Someone is hacking up loogies (sp?) outside my window. That's the thing about London. It's all about sights, sounds, smells and tastes. To the extreme. Take the chicken moutarde I had today at the Marylebone Farmers Market. Unbelievable. Just a lusciously rich chicken and mustard gravy with mushrooms and onions. I brought it home and served it over brown rice with some sauteed asparagus tips and red pepper. I had some of Titi's left over black rice and coconut milk. It was divine. I can't even comment on how glorious all the produce looked at the market. I was near tears. Such colors, such amazing examples of nature, as God intended it, nothing overshipped or wilted or limp or old or shriveled or just plain devoid of nutrition or life. I don't normally wax poetic about produce, but damn, when you compare. It amazes you what you put up with simply because you don't know what else is out there (for all those in bad relationships, let's just go ahead and apply that analogy here too).
The market manager looked like Hyde from "That 70s Show." He was so chill and just hip, kind of like the vegetables. There were also pies (as in quiche type pies) made from spelt flour. I will get those next week. Yeah, spelt! There were cheeses all colors of the rainbow, crisp and verdant greens, a whole tent where they were cooking paella and ham and vegetables and my delightful chicken moutarde. There was roasted garlic and marzipan fruit cake and a glorious layered cake with berries and ricotta. There was even a man with about 10 kinds of potatoes, if that's your thing.
When you walk down any given street, you're overcome by the smells. One minute it's a woman's super strong perfume, another it's one that smells of cherries or soap, then a man's aftershave, then someone puffing hookah smoke in the air. There are flowers everywhere, men wearing blazers, jeans and funky tennis shoes, people with big hair, people in elegant scarves (men and women), babies in adorable multi-hued tights and little pink dresses and tiny hats, one guy was even playing air guitar with a blow up plastic guitar. I'm still having a hard time getting people to smile, but that surely doesn't keep me from smiling. That's all I've done today and I can't stop. Today I'm happy and I love every moment of this experience.
Sunday, 30 September 2007
Money, Money, Money...
Here are a few things that piss me off:
The price of tube fare. I've spent about $40 in three days just on passes to and from areas not more than 15 minutes away. Sure, I could walk, but get lost another 5 hours? No thanks.
The currency exchange rate. On top of that, the disparity in exchange from one store to the next. I stupidly exchanged $200 usd yesterday and got only 85 pounds. The guy tried to convince me it was the best rate around and I should do it today. I went this afternoon and asked another place how much for $200 and they said 92 pounds. I was ripped off! Then, when my mom wired me 550 usd I only got 252 pounds from the Western Union place. Damnit. They wouldn't give me dollars so i could take it to the place with the best exchange rate. Somehow, I lost over 45 bucks in the transaction.
I know, I know, London is expensive. I get that. I know it's a luxury to live here. But still, I can rant if I want!
Tomatoes are 12 usd at a farmers market! These farmers must live in palaces...I want to support them, but even lettuce is pricey. What a shame.
The price of tube fare. I've spent about $40 in three days just on passes to and from areas not more than 15 minutes away. Sure, I could walk, but get lost another 5 hours? No thanks.
The currency exchange rate. On top of that, the disparity in exchange from one store to the next. I stupidly exchanged $200 usd yesterday and got only 85 pounds. The guy tried to convince me it was the best rate around and I should do it today. I went this afternoon and asked another place how much for $200 and they said 92 pounds. I was ripped off! Then, when my mom wired me 550 usd I only got 252 pounds from the Western Union place. Damnit. They wouldn't give me dollars so i could take it to the place with the best exchange rate. Somehow, I lost over 45 bucks in the transaction.
I know, I know, London is expensive. I get that. I know it's a luxury to live here. But still, I can rant if I want!
Tomatoes are 12 usd at a farmers market! These farmers must live in palaces...I want to support them, but even lettuce is pricey. What a shame.
How to Knit Your Life
I talked to Gail, who created the Weardowney label. She told me all about how she started her business and why. I’m going to take a knitting class with her next week. She makes beautiful things – dresses, skirts, sweaters and accessories. I don’t dare look how expensive they are, especially when she told me how long it takes to make one garment (nearly two weeks!). You can check out her Web site (www.weardowney.com). She’s a very classy lady. We talked about how growing older gives you a much clearer perspective on life, much more confidence and less fear about others’ perceptions of you. We both agreed we’d never want to go back to our twenties. “The only benefit from that age is physical,” she says, “which is so much less than you get when you really start knowing and understanding who you are.”
A Sticky Situation
The scent of coconuts filled the room like flowers in a garden. Titi made me some Indonesian black sticky rice and coconut milk. I’d just spent a grueling and frustrating (though educational) day wandering the streets of West London and getting hopelessly lost (yes, that damn touristy thing was unavoidable), so coming back to the kitchen with my groceries and seeing her smiling face handing me a bowl of something I’d never had before was worth all the physical toil. I liked that it wasn’t at all sweet. She showed me a cylindrical cube of palm sugar, which she drops in the whole pot of rice. She soaks the rice overnight and then cooks it up with the sugar, then serves it with warmed coconut cream and a pinch of salt poured on top. Delicious! The rice was nice and soft, but had a crunchy and chewy texture, and the cream on top was a great counterbalance to any sweetness the sugar might have imparted. In fact, it tasted more salty than sweet. It’s very much like a porridge and resembles Chinese red bean paste. I’m sure I’ll have a lot to say about porridge soon. Also, pasties. That’s something I want to learn more about. They’re like the British take on empanadas. I saw a great place today, called Pie in a Box or something like that. I imagine it’s different kinds of pot pies. I’ve noticed there’s a lot of a lot of things here. I’m still not eating sugar, but I’ve got to check out the pound cake place. 20 varieties. I just like to be able to choose.
Tidbits of Day 3
On the street today I saw a pink stretch limousine called “Pink Lady”
I saw another hot pink taxi
I saw a man and a woman both wearing pink. An actual pink couple! She was all in pink and he was in jeans and a pink sweater. See, metrosexual men aren’t afraid of pink!
A man said “wiggle, wiggle,” then whistled as I passed by. I tried really hard to pretend I didn’t know what that meant since it was obviously a British phrase. But even me, who is known to be rather naïve, can figure that one out.
A man dropped a pen on the street next to me and I helped him pick it up. He said, “thank you, that is very kind.”
A man on the tube had a giant tattoo that covered his left arm, a mark on his other arm that looked like it was carved by a knife and a very deep scar near his wrist that went from his wrist to his elbow. It looked like it must’ve been very, very painful. Still, he was dressed impeccably. He had on a red t-shirt, designer jeans, clean shoes and a gorgeous tan cable knit sweater. Only in Europe can a man look like he runs with the thugs yet still be as fashionable as a catalog model.
I saw another hot pink taxi
I saw a man and a woman both wearing pink. An actual pink couple! She was all in pink and he was in jeans and a pink sweater. See, metrosexual men aren’t afraid of pink!
A man said “wiggle, wiggle,” then whistled as I passed by. I tried really hard to pretend I didn’t know what that meant since it was obviously a British phrase. But even me, who is known to be rather naïve, can figure that one out.
A man dropped a pen on the street next to me and I helped him pick it up. He said, “thank you, that is very kind.”
A man on the tube had a giant tattoo that covered his left arm, a mark on his other arm that looked like it was carved by a knife and a very deep scar near his wrist that went from his wrist to his elbow. It looked like it must’ve been very, very painful. Still, he was dressed impeccably. He had on a red t-shirt, designer jeans, clean shoes and a gorgeous tan cable knit sweater. Only in Europe can a man look like he runs with the thugs yet still be as fashionable as a catalog model.
Tourist
I got really lost today. Gail said it would only take me 20 minutes. It took about 2 hours. I was trying to find the Cordon Bleu, but instead I found a lot of really cool streets I want to explore later. I also got at least three smiles from people on the street today. I considered that a real personal coup. After the first 30 minutes, I got flustered and asked a man on the street to help me. He was so nice. He pulled out a pocket map and together we tried to find my street. “Let’s have a look, then,” he said. The letters were all so tiny. At one point he said, “Now they went and put the crease in the wrong place, then didn’t they?” It was the closest I’d gotten into someone’s personal space, ever. But he was so delightful and I was very happy when I left him. But still lost. For another hour. At one point I was fiddling with my map in a corner somewhere when two delivery men asked if I needed help. Unfortunately they didn’t know where I needed to go, so I got lost again. I never did find my school. But I do know that Oxford Street is where it’s at. It’s sort of like the Rue de St. Catherine in Montreal. Full of clothing shops and tons of cafes. Still, it’s a bit nauseating in terms of foot traffic. There are more people on Oxford Street than in New York (exaggeration, but still, it’s friggin crowded). I got a bit nervous about pick pockets, as I’d just changed $200 into pounds and all of a sudden felt really self conscious. That would be a thief’s dream come true on that street. Next time I’m keeping my money in my underwear.
I figured out the tube on my very own today. Despite looking like a full on tourist while above ground, I’ve taken on a new image while down below. I really did a fabulous job. I took the Central line from Bond St. to the Circle/District line and hopped on that line to Kensington High Street. I went to Interlet, my last hope for getting my own place. Otherwise, I’ll have to take the Weardowney at a great premium. If I found a place that actually was available, I might save $1500. There were like ten people in line ahead of me who all want the same thing and there really wasn’t a great deal of places available. I’m not sure I’ll be able to be picky by the time my turn rolls around. We’ll see. I’ve got three appointments on Monday.
I figured out the tube on my very own today. Despite looking like a full on tourist while above ground, I’ve taken on a new image while down below. I really did a fabulous job. I took the Central line from Bond St. to the Circle/District line and hopped on that line to Kensington High Street. I went to Interlet, my last hope for getting my own place. Otherwise, I’ll have to take the Weardowney at a great premium. If I found a place that actually was available, I might save $1500. There were like ten people in line ahead of me who all want the same thing and there really wasn’t a great deal of places available. I’m not sure I’ll be able to be picky by the time my turn rolls around. We’ll see. I’ve got three appointments on Monday.
Russian Shampoo
In St. Louis, were you to stay at, say, the Marriot, you’d be hard pressed to find a bottle of Russian shampoo. Not that it would have to be made in Russia, mind you, but a bottle with all sorts of Cyrillic characters that say things like lather, rinse and repeat and all the same stuff our shampoo bottles say. When I took my first shower at Weardowney Guesthouse, Gail gave me a bottle left over from a previous guest, who just happened to be from Russia. It was a cheap brand, L’Oreal. It wreaked of perfume, but somehow I felt much happier lathering up. That’s one way I knew I wasn’t in Kansas anymore…
Another way is the cars. There is a different sound to European cars, particularly when you’re up a few flights and the window is open. It’s just that sound, that you can’t really explain. European exhaust, European engines revving…the air, the feel of it all.
Other than the shampoo and the cars, and the tons of people in different accents, carrying and eating different food, I wouldn’t know I was abroad.
Another way is the cars. There is a different sound to European cars, particularly when you’re up a few flights and the window is open. It’s just that sound, that you can’t really explain. European exhaust, European engines revving…the air, the feel of it all.
Other than the shampoo and the cars, and the tons of people in different accents, carrying and eating different food, I wouldn’t know I was abroad.
Friday, 28 September 2007
Day 2: Things are Looking Up
So here’s the kind of day I had:
Woke up at 3 a.m. Had to pee really bad, but didn’t want to traverse the steps in the dark only to pee in the equivalent of a Johnny on the Spot/Outhouse. I’ve been holding any and all bodily fluids since I arrived. Don’t even ask how I bathed the next day and with what. We won’t go there.
Got up in the morning and searched online for hotels. Couldn’t find any cheaper than $200. Finally found one for a bit under $170 (ouch), then called to book it and both my credit cards were declined. I had to call my mom back home to get new cc numbers to use, but the cell phone I bought denied me access to call the states. In the meantime, I was hungry. Went to the kitchen and fell down the stairs on my way. Apparently, my socks were slippery.
I called the cell company, got everything straightened out, called my cc companies to see what was up, and they were all asleep. It was 6:30 a.m. in the U.S. I got the cc number for an Amex from mom, called the guy back (Mark, who later became my new bff in London), only to discover I needed a code on the front of the card, which I didn’t get. When I finally called Mark with the code, I couldn’t find the piece of paper I wrote it on. It wasn’t in my bag. I was now in the car, so I had to go back inside. I called Mark back and hung up and realized I forgot to get the address of the hotel. I actually talked to Mark six times in less than an hour. Whenever I call now, I just say, “Hi Mark, it’s Stefanie.”
Went outside and it was raining. Luckily, I love rain. But not in a 30 year old car with no power steering, brakes that really work or anything that really works. We chugged along roads with millions of cars honking at us. She has to drive slow and stops full before turning as the wheel is so hard to turn. She must have the strongest arm muscles of any human. She can’t back it up, as it has no reverse. It stalled a lot and the parking brake got stuck so a strange man got in the car next to me to help us fix it. While getting into a parking space, she somehow got stuck halfway in the road and there was a truck blocking us. She couldn’t pull forward or backwards and cars were honking like crazy and passersby were all looking into the car. A man with a rough accent got out of his car to yell at us, asking us to move. Apparently, there is a law here where people can’t pass other cars so they have to wait or they’ll get a ticket. When the truck finally moved and we pulled in, a stream of about 30 cars came past us. I got out of the car to get to the tube, but was on the wrong side of the street, so I had to walk down a narrow part of the median not meant for foot traffic and squeeze my body in when buses passed me. Then, I felt like a tourist.
Here’s where it got better:
I hopped on the Angel tube. I had no idea what I was doing or where I was going, but I had some directions in hand and tried my best to look like I did this all the time. I wondered, did everyone know I was a fake? How could they tell? I didn’t stop to look at signs or pull out a tube map, the truest mark of a tourist. I had on a stylish coat with big buttons and a silver belt. True, the coat was white and it’s after September, but I could still be a native, just a fashion backwards one. I had a messenger bag. EVERYBODY in London carries a messenger bag. I even saw a man who looked about 80 carrying one. I made two connections which took next to no time. Once, the tube stopped inside a tunnel and the boy next to me who looked like Nic Carter or his brother, Aaron, said “Fuck’s sake” in an Irish brogue which sounded a bit like “Folks ache,” and then we were off. I think the train must’ve heard him. Next time I’ll try an Irish accent and see if it works.
I got off at Edgeware Rd. and ended up getting lost, but met some delightful people in a clothing store who helped me. I couldn’t find any street signs and they noted that they were on top of buildings rather than on the street intersections or at light posts where we have them. That made it easy. I found a grocery store and bought some delightful sugar free muesli, natural yogurt, Kleenex, Nairn's oat cakes, olives and cheese and some of the most delightful hummus (with cilantro) I’d ever tasted. I found my hotel, which is actually a knitting house. They knit all manner of clothes and sell it internationally. There are only 7 rooms here and they’re all designed by local artists. Gail, the manager, brought me a cup of tea with milk, and I was immediately sated. I had a little picnic on a beanbag chair (Kath: ours are way cuter, these are square and brown), and finally felt happy for the first time. Gail said she’d cut me a deal if I paid cash and I could stay here the full three months if I wanted. There is a lovely kitchen with stove and everything I could use for my stuff and there’s even a rooftop garden. It’s about a 20 minute walk to my school, which might give me a good excuse to walk off the bread and pastries. Granted, I’d still shell out over $2,000 a month in the end, but it’s very central, and close to the grocery and this is sort of an international village where I live. There are people here from all over the world. I barely hear English speakers, to be honest. And I like it like that. It’s a total melting pot. There are kebab houses everywhere, Middle Eastern places galore (one called Fatouch I have to go to since it’s my favorite salad ever) and so many cute little cafes. Every café has its own style and all of them are so colorful and hip. This place feels more like me than anyplace I’ve seen so far. I was in North London and it’s mostly residential, very spread out. You can get easy public transport links but it’s not the same feeling. I want to be in the bustling action. If I’m going to be in London, I want the full effect.
I just met a woman in the kitchen from Indonesia. Her name is Titi. I told her what I knew about her cuisine, based on my research and turns out she had some of it in the fridge (black sticky rice with coconut cream). She offered some, but I told her no thanks cuz of the sugar. I don’t think these French chefs are gonna like me too much when I spit out their tarts. Oh well. Titi was cooking lamb chops, noodles and spinach with oyster sauce. Yum.
Woke up at 3 a.m. Had to pee really bad, but didn’t want to traverse the steps in the dark only to pee in the equivalent of a Johnny on the Spot/Outhouse. I’ve been holding any and all bodily fluids since I arrived. Don’t even ask how I bathed the next day and with what. We won’t go there.
Got up in the morning and searched online for hotels. Couldn’t find any cheaper than $200. Finally found one for a bit under $170 (ouch), then called to book it and both my credit cards were declined. I had to call my mom back home to get new cc numbers to use, but the cell phone I bought denied me access to call the states. In the meantime, I was hungry. Went to the kitchen and fell down the stairs on my way. Apparently, my socks were slippery.
I called the cell company, got everything straightened out, called my cc companies to see what was up, and they were all asleep. It was 6:30 a.m. in the U.S. I got the cc number for an Amex from mom, called the guy back (Mark, who later became my new bff in London), only to discover I needed a code on the front of the card, which I didn’t get. When I finally called Mark with the code, I couldn’t find the piece of paper I wrote it on. It wasn’t in my bag. I was now in the car, so I had to go back inside. I called Mark back and hung up and realized I forgot to get the address of the hotel. I actually talked to Mark six times in less than an hour. Whenever I call now, I just say, “Hi Mark, it’s Stefanie.”
Went outside and it was raining. Luckily, I love rain. But not in a 30 year old car with no power steering, brakes that really work or anything that really works. We chugged along roads with millions of cars honking at us. She has to drive slow and stops full before turning as the wheel is so hard to turn. She must have the strongest arm muscles of any human. She can’t back it up, as it has no reverse. It stalled a lot and the parking brake got stuck so a strange man got in the car next to me to help us fix it. While getting into a parking space, she somehow got stuck halfway in the road and there was a truck blocking us. She couldn’t pull forward or backwards and cars were honking like crazy and passersby were all looking into the car. A man with a rough accent got out of his car to yell at us, asking us to move. Apparently, there is a law here where people can’t pass other cars so they have to wait or they’ll get a ticket. When the truck finally moved and we pulled in, a stream of about 30 cars came past us. I got out of the car to get to the tube, but was on the wrong side of the street, so I had to walk down a narrow part of the median not meant for foot traffic and squeeze my body in when buses passed me. Then, I felt like a tourist.
Here’s where it got better:
I hopped on the Angel tube. I had no idea what I was doing or where I was going, but I had some directions in hand and tried my best to look like I did this all the time. I wondered, did everyone know I was a fake? How could they tell? I didn’t stop to look at signs or pull out a tube map, the truest mark of a tourist. I had on a stylish coat with big buttons and a silver belt. True, the coat was white and it’s after September, but I could still be a native, just a fashion backwards one. I had a messenger bag. EVERYBODY in London carries a messenger bag. I even saw a man who looked about 80 carrying one. I made two connections which took next to no time. Once, the tube stopped inside a tunnel and the boy next to me who looked like Nic Carter or his brother, Aaron, said “Fuck’s sake” in an Irish brogue which sounded a bit like “Folks ache,” and then we were off. I think the train must’ve heard him. Next time I’ll try an Irish accent and see if it works.
I got off at Edgeware Rd. and ended up getting lost, but met some delightful people in a clothing store who helped me. I couldn’t find any street signs and they noted that they were on top of buildings rather than on the street intersections or at light posts where we have them. That made it easy. I found a grocery store and bought some delightful sugar free muesli, natural yogurt, Kleenex, Nairn's oat cakes, olives and cheese and some of the most delightful hummus (with cilantro) I’d ever tasted. I found my hotel, which is actually a knitting house. They knit all manner of clothes and sell it internationally. There are only 7 rooms here and they’re all designed by local artists. Gail, the manager, brought me a cup of tea with milk, and I was immediately sated. I had a little picnic on a beanbag chair (Kath: ours are way cuter, these are square and brown), and finally felt happy for the first time. Gail said she’d cut me a deal if I paid cash and I could stay here the full three months if I wanted. There is a lovely kitchen with stove and everything I could use for my stuff and there’s even a rooftop garden. It’s about a 20 minute walk to my school, which might give me a good excuse to walk off the bread and pastries. Granted, I’d still shell out over $2,000 a month in the end, but it’s very central, and close to the grocery and this is sort of an international village where I live. There are people here from all over the world. I barely hear English speakers, to be honest. And I like it like that. It’s a total melting pot. There are kebab houses everywhere, Middle Eastern places galore (one called Fatouch I have to go to since it’s my favorite salad ever) and so many cute little cafes. Every café has its own style and all of them are so colorful and hip. This place feels more like me than anyplace I’ve seen so far. I was in North London and it’s mostly residential, very spread out. You can get easy public transport links but it’s not the same feeling. I want to be in the bustling action. If I’m going to be in London, I want the full effect.
I just met a woman in the kitchen from Indonesia. Her name is Titi. I told her what I knew about her cuisine, based on my research and turns out she had some of it in the fridge (black sticky rice with coconut cream). She offered some, but I told her no thanks cuz of the sugar. I don’t think these French chefs are gonna like me too much when I spit out their tarts. Oh well. Titi was cooking lamb chops, noodles and spinach with oyster sauce. Yum.
The Pastry Chef Gets Bad News
I called the doctor’s office to get the results of my bloodwork. I’d had a physical done before my insurance ran out, just because I could. “Everything is fine,” the nurse says. “Except one thing. Does diabetes run in your family?”
I stopped cold.
“Your sugar level is extremely high,” she says. “And, well, you know what that means. I could tell you about the diet…”
My hands started shaking. I’d already been on a sugar free diet for three weeks by the time I took that test, so my blood sugar was still high despite all my efforts at just trying to be healthy. I don’t really have anything to say about that right now. That’s just how it is, I guess. Life gives you all sorts of things to overcome and this is just one of them. I will say this: what irony, huh? Seven years of wanting to be a pastry chef, a lifetime of living in a sugar bubble. It just burst.
I stopped cold.
“Your sugar level is extremely high,” she says. “And, well, you know what that means. I could tell you about the diet…”
My hands started shaking. I’d already been on a sugar free diet for three weeks by the time I took that test, so my blood sugar was still high despite all my efforts at just trying to be healthy. I don’t really have anything to say about that right now. That’s just how it is, I guess. Life gives you all sorts of things to overcome and this is just one of them. I will say this: what irony, huh? Seven years of wanting to be a pastry chef, a lifetime of living in a sugar bubble. It just burst.
Observations on the Street
There was a man wearing a pink scarf.
There was a man rolling a hot pink suitcase who didn’t seem to be bothered at all by the color.
There was a pink taxi.
I saw a girl with purple yarn in her hair.
Cars honk a lot.
Pedestrians don’t obey traffic signs or even seem to notice. I am going to start doing this. It’s fun.
I haven’t seen Prince William yet.
There was a man rolling a hot pink suitcase who didn’t seem to be bothered at all by the color.
There was a pink taxi.
I saw a girl with purple yarn in her hair.
Cars honk a lot.
Pedestrians don’t obey traffic signs or even seem to notice. I am going to start doing this. It’s fun.
I haven’t seen Prince William yet.
Observations on the Tube:
Everyone reads the paper. While standing up.
No one looks at anyone. No one smiles. If you say excuse me when you step on someone’s feet, they don’t say anything back to you.
Everyone has an ipod.
No one looks at anyone. No one smiles. If you say excuse me when you step on someone’s feet, they don’t say anything back to you.
Everyone has an ipod.
Day 1-Weird and Weirder
I’m sitting in a patisserie/café called Apostrophe in the Brunswick center, near Bloomsbury and Euston tube stops. My friend and I took a bus then she pointed me down the street while she went somewhere else. I’m eating a couscous de’ legumes. It appears to be laced with harissa here and there and the tiniest zebra striped cherry tomatoes with a meaty texture and the most wonderfully sweet insides. Filled with garbanzo beans and fresh cilantro, broccoli and roasted red peppers, it’s a lovely snack to get me going until I pass out in a few hours. There are oodles of sandwiches which all look divine, but I’m still not doing flour. There is fresh organic apple juice and organic pear juice, coconut macaroons that look like little jabba the huts with fur, big palmiers the size of Dumbo’s ears and some really sub par looking sweets. There were two girls sitting next to me and I asked them for directions. We got to talking, then I asked them about lodging. They gave me some good Web sites. They asked me where I was from, and when I said St. Louis, I was very surprised to hear the one girl say she’d lived there and worked at Boeing. REALLY small world.
There is a place down the way Cruush, a juice bar and soup place (that I think also has falafe, but who doesn’t in London?) I want to check out and Carlucci’s gelateri, as well as another little pastry shop I spotted. Waitrose is a very cool grocery store. Maybe they’re all cool to me simply because they’re not Schnucks or Dierberg’s, but the things they have are mind boggling. Fresh figs as plump as your fist, prepared hummus in sixteen different ways, juices the color of the rainbow (including one with lychee and strawberries), gorgeous salads and 20 kinds of yogurt. The list goes on. Cardoon and dragon fruit…things you can’t find in our neck of the woods.
I went to another grocery, Marks and Spencer, which was very similar. You can buy ready made chicken tikka and butternut squash and couscous salad. It’s convenience food at its best.
I got my mobile phone. It’s hot pink. I paid 15 pounds more for it and I’m happy for my decision. Calls are free to receive, and only 10 cents for me to call out. Not bad. But if you want me to call you for any length of time, give me some money when I get back, will ya? It’s freakin expensive here. Even if it’s a buck or two, it will be nice to get some money, not shell it out like it’s my blood.
It’s totally cold here, by St. Louis standards and people are still sitting outside, sipping cappuccinos like it’s a summer day. I have on a turtleneck, a sweater jacket and a light coat and it’s just good enough. Better than the 100 degree heat from my hometown.
There is a place down the way Cruush, a juice bar and soup place (that I think also has falafe, but who doesn’t in London?) I want to check out and Carlucci’s gelateri, as well as another little pastry shop I spotted. Waitrose is a very cool grocery store. Maybe they’re all cool to me simply because they’re not Schnucks or Dierberg’s, but the things they have are mind boggling. Fresh figs as plump as your fist, prepared hummus in sixteen different ways, juices the color of the rainbow (including one with lychee and strawberries), gorgeous salads and 20 kinds of yogurt. The list goes on. Cardoon and dragon fruit…things you can’t find in our neck of the woods.
I went to another grocery, Marks and Spencer, which was very similar. You can buy ready made chicken tikka and butternut squash and couscous salad. It’s convenience food at its best.
I got my mobile phone. It’s hot pink. I paid 15 pounds more for it and I’m happy for my decision. Calls are free to receive, and only 10 cents for me to call out. Not bad. But if you want me to call you for any length of time, give me some money when I get back, will ya? It’s freakin expensive here. Even if it’s a buck or two, it will be nice to get some money, not shell it out like it’s my blood.
It’s totally cold here, by St. Louis standards and people are still sitting outside, sipping cappuccinos like it’s a summer day. I have on a turtleneck, a sweater jacket and a light coat and it’s just good enough. Better than the 100 degree heat from my hometown.
Things I Really Want to Explore in London
Tea, tea and more tea
Pound cake (see: Napket)
Lauduree (for the macaroons!)
The Dutch Colour Café
Harrods 101
Whole Foods
Baker and Spice
Wagamama
Maoz falafel
The London Eye, even though I’m afraid of ferris wheels
Soho
Picadilly Circus
Notting Hill
Burroughs Market
Yauatcha Dim Sum and Tea House
Prince William
Pound cake (see: Napket)
Lauduree (for the macaroons!)
The Dutch Colour Café
Harrods 101
Whole Foods
Baker and Spice
Wagamama
Maoz falafel
The London Eye, even though I’m afraid of ferris wheels
Soho
Picadilly Circus
Notting Hill
Burroughs Market
Yauatcha Dim Sum and Tea House
Prince William
Life in Upper Class
Everyone changed into their black comfy sleep suits and I realized something: we all want to be comfortable. In life and in the air.
They were playing really cool, Euro pop music in the cabin. Virgin Atlantic reminds me of the movie, Love Actually, very hip and fresh. Very now. A bunch of good looking young people dancing (“dahn-cing”) around. Okay, so the cabin attendants weren’t dancing, but they were so relaxed and appeared happy. They were all smiling and laughing (pronounced “laah-fing”). My personal attendant, Ed, was so delightful. My cheeks hurt from smiling so much.
Someone called me madam. I don’t know how I feel about that.
I ordered the pumpkin soup with crème fraiche and chives on top. It tasted like gold and sunshine, if gold could be pureed and then warmed, and got its warmth from the sun, if the sun were able to be put into a bowl. I was slurping and practically licking my spoon. To me, good food is a good omen for what’s to come. When I took my flight to Berlin a few years back, I had the most amazing vegetarian Indian meal of my life. That is, until I arrived in Hamburg, where, to date (note: I’m sure as I work my way across London’s curry-saturated landscape my vote will change), I had the best Indian meal ever. Goan curry with mindblowing coconut chutney served in a tiny storefront with just two bar style tables and a dirty floor. It amazed me how the woman was Indian, spoke German and English. I only spoke the latter two, but amazing still how we could communicate, worlds apart as we were in both upbringing and literal geography. Anyway, back to my superstition. When I went to Berlin I had only one good day before my cousin went psycho and ditched me a few days after my birthday. You’d think the Indian food was a bad omen, then, but really it still holds true. I found myself that year. I learned that I could make it in a big, foreign city on my own. I learned to navigate the train system, found a spice museum to visit, wandered around neighborhoods and tiny streets (that’s where I found the curry) and even went to a Portuguese restaurant that had a cat running around in it. I had some amazing chicken noodle soup there, too. So the food didn’t lie.
And judging by the pumpkin soup, I’m betting the trip ahead holds only good things. To be continued…
They were playing really cool, Euro pop music in the cabin. Virgin Atlantic reminds me of the movie, Love Actually, very hip and fresh. Very now. A bunch of good looking young people dancing (“dahn-cing”) around. Okay, so the cabin attendants weren’t dancing, but they were so relaxed and appeared happy. They were all smiling and laughing (pronounced “laah-fing”). My personal attendant, Ed, was so delightful. My cheeks hurt from smiling so much.
Someone called me madam. I don’t know how I feel about that.
I ordered the pumpkin soup with crème fraiche and chives on top. It tasted like gold and sunshine, if gold could be pureed and then warmed, and got its warmth from the sun, if the sun were able to be put into a bowl. I was slurping and practically licking my spoon. To me, good food is a good omen for what’s to come. When I took my flight to Berlin a few years back, I had the most amazing vegetarian Indian meal of my life. That is, until I arrived in Hamburg, where, to date (note: I’m sure as I work my way across London’s curry-saturated landscape my vote will change), I had the best Indian meal ever. Goan curry with mindblowing coconut chutney served in a tiny storefront with just two bar style tables and a dirty floor. It amazed me how the woman was Indian, spoke German and English. I only spoke the latter two, but amazing still how we could communicate, worlds apart as we were in both upbringing and literal geography. Anyway, back to my superstition. When I went to Berlin I had only one good day before my cousin went psycho and ditched me a few days after my birthday. You’d think the Indian food was a bad omen, then, but really it still holds true. I found myself that year. I learned that I could make it in a big, foreign city on my own. I learned to navigate the train system, found a spice museum to visit, wandered around neighborhoods and tiny streets (that’s where I found the curry) and even went to a Portuguese restaurant that had a cat running around in it. I had some amazing chicken noodle soup there, too. So the food didn’t lie.
And judging by the pumpkin soup, I’m betting the trip ahead holds only good things. To be continued…
Observations Made on an Airplane
I love British accents. I love how they say “shew-jewel” instead of schedule. Fastened sounds like “fah-sind.” Pass sounds like “pah-ss.” Please sounds like “playz.” They say comin’ instead of coming. “There’s chayze comin’ out” = there is cheese coming out. Words I like that we don’t use: whilst, shag, top up, blimey, cheeky, bloke, queue, cheers.
Europeans really know how to drink tea. When you take tea, which is something of a welcome reprieve in each day, much like a smoke break would be to a nicotine fiend, you always get a biscuit or a piece of chocolate (pronounced “chalk-oh-lot”). On the plane it was served to me in a porcelain cup on a purple plate, a round disc of chocolate resting beside a delicate silver spoon. This is my grown up lollipop.
When I order tea at Denny’s (read: IF I ever do), I would love it if the server would ask if I’d like milk and sugar with it. They asked (“ahh-sked”) me that on the plane. I found it positively delightful. I mean, have you ever tried tea with milk and sugar? It’s brilliant!
I was given a tube of Cowshed lip balm. It’s got linden blossom and rose geranium in it and tastes like a forest on my lips.
Looking out the window, much like a child looks with anticipation upon winter’s first snow, I noticed the most glorious sunset. It was ducking behind the clouds as if it were playing a game of hide and seek with only me. I felt like I was the only one looking at it. Such glory. Such magnanimous power. This sun, the one that seems as if it’s playing in my very own sky theatre, is the same one they see in India, or Nairobi, or Queen’s, New York. It’s the same one people at war or people praying for peace look upon. The same one lovers and those who hate have to wake up to each day. This sun is all around us and it sees everything, all the pain and sorrow, all the joy and love. And yet still, it never leaves us. No matter what bad things can happen in a day, it really is true, the sun always shines again. Always. I like knowing this. I like how darkness is always followed by light. And I like how no matter how alone we may feel, the sun never leaves us.
I suddenly realize just how much I want to see the world. As much as I possibly can. As soon as possible.
Europeans really know how to drink tea. When you take tea, which is something of a welcome reprieve in each day, much like a smoke break would be to a nicotine fiend, you always get a biscuit or a piece of chocolate (pronounced “chalk-oh-lot”). On the plane it was served to me in a porcelain cup on a purple plate, a round disc of chocolate resting beside a delicate silver spoon. This is my grown up lollipop.
When I order tea at Denny’s (read: IF I ever do), I would love it if the server would ask if I’d like milk and sugar with it. They asked (“ahh-sked”) me that on the plane. I found it positively delightful. I mean, have you ever tried tea with milk and sugar? It’s brilliant!
I was given a tube of Cowshed lip balm. It’s got linden blossom and rose geranium in it and tastes like a forest on my lips.
Looking out the window, much like a child looks with anticipation upon winter’s first snow, I noticed the most glorious sunset. It was ducking behind the clouds as if it were playing a game of hide and seek with only me. I felt like I was the only one looking at it. Such glory. Such magnanimous power. This sun, the one that seems as if it’s playing in my very own sky theatre, is the same one they see in India, or Nairobi, or Queen’s, New York. It’s the same one people at war or people praying for peace look upon. The same one lovers and those who hate have to wake up to each day. This sun is all around us and it sees everything, all the pain and sorrow, all the joy and love. And yet still, it never leaves us. No matter what bad things can happen in a day, it really is true, the sun always shines again. Always. I like knowing this. I like how darkness is always followed by light. And I like how no matter how alone we may feel, the sun never leaves us.
I suddenly realize just how much I want to see the world. As much as I possibly can. As soon as possible.
Observations Made at an Airport
Men almost never get helped with their luggage.
European women are so sexy. I don’t know what the hell they do, but it’s in their walk, their eyes, the sound of their voice, their confidence. I love their clothes and their bodies. I’m so fucking jealous.
Men express love when we’re not looking. All the time. Everywhere. Maybe our problem is that we’ve tricked ourselves into believing they don’t do it, so we don’t notice when they do.
My dad loves me. He doesn’t always show it in the traditional ways, but when I’m not looking, he wows me with his generosity. I’m 30 and I’m learning more about love every day. I think maybe he is too.
I hate watching couples make out. Something about it totally grosses me out. I watched a man suck the face of a woman he was leaving. He looked so sad. He just stood there, kissing her, for like 15 minutes. Later, at the security checkpoint, he stared me up and down like I was a piece of meat.
People are really easy to talk to. I think they feel it’s more socially acceptable to strike up conversation at an airport, where people are all in the same boat. I think it’s kinda sad that everyday life isn’t more like an airport.
People are kind. When you least expect it, they can really amaze you with even the simplest of things.
Those airport guys who wave down planes look really bored. They hold their bright orange waving sticks like limp carrots, looking completely apathetic. I wish I could give them a party to cheer them up.
European women are so sexy. I don’t know what the hell they do, but it’s in their walk, their eyes, the sound of their voice, their confidence. I love their clothes and their bodies. I’m so fucking jealous.
Men express love when we’re not looking. All the time. Everywhere. Maybe our problem is that we’ve tricked ourselves into believing they don’t do it, so we don’t notice when they do.
My dad loves me. He doesn’t always show it in the traditional ways, but when I’m not looking, he wows me with his generosity. I’m 30 and I’m learning more about love every day. I think maybe he is too.
I hate watching couples make out. Something about it totally grosses me out. I watched a man suck the face of a woman he was leaving. He looked so sad. He just stood there, kissing her, for like 15 minutes. Later, at the security checkpoint, he stared me up and down like I was a piece of meat.
People are really easy to talk to. I think they feel it’s more socially acceptable to strike up conversation at an airport, where people are all in the same boat. I think it’s kinda sad that everyday life isn’t more like an airport.
People are kind. When you least expect it, they can really amaze you with even the simplest of things.
Those airport guys who wave down planes look really bored. They hold their bright orange waving sticks like limp carrots, looking completely apathetic. I wish I could give them a party to cheer them up.
Tears at the Airport
Here’s one thing you should know about me: I don’t cry. Okay, every time I watch the Little Mermaid, but that doesn’t count. Well, and sometimes during Hallmark commercials, but really, I don’t cry. People think I’m cold, like a robot. Sometimes, they study my face when CNN talks about people dying in an earthquake or someone’s baby being taken by wolves, and when they get no reaction, they shrug their shoulders as if to say, “your guess is as good as mine.”
But when my mom waved goodbye from her car, just as the doors to the airport were closing, I choked, as if I were half vomiting, half sobbing. I started to cry. I had to look away, disconnect from the source of my sadness and then I was fine. But in Chicago, when my dad, who had been suffering from a cold, flew there from Indiana just to say goodbye, it about did me in. For one, I was suddenly closer to the reality of what I was doing. I was leaving. Not forever, but for the first time, for real. We stood in line together at the security checkpoint, and decided four different times to skip to the back just to have more time together. “Okay, this time it’s for real,” we’d promise.
“How about one more time?”
We waved to each other and blew air kisses about forty times and finally the man behind me in the security line said, “Is this what I’m going to have to look forward to when my daughter leaves one day?”
I explained that I’m an only child and the love of my parents’ lives, and, equally, they are the love of mine. He seemed choked up himself. Turns out, he was from Indiana, just about 15 minutes from where my dad lives.
Most people might find it hard to believe I’m 30 and not 14, and that I’m entitled to my own life and that maybe I should’ve actually begun living it long ago but that’s just not how it works in my life. Sort of by choice, sort of by birth. Either way, I’ve come to accept that my life, golden as it is, is shared 100% by the people who put me on this planet. I know God or some higher power had the greatest influence in my birth, but I’m more than positive that whilst in heaven I chose them. The line was as long as the security cues I’d been standing in off and on all day. It looked hopeless. I was too honest to skip to the front of the line and when I began to think all the other kids would get my parents first, I started to cry.
“Why are you crying, Stefanie?” God asked.
“Because someone else will take my family,” I said.
“Don’t you know, dear child, that they are already yours? They always were and always will be. It doesn’t matter where you stand in line. Destiny always finds you.”
But when my mom waved goodbye from her car, just as the doors to the airport were closing, I choked, as if I were half vomiting, half sobbing. I started to cry. I had to look away, disconnect from the source of my sadness and then I was fine. But in Chicago, when my dad, who had been suffering from a cold, flew there from Indiana just to say goodbye, it about did me in. For one, I was suddenly closer to the reality of what I was doing. I was leaving. Not forever, but for the first time, for real. We stood in line together at the security checkpoint, and decided four different times to skip to the back just to have more time together. “Okay, this time it’s for real,” we’d promise.
“How about one more time?”
We waved to each other and blew air kisses about forty times and finally the man behind me in the security line said, “Is this what I’m going to have to look forward to when my daughter leaves one day?”
I explained that I’m an only child and the love of my parents’ lives, and, equally, they are the love of mine. He seemed choked up himself. Turns out, he was from Indiana, just about 15 minutes from where my dad lives.
Most people might find it hard to believe I’m 30 and not 14, and that I’m entitled to my own life and that maybe I should’ve actually begun living it long ago but that’s just not how it works in my life. Sort of by choice, sort of by birth. Either way, I’ve come to accept that my life, golden as it is, is shared 100% by the people who put me on this planet. I know God or some higher power had the greatest influence in my birth, but I’m more than positive that whilst in heaven I chose them. The line was as long as the security cues I’d been standing in off and on all day. It looked hopeless. I was too honest to skip to the front of the line and when I began to think all the other kids would get my parents first, I started to cry.
“Why are you crying, Stefanie?” God asked.
“Because someone else will take my family,” I said.
“Don’t you know, dear child, that they are already yours? They always were and always will be. It doesn’t matter where you stand in line. Destiny always finds you.”
Life is Good
A woman at the airport walked away from me wearing a sweater with the line “Life is Good.” It was the same message on my messenger bag, which I’d bought partially because of its $10 price tag and partially because I wanted a constant reminder that life was, in fact, good, particularly on those days when I found it difficult to remember. And there it was, right in front of me. It seemed God wanted to be sure I didn’t forget.
I can point to other instances when the message was driven home to me – literally. There were several times while planning for this journey that I was down in the dumps, scared or just questioning the sanity of my decision. It was only on these times, which always seemed to happen while I was driving, since that’s when I tend to do my thinking, that I saw the biggest sign I could possibly see: a giant semi truck with the words “England” painted across the sides in bright red. Now I’m sure England is a trucking company, but in all my 30 years, I never once saw the trucks. Not once. And I also never saw these trucks on normal days when I wasn’t questioning my life. I saw it no less than five times in the three months before my trip. It was always then that I knew the decision was 100% right for me, and, apparently, all of England.
I can point to other instances when the message was driven home to me – literally. There were several times while planning for this journey that I was down in the dumps, scared or just questioning the sanity of my decision. It was only on these times, which always seemed to happen while I was driving, since that’s when I tend to do my thinking, that I saw the biggest sign I could possibly see: a giant semi truck with the words “England” painted across the sides in bright red. Now I’m sure England is a trucking company, but in all my 30 years, I never once saw the trucks. Not once. And I also never saw these trucks on normal days when I wasn’t questioning my life. I saw it no less than five times in the three months before my trip. It was always then that I knew the decision was 100% right for me, and, apparently, all of England.
Signs
I was sick to my stomach all morning. For months I’d known about my life changing adventure to London. And for months I felt no reaction – not happy, not sad, nothing. I now realize I was in a fog of denial. Because I wouldn’t see the end result for months, I was absorbing the gravity of my decision like some sort of invisible plague. But the morning before my flight, my stomach started to tell me otherwise.
My mom and I had packed and repacked my luggage six times, only to realize there was no way I could lug a 60 pound suitcase and two overstuffed carry ons on my tiny frame. My back hurt just thinking about it. So we shipped the suitcase with UPS and off I went to the airport, completely unsure of what was to follow. I had to take a flight to Chicago first and then fly out of O’hare to Heathrow. When I walked up to the security checkpoint I was amazed by how long the line was. I was in for at least a 30 minute wait. There was a security agent standing next to a very small line dedicated only to first class passengers and when my line sidled up against her post, I asked if I could duck out of the line and head to the B concourse, where I’d heard the lines were shorter. She paused a good long while and looked in front of her at the first class line. “When is your flight?” she asked.
“2:00,” I replied.
“When does it board?”
“1:40.”
“I’m going to let you go in this line, since your flight is about to board.”
I remember her fake eyelashes. They were wonderfully curly and almost alive. She wore eyeshadow the color of what I’d imagine salmon to look like, glistening in the sunlight as the water reflects their wriggling bodies swimming upstream against all odds. Standing there against the pole, red cell phone in hand and eyes like chocolate right before it melts, she seemed to be struggling too. Though you couldn’t tell by looking at her, I could see it clearly as she thought about the favor she was just about to do for me. Often, I’ve found that those who work in airports take on the demeanor of the passengers whose sulky lives litter the air. People who missed their flights, people who are sad because they just said goodbye to loved ones, people who had to throw away their KY Jelly at the security check point. Airports are busy places, but places often rotten with the stench of dissatisfaction. People take their frustration out on the employees – the gate agents, mostly, but even the security people seem weathered by their surroundings. I’ve not met too many smiling security people but this girl, with her lilting eyes and gentle demeanor, immediately struck me. I could’ve walked to the B Concourse. I even told her I’d high tail it over there. I gave her no reason to take pity on me and I never once assumed I’d be let into the other line. But there it was. An exchange of goodness from one person to another. Or perhaps yet another sign from the universe that I was, in fact, in the right line.
My mom and I had packed and repacked my luggage six times, only to realize there was no way I could lug a 60 pound suitcase and two overstuffed carry ons on my tiny frame. My back hurt just thinking about it. So we shipped the suitcase with UPS and off I went to the airport, completely unsure of what was to follow. I had to take a flight to Chicago first and then fly out of O’hare to Heathrow. When I walked up to the security checkpoint I was amazed by how long the line was. I was in for at least a 30 minute wait. There was a security agent standing next to a very small line dedicated only to first class passengers and when my line sidled up against her post, I asked if I could duck out of the line and head to the B concourse, where I’d heard the lines were shorter. She paused a good long while and looked in front of her at the first class line. “When is your flight?” she asked.
“2:00,” I replied.
“When does it board?”
“1:40.”
“I’m going to let you go in this line, since your flight is about to board.”
I remember her fake eyelashes. They were wonderfully curly and almost alive. She wore eyeshadow the color of what I’d imagine salmon to look like, glistening in the sunlight as the water reflects their wriggling bodies swimming upstream against all odds. Standing there against the pole, red cell phone in hand and eyes like chocolate right before it melts, she seemed to be struggling too. Though you couldn’t tell by looking at her, I could see it clearly as she thought about the favor she was just about to do for me. Often, I’ve found that those who work in airports take on the demeanor of the passengers whose sulky lives litter the air. People who missed their flights, people who are sad because they just said goodbye to loved ones, people who had to throw away their KY Jelly at the security check point. Airports are busy places, but places often rotten with the stench of dissatisfaction. People take their frustration out on the employees – the gate agents, mostly, but even the security people seem weathered by their surroundings. I’ve not met too many smiling security people but this girl, with her lilting eyes and gentle demeanor, immediately struck me. I could’ve walked to the B Concourse. I even told her I’d high tail it over there. I gave her no reason to take pity on me and I never once assumed I’d be let into the other line. But there it was. An exchange of goodness from one person to another. Or perhaps yet another sign from the universe that I was, in fact, in the right line.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)