog. But I essentially went to each phone store twice before finding a good deal and a --keyword--FUNCTIONAL deal. (Of course, the SIM is still not activated and I am still without contact with my family. Oh well, I guess I can't get trouble for texting too much.) Oh and I stayed true to my Indian and Jersey roots (and honestly, thought of my dad when I did this) and made sure I got a refund from the Indian guy. He didn't even have a cool accent--why should I surrender to his worthless, expatriate rule?
Dinner was glorious. And by glorious I mean, I am so happy I brought craisins to London. Still, I cannot completely agree with the "Cold food, Cold people" label of London. Yes, I had an ice-cold samosa today, and a luke warm frittata for dinner last night; but I got a garlic tofu stir fry on the way to the 12th (120th) phone store and it was so incredibly hot I almost dropped it on a black poodle.
And more importantly, the people are incredibly nice. Maybe it's because they sympathize with me--I clearly looked lost (and I looked corpse-like because I couldn't find my eyeliner)---but either way, everyone in the phone stores has been eager to get me on my way (for the third time in most cases).
No one here is that good looking, per se, but I am still weirdly attracted to every single bumbling bloke (and girl) that walks across the cobblestone streets (okay they are actually black and concrete like the ones in New York, but sometimes I like to pretend). Maybe it is because they all look like they have something interesting to say, something interesting to contribute to (my) life. Or maybe it is because I know that whatever they do say will sound interesting.
Oh, and I heard the Resident Director (Hostel Manager) tell someone that when they are in London again, they should "get together for a cup of tea."
Seriously.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
London (well, almost)
I am going to London in less than 48 hours. So naturally, I was watching Hilary Duff music videos this afternoon with Manu, who was also studying for Chem.
As I watched my rival celebrity (yes, I was a teen sensation in my day) get drenched by torrential rains as she embraced her long lost lover, I thought of my upcoming adventures in rainy London. And then I sat on the couch with a big goofy smile on my face, thinking about two things: Hilary Duff's rise to fame and my exciting summer.
I am in the mood to be refreshed; and it seems that the only way to do so is to travel to another country. Across the Atlantic, I will "come clean," all my worries, all my the wrinkles in my brow, all my thoughts washed away and subsumed by thick accents, tea time, and pub culture.
Hilary, I too want to feel the thunder; I too want to scream. If I come back crazy, it is only because the rain washed away my sanity.
Or because they would have brainwashed me with socialist, ultra liberal propaganda about free public goods and services. Damn Reds.
As I watched my rival celebrity (yes, I was a teen sensation in my day) get drenched by torrential rains as she embraced her long lost lover, I thought of my upcoming adventures in rainy London. And then I sat on the couch with a big goofy smile on my face, thinking about two things: Hilary Duff's rise to fame and my exciting summer.
I am in the mood to be refreshed; and it seems that the only way to do so is to travel to another country. Across the Atlantic, I will "come clean," all my worries, all my the wrinkles in my brow, all my thoughts washed away and subsumed by thick accents, tea time, and pub culture.
Hilary, I too want to feel the thunder; I too want to scream. If I come back crazy, it is only because the rain washed away my sanity.
Or because they would have brainwashed me with socialist, ultra liberal propaganda about free public goods and services. Damn Reds.
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