day 28: oi! time to wrap up, idnit?

^ sunny and breezy in trafalgar square ^

goodbye, london…

what can i say? i’ve tramped your streets now from the north to the south and many places in between. i learned that i must hail my bus and that a “circus” doesn’t always mean elephants and clowns. anyway, i came, i saw, i ate chocolate. what will i miss about london? well…

…i’ll miss:

• the top “salon” of the double decker bus
• marks & spencer foods
• london cs group (good people!)
• the comedy stylings of susannah & edward
• candy’s crazy self
• trafalgar square (my favorite bus stop)
• immediacy of warmth when the sun does come out
• off licence chocolate raiding
• the eastern european girls smoking at the window
• the ever-so-useful expression “top up”
• napping through cold, rainy days
• the british accent
• bright sunshine ’til 9pm

…but i’ll not miss:

• bright sunshine at 5:30am
• prevalence of chilly and rainy days
• military time
• tepid drinking water
• sporadic, difficult-to-find street labeling
• opposite side traffic
• $5 each way subway rides
• the tanker-loads of tourists
• that useless Knopf Mapguides book of london

i feel quite melancholy about leaving, but what can i do? paris beckons. “tough life,” eh, london?

day 27

today i met up with candy in greenwich. it was a decent weather day, we had some decent chinese food, and we went to a decent market. by the way, visiting markets is a kind of “rubbish” experience if you haven’t got money to spend. i’ve been trying to hold out for shopping in paris, where i can make a bit more headway with my dollar. anyway, we payed homage to where time begins (greenwich is the home of greenwich mean time, or 0° longitude). it’s like dick clark’s rockin’ eve every day here as, at exactly 1pm, the ball drops atop the royal observatory (pictured below).

there was another ferris wheel (only £7 this one) for me not to get on in greenwich, and nearby it was the entrance for one to walk under the thames. that’s right—under! it’s cold under the river, and little wet areas within the tunnel weren’t comforting, but the view from the other side was worth it:

after some whirlwinding with candy through canary wharf, marble arch, topshop, and primark, i headed home (awww…i said “home”) for an awesome sunday-dinner-on-a-friday and then jetted back out to check out the club where candy had just gotten a job. verve is a two-floor night spot that, at least on friday night, is filled with random foreigners (like mario from italy who wanted to know if i had a “friend boy”) and gay guys. surfer jake had come with me, and i had to protect him from unwanted advances. he was ready to pop somebody, so we headed out before very long. all told, my last full day in london was just that: full. i didn’t get to bed until the ridiculous hour of 3:30am, but no one can say i didn’t try to make the most of my time.

vocabulary:

• rubbish = trash; also means sucky or crappy (as in, “i’m a rubbish tennis player!”)
• i’m rubbish… = i suck… (as in, “i’m rubbish at tennis!”)

day 26: the official food post

welcome to the land of tea and crumpets! i will be your host through a very limited sampling of england’s regional cuisine. as usual, i’m a piss poor candidate for international taste-testing, hence the “limited” caveat. for starters, i don’t drink tea. have never drunk tea, in fact. i don’t particularly care for the smell of it. as it turns out, though, i do like crumpets! hooray! those little craters are excellent vessels for transporting melting butter (or spread, as the case may be). i get a whopping 42% more butter into my system using the crumpet method than i do using the toast method. well done, england! a jolly good, buttery breakfast!

^ crumpet with an obscene amount of “spread”…mmm! ^

england boasts a bit of its full, sit-down breakfasts. signs prompted me to check one out at the cafeteria inside the bhs store. it was there that i faced off against the Great British Breakfast—eight items of my choosing for only £2.79!

unusual to us americans, baked beans are generally featured in breakfasts here. other than that, you are seeing (clockwise…ish): fresh tuh-MAH-toes (as opposed to “tinned” tuh-MAH-toes, also available as a selection), sauteed potatoes, a fried egg (i had to ask that the yolk be broken—and she seemed a bit taken aback by the request), fried bread (bread ends literally just fried in oil), slab potatoes, mushrooms, and a hash brown. it’s a very filling meal, and i decided that i like the idea of beans at breakfast. as an infamous non-pork-eater, it’s nice that there’s a different protein source offered. and furthermore, beans beans are good for your heart. heh. i also liked that i was able to have three entirely different kinds of potato on my plate simultaneously. you just don’t see this in the states. good show!

speaking of potatoes (puh-TAH-toes?), i was lucky enough to have lunch from a proper “chippy” (see vocabulary, july 28 ) near the shore when i went to brighton. i ordered the cod and chips as this is the most traditional meal. the chips were the perfect kind of greasy. you know the one—where the salt just dissolves right into their tender, golden brown sides. i mean, just look at them:

don’t you wish you had some of that in your life? that cod you’re seeing was pretty good, too. better, though, for my taste, was the haddock. it was a little meatier in consistency and a little more flavorful. luckily, marion preferred the cod, so we did a l’il switcheroo, and everybody won.

i’ve had fish and chips before in the states, but fish and chips are to england as cheesesteaks are to philly. you can get a cheesesteak in, i dunno, seattle, but when you get it from the masters…bow down. this is all to say that i have now had the quintessential fish and chips experience, and i don’t know how i’ll ever go back.

before we leave potatoes alone, i’d like to address walkers crisps. among their flavor offerings was a strange one that caught my eye: roast chicken. i copped a little bag of these one day, took my first bite while walking out of the store, and my body immediately responded with an involuntary james brown “i feel good” spin. remember, in “charlie and the chocolate factory,” when violet beauregarde swipes the three course meal chewing gum? and she goes, “wow! it tastes like real roast beef!” that’s what these chips are like. it tasted like i was eating real chicken—except it was a potato chip. astonishing!

moving on now to the continuation of my important international research into the realm of filled savory pastries, allow me to introduce to you, “handmade in cornwall,” the english pasty:

now, don’t get it twisted; the word is not pastry (a sweet baked good) nor is it pasty (a decorative stick-on nipple covering). heavens no—it’s PASS-tee. the traditional english pasty, as consumed by yours truly, contains diced beef in a bit of a gravy, big ass pieces of onion, and some potato. the crust was pretty good, but the filling wasn’t at all inspirational. just to keep score, here are the current rankings:

1. latin american/caribbean food—entry: empanada/pastelito
2. indian food—entry: samosas
3. jamaican food—entry: beef patty
4. italian food—entry: calzone
5. hawaiian food—entry: manapua
6. english food—entry: pasty
7. american food—entry: hot pocket

so yeah, pasties rank just above hot pockets for me. but that’s only because the crust is fresh and baked rather than factory processed…and nuked. now if you could put some of those tiny hot pocket meatballs into a pasty crust…you might be onto something.

now for something really exciting. behold the yumminess that is yorkshire puddings!

boy, the english are really good at creating food vessels for hot, fatty drippings. good thing i like hot, fatty drippings. a yorkshire pudding is a cup-shaped bread with a light, crispy upper and a softer, chewier base. generally accompanying roast beef, its little cup is served filled with the meat’s gravy, which softens the base even more. it’s a really nice alternative to bread. the roast-beef-yorkshire-pudding meal is a traditional sunday dinner, but i was lucky enough to get it on a friday!

on to dessert! as sweets go over here, the most british thing i’ve had has been a trifle, which is a simple layered dessert, not to be confused with shepherd’s pie (“friends” fans—holla!). a trifle should have whipped cream, custard, some kind of fruity compote-y stuff, and “sponge,” as shown:

it’s nice and cool and light. an excellent summer dessert. also very british are “digestive biscuits.” this sounds like something to eat if you have a stomach ailment, but really it’s just thicker round graham crackers. nothing to write home about.

my favorite sweet so far has been marks & spencer melting middle chocolate puddings (with a side of vanilla clotted cream ice cream). for the record, these are what we would call “lava cakes” or “molten chocolate cakes.” you know, you warm ’em a little and the chocolate center gets melty. mmm. so the cakes aren’t terribly british…but getting them at marks & spencer is! righty-o!

update, august 2: i got a single serving banoffee pie from EAT at the airport while waiting for my flight out. i could have KICKED myself this was so good; how had i managed to skip over it before?! meh. i’ll tell you how: the name. i think i associated the -offee with coffee rather than toffee. what this wonderful tart actually contains is: a graham cracker (digestive biscuit?) crust (like cheesecake), a bananas foster type filling, and whipped cream on top sprinkled with a little cocoa. WOW…SO good. i would have eaten this every week for a month had i but known.

in conclusion, the worst thing i’ve eaten since i’ve been here is my attempt at cooking greens for susannah. surprisingly enough, i was able to find kale here. not surprisingly, there wasn’t a hamhock in sight. (what do british people do with the hocks from their hams?) i also couldn’t find any smoked turkey, which i prefer to pork products anyway. that said, i made a hodgepodge (hotch potch?) attempt using a little smoked bacon and some chicken broth. bad idea. salt for days. i could go on and on telling you how i flubbed this up, but i shan’t. instead, i’ll just leave you with the current overall score: england, 8; jan, 0.

vocabulary:

• rasher = a slice of bacon or ham
• bits = pulp
• lemonade = sprite or 7up
• tin = can
• biscuit = cookie
• sponge = cake
• chips = fries
• crisps = chips
• lollies = popsicles
• banger = a type of pork sausage
• bangers and mash = pork sausage, mashed potato, and gravy
• pudding = generic term for any dessert (also a “pud”) or horrific things in a sausage casing
• treacle = a strong sugar syrup
• pie = something with meat in it
• Pukka Pies = a brand name pie and pasty maker
• curry = indian food in general (as in, “do you fancy going out for curry tonight?”)
• off licence shop = bodega
• flavour = flavor

day 25

On: Saying Goodbye

over the past few days, it’s been a full house at susannah’s. a sweet new zealand couple and a nice mother and daughter from austria rounded out the roost. i loved sitting at dinner with everyone and noting that there was a different accent represented on every side of the table. however, their visits were brief; both pairs left today.

i had the silly experience of dreading saying goodbye to them (and to marion on sunday as well). it wasn’t because i was sad or anything; it was for an admittedly inane reason: that damn kissing business. you know what i mean—the double pump, cheek to cheek action. here’s the deal:

1. i’m from a standoffish country. we americans value personal space among strangers and even casual acquaintances. cheek kissing, to us, is a really intimate gesture. it’s reserved for people you know very well. otherwise, we’re handshake people, dammit!
2. not only am i from a standoffish country, i’m from a standoffish family. i didn’t even start hugging my family members until within the last decade. and even that i’m hella spotty about. i suppose we never bothered hugging because the family was too big—two grandparents, eight aunts and uncles, however many spouses, and, like, umpteen cousins. among my friends, the hugging thing just started within the past several years. a wave used to suffice, but now folks gotta hug hello and goodbye all the time. i suppose it’s because they’re getting old and think they might die before we see each other again. poor saps.
3. and the most important reason that i dread the european double-kiss is because i don’t know how to do it! can i get a lesson? or could someone at least answer these questions for me:

• where are your hands supposed to be during this transaction?
• which side do you go to first?
• are you to make actual lip contact with the person’s cheek or are you just making a kiss sound?
• if it’s just an air kiss, are you still supposed to touch your cheek to the other person’s cheek?
• if i see someone making a move for the double kiss, can i just shove my hand forward and shriek, “i’m an american! back off!” instead?

one time, i met an orthodox jewish man who practically did just that. i extended my hand for a handshake, and he put his hands up in the air in a quick “back off” gesture instead, saying that he couldn’t shake hands as it was against his religion. wtf, right? (i’d explain, but Google Is Your Friend, and it’s not relevant to my point.)

my point is, who is really supposed to cater to whom? a spaniard over here told me that reaching for a handshake instead of cheek kisses could be taken as offense in parts of europe. but what if someone reaching to put their face so close to my face is an offense to my culture? of course it isn’t really, and it actually happened to me tonight. i met a brazilian guy who executed the double kiss on me without incident. he did all the work, though, and i was seated when the transaction (withdrawal? deposit?) occurred. it all happened so fast. too fast for me to learn anything. that said, if someone could please answer the bulleted questions above as soon as possible, i’d truly be obliged.

sincerely,
the management

day 24

Overweight Baggage

no matter where i go, be it a new job, a new city, or a new country, i have this habit of looking for The Black People. i don’t mean that i go on a mission to find them or anything (though i did make a pilgrimage to compton when i moved to l.a.); i just mean that i keep my eyes open, that i stay aware. in the grocery store, on the train, at a party. am i the only black person? where are the other brown faces?

it’s not that i feel scared or anxious when there aren’t any (well, i guess that might depend on the location—being the only black person around in jasper, TX, for example, probably would cause me some alarm). no, i think my reaction is more one of…discontent. i prefer not being the only black or brown face because of the unpleasant, not-so-positive messages this suggests to me about wherever i am, however correct or incorrect those messages may be.

as an african american, i also perceive an automatic ease of association with other black folk. sure, it would be silly to think that i couldn’t have every bit as much in common with a room full of non-black people as i could with a room full of black ones—after all, my husband isn’t black, and i shared more commonalities with him than i do with most of his black friends. however, it’s also silly to dismiss the common ground minorities can recognize solely on appearance.

if you fill a get-together with adults and put in two children, the children will naturally gravitate toward each other. why? because they can see their commonalities. it doesn’t mean that they’ll get along on every level (or at all even), but at least they know, without even having to ask, that they’re probably bringing some similarities to the table.

one similarity i miss a bit is language. most Educated Black Folk, at least the ones i associate with, are bilingual; that is, we speak White at work, and we speak Black everywhere else. Black has a lot more color, texture, and flavor; it’s the difference between boxed mac-and-cheese and the homemade southern kind, right down to the comfort factor. for me, being in europe is like being at work every waking hour. not just because most of the people i’m meeting are white but also because they all have different native languages. if english is a language that someone has learned (or is learning), it’s best to stick to as standardized a version of it as possible, don’t you think?

there’s also, though, the stigma that’s associated with the Black patois. just like having a heavy southern accent, speaking “Black” suggests to many that you’re uneducated or ignorant or just plain dumb. i tried to explain about my “slanguage” to some young europeans a couple of weeks ago, and they wanted an example. i couldn’t oblige. it’s not just a matter of calling something “dope” if it’s good. it’s an entire breaking down of the rules of grammar, and it wasn’t something i could do on command. when i’m comfortable, it’s as natural to me as breathing. but these were strangers. white strangers. i couldn’t go in because i couldn’t shake the stigma—though that stigma doesn’t necessarily exist on this side of the pond.

when traveling outside of the states, i have to remember that the people i meet don’t share history and perspective with me. non-black people in the rest of the world can say things that, back home, would cause me to bristle or worse. for example, in my european travels, i was once helping a white person in the kitchen. she described me to her boyfriend, who was off the hook for the task, as her “new slave.” i winced for a second. then i reminded myself that, from her perspective, that term didn’t carry weight the way it did from mine. on another occasion, an eastern european person asked me “does the sun do anything to your skin?” in the states, i would have probably balked, but here, the person asking surely had little exposure to black people and was also not limited by the same black-white boundaries as an american. in mexico, once or twice i was greeted on the street with an “hola, negra.” i took offense at first, but later i acknowledged that normal rules don’t apply. they don’t apply in any of these situations.

don’t think i’m not keenly aware that the feelings i’ve described here come not just from being black but equally, if not more so, from being american. slavery, disparagement of the black race, inequities, and prejudices are our legacies. the perceived messages, the stigmas, the weighty words—it’s all heavy mental baggage to carry, but i haven’t figured out how to get rid of it just yet. the best i can do, i suppose, is check it somewhere while i travel. too bad i always have to pick it up again before i go back home.

^ as seen at Portobello Road Market…hmm ^

day 23: the chocolate post

an outside source suggested that i go in on the chocolate here, so i have gleefully quarterback sacked the candy stands over the past couple of weeks. having done so, i’m now willing to go on record as saying that they really are better at chocolate over here in europe. even their cheapest drug store chocolate is well above the level of our iconic hershey bars and kisses and such. shame on you, america; i fully appreciate michelle obama’s long-time lack of pride. (there’s a chocolate revolution joke begging to be made here, but i fear it would be mildly inappropriate, so forget i mentioned it.)

below are my reviews of the british candy bars i’ve sampled. it’s all mainstream stuff—available at your local sainsbury’s, superdrug, or off licence shop—but i don’t eat nuts, and i much prefer dark chocolate to milk, so my selections are bound by these limitations. i hope you’ll find something to crave here nonetheless. let me know—my service fee for acquiring and shipping product is a mere 55% markup. 😉

oh—ratings. since the advent of netflix, i rate everything in life based on their scale. ONE = hated it; TWO = didn’t like it; THREE = liked it; FOUR = really liked it; FIVE = loved it. for my purposes here, ♡ = haven’t tried it. got it? good. let’s go…

cadbury dairy milk. cadbury is king here. that said, even though i don’t care for milk chocolate, especially plain milk chocolate, i figured i should pay homage. the cadbury dairy milk bar is to england as the hershey bar is to the states, so i’ll compare the two for you here: one is gritty and gross; the other is smooth and savorable. guess which is which. ♥♥♥.

twix. for starters, you should know that when a twix cookie bar crosses the pond, it becomes a twix biscuit finger. for enders, you should know that this is the only difference of note. ♥♥♥.

milky way. you know it; you love it…but you’ve been had. buy one here. it’s the bionic man of chocolate bars: better, softer, smoother. ♥♥♥♥.

double decker. we don’t really have a candy bar comparable to this in the states. it has a thick bottom layer of crisped rice in a chocolatey base and a thick top layer of substantive, chewy nougat…stuff. the thickness of the layers, sealed together by a chocolate outer coating, makes this bar taller than a standard snickers or milky way-type candy bar—hence the name (which is also a nod to british buses, of course). anyway, the sheer quantity of…stuff…in this bar made my heart racy and my hands jittery by the time i finished it. but i did finish it. ♥♥♥.

chomp. this little bar had nice smooth chocolate and really chewy caramel. really. chewy. caramel. there was nothing wrong with it, but i realized that i don’t much care for really. chewy. caramel. i think i just don’t want to work that hard to eat a candy bar. ♥♥♥.

fry’s turkish delight. okay—hell, no. i don’t even know what turkish delight is, but i read The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe long ago, and i know what that stuff does to you. down with the white witch! all hail aslan! ♡.

kitkat dark. gracious but they have a lot of variety here when it comes to kitkats. milk chocolate, dark chocolate, mint, orange, peanut butter, chunky. there’s even this thing called kitkat senses; it’s got some kind of macadamia nut creme atop the wafers. these brits sure do like their biscuit fingers! naturally, the only one i felt worth the pence and calories of trying was the dark chocolate version. and what did i think of it? dude, it’s a dark chocolate kitkat. made in europe. duh: ♥♥♥♥♥.

fry’s chocolate cream. i’ll just cut to the chase: horrible. worst thing i’ve had here. like a lemon laffy taffy coated with dark chocolate. i’d give it zero hearts, but the actual chocolate was good, so ♥.

bounty. this is the british answer to a mounds bar except that instead of having almonds and no almonds versions, they have milk chocolate and dark chocolate versions. surprise—i have taste tested only the dark version. as expected, it puts our mounds to shame. mounds is grainier and overly sweet. this thing is smoother than keith sweat puttin’ the moves on you in 1987. i give it ♥♥♥♥♥.

mars delight. oh my stars and garters. i know i said i don’t care much for milk chocolate, but this thing was off the hook. there was this light, crumbly wafer inside that had a sweet buttery taste which turns out to be from the “caramel creme” surrounding it. oh, wowwwzers. as usual, the chocolate is flawlessly smooth. bonus: i copped it for a mere 29p! ♥♥♥♥♥.

crunchie. the description, “milk chocolate with golden honeycombed centre,” sounded yummy. the reality was less so. having no idea what a “honeycombed centre” is but thinking it couldn’t be a bad thing, i went in with unmerited gusto. trust me when i tell you you’ve had a “honeycombed” something or other before. i can’t put my finger on exactly what this stuff is, but i’m pretty sure that it can be found in a dusty jar of candy at your great aunt’s house. it’s exceptionally crunchy (hence the product name), and when you chew it, it compresses immediately into perfect tooth-indention-shaped bits that you’ll need a fingernail to dig out. i don’t recommend eating this on a date. in fact, i don’t recommend eating it at all. ♥♥.

munchies. zounds! these are good! i wasn’t supposed to be eating candy the night i tried these, but they’re just little one bite thingies in a roll—like rolos—so i thought, “oh, just go ahead and eat one.” well, just one is a tough proposition. these are milk chocolate with soft caramel and a “crisp biscuit centre.” the caramel really is soft; the biscuit really is crisp. all in all, a delightful experience! would buy again! ♥♥♥♥.

galaxy. more plain chocolate. skipped it. ♡.

galaxy caramel. described as the “ultimate comfort food” by susannah, i’m sad to say that a galaxy caramel has yet to turn up. will revise this should the elusive thing surface. ♡.

found it! good caramel. in fact, this is like the caramello bars we (used to?) have in the states. it’s good, but if only it were dark chocolate…♥♥♥. added july 29, 2008.

flake. i’ve had this in the states once. i think i saw the word “flake,” immediately assumed it referred to coconut, and bought it without further investigation. turns out it’s just really crumbly chocolate. really crumbly milk chocolate no less. if you’re into plain milk chocolate and things that are crumbly, you’ll like this. ♥♥.

yorkie. “It’s not for girls!” reads the the slogan on the package. since a yorkie is just a plain milk chocolate bar, this time in a “chunky” form, i decided to g’head and take that slogan to ♡.

aero. even more plain milk chocolate, this time with less actual chocolate content because it’s run through with air holes. wtf? let me get this straight…it’s not chocolate & caramel. it’s not chocolate & nuts. it’s not even chocolate & laffy taffy. it’s chocolate & AIR? this gimmick is about as desirable as crumbly milk chocolate. pass. ♡.

well, color me corrected, emphasis on the color. the contents of a mint aero bar are alarmingly green! the holes in the aero, though, aren’t as big as i thought they were; the label is misleading. i thought it was a bar of chocolate like swiss cheese, but the airy filling is more like foam. fine foam. fine foam frozen in time. it really does have a nice melt in your mouth quality. i don’t think it would have done a thing for me in plain milk chocolate, but in mint, it was magically delicious. ♥♥♥♥. updated august 2, 2008.

kinder surprise. i’ve had this in the states. a friend and i used to get them at fairway in nyc. it’s a thin, plain milk chocolate egg, and inside the egg is a plastic yellow and orange capsule. pull the capsule apart, and there’s a toy inside. something lame like a sticker usually. wouldn’t waste my time and pence on this again. ♥♥.

kinder chocolate snack bar. this wee bar of “fine milk chocolate with a milky filling” was surprisingly tasty. the milky filling seems to be sort of a very soft white chocolate. normally, the only chocolate i would say i don’t like at all is white chocolate—which is chocolate without the chocolate in it, if you ask me. however, as a filling, it provided a nice complement, and its smooth texture was very pleasant. ♥♥♥.

curly wurly. braided caramel covered with milk chocolate. i skipped this for fear of another chomp experience. ♡.

twirl. this candy bar is just a flake bar dipped in more chocolate. flake ≠ coconut, people. learn your lesson the first time. ♡.

smarties. for the longest time, i assumed that these were the same as the smarties we have at home. you know, those little chalky fruit tablets that come in that cellophane roll? B-list halloween candy on par with dum-dums (A-list comparisons: sweeTarts and charm’s blow pops). turns out, though, that uk smarties are actually an m&m’s-type candy. they do, however, sell m&m’s here as well. i’m not sure which product is more successful, but my vote for the better of the two—surprisingly—goes to m&m’s. i think the smarties chocolate is a higher grade, but the candy shell is a little too thick, a little too noticeable, a little too chewy, and a little too stuck in my tooth as i write this. there’s a vaguely unpleasant artificial-type taste to these, too. ♥♥.

milky way crispy rolls. d-DAMN, i say! another winner. cylindrical biscuit fingers but with a “lightly whipped filling.” buh? these descriptions are always so vague, but frankly, i don’t care what that voop is in the middle–it’s good is what it is. i couldn’t tell you what the hell “nougat” is either, but that won’t stop me from eating it. at only 39p, i will definitely be going back to my new favorite off licence to cop these again. sheesh, i think i’ve walked to more candy stores than charlie bucket. ♥♥♥♥♥. added july 29, 2008.

time out. urrgh…i didn’t care for this. it’s sugar wafers with a milk chocolate (flake) interior covered with more milk chocolate. i can’t put my finger on why, but i just plain didn’t like the taste of this and only ate half of a biscuit finger before putting it aside. for really good sugar wafers and chocolate, i’d go with manner neapolitaner-schnitten (from austria). ♥♥. added july 31, 2008.

green and black. well, this was a no-brainer. it’s plain chocolate (dark, 70% for me), and it’s very well executed. smooth and rich. bonus points for fair trading. ♥♥♥♥. added august 2, 2008.

is there a chocolate missing that you’re dying to know about? drop a line saying what it is, and it will be reviewed for you. vicarious bon appétit! —the mgmt

ed. note—if i haven’t found the five pounds i lost by now, i probably never will!

day 22

Anyone for Pimm’s?™

well wasn’t i lucky to be invited along for a sunday out in surrey (cf. long island). susannah and her boyfriend, edward, were going to have a leisurely bbq in the garden, and i got to be the gooseberry (ha…see yesterday’s vocabulary). despite the pouring down rain we heard they were having in london, things out in surrey were grand. beaming sun and very few clouds. i would even go so far as to say that it was hot—not the 78 degrees “hot” where british and irish people start complaining, but bona fide over 85 degrees. matter of fact, i haven’t really been cold anymore for several days. seems england really does have a summer!

the bbq came complete with the proper english drink for a summer’s day: a pimm’s and lemonade. pimm’s is a gin-based alcohol, and wikipedia says this about it: “Pimm’s is most common in Britain, particularly Southern England. It is one of the two staple drinks at Wimbledon, the Henley Royal Regatta, and the Glyndebourne opera festival, the other being champagne. As a result, Pimm’s has the reputation of being a drink for the upper class.” well la-dee-da! here’s to a proper glass of pimm’s and lemonade:

the day included good company, good music, good food, good weather, good pimm’s, and a good episode of “top gear,” a british car show that unabashedly shits on the american automotive industry. (i couldn’t really be mad though; even americans don’t want american cars.)

after topping things off with a good night’s sleep on edward’s couch, the morning afforded me a chance to take on england’s overland railroad (cf. long island railroad). the biggest challenge there was tolerating little samuel and his sister, whose loud exchanges, squealing, and playing had everybody in a proper english snit. i felt bad for the people commuting in for work; so much for a peaceful start to your day, folks.

upon arriving back at susannah’s, though, i had a pretty peaceful view from her window. there’s construction going on behind her building, and the site is full of young eastern european guys. what with it being so bloody hot and all, they’re all shirtless. just a-mortarin’ and a-glistenin’ and a-brownin’ away in the sun. hot damn, let’s hear it for summer in england! anyone for pimm’s? 😉

vocab:

• ring road = beltway
• boot = trunk
• bonnet = hood
• sectioned = committed (as in, “amy winehouse’s dad tried to have her sectioned, but since she was already married, only her husband could do that.”)
• third time lucky = third time’s a charm

day 21

Brighton Rocks

bright and early this morning, i slipped out to catch the bus to brighton. i had suggested the outing to the couchsurfing group, and marion, my tate modern sidekick, had decided to go along with me on the bus. she had also gotten another couple of couchsurfers, edvardas and steven, to agree to meet us there as well as her friend from school, dieretou, who was also on holiday in london. between us we represented france, australia, lithuania, and the united states, and none of us had ever been to brighton.

brighton is a fun little town on the south shore of london. to continue with my new york parallels, it’s like going to coney island for the day. like coney island, it boasts a beach, a pier, rides, amusement park games, arcades, and lots of boardwalk food (though you’ll probably be hard pressed to find jellied eels offered in brooklyn).

we couldn’t have asked for a better day—sunny and around 78 degrees. marion and i ate warm sugared doughnuts as we waited on the pier for dieretou. we also bought some “brighton rock” stick candy from a stall manned by a guy listening to mf doom. funnily enough, he seemed as surprised that i knew the music as i was that he did.

i had told myself not to stress about money for the day—i knew things wouldn’t be cheap, and i knew i wouldn’t have much fun if i kept making money into an issue. good thing i took that route because the first stop, after doughnuts, was a ride dieretou and i “fancied.” cost to me: $8 (i.e. £4). who spends eight dollars to ride a single amusement park ride? jan on a side holiday in brighton does, that’s who. because she’s not studying on money for the day, dammit.

after the ride, we connected with the guys and made our way down to the beach. now, the beach at brighton is unlike any beach i’ve ever seen. the entire thing, from end to end, is completely covered with sizeable, rounded stones.

^ brighton rocks! ^

as beach experiences go, stones have the advantage of not slinking their way into your bag, your shoes (unless, of course, your shoes have holes in them…::snickers::), your pockets, your hair, and so on. and when your feet (and the rest of you, should you decide to swim in england’s chilly waters) are all wet, stones don’t stick to you and don’t have to be hosed off. the one drawback to a beach covered with stones, however rounded, is that they still hurt to walk on. i had to wear my sneakers to walk to the edge of the water. unlike a normal beach, however, i was able to put them right back on again after putting my feet in. try that at coney island.

^ ouch! brr! …maui it ain’t! ^

a little after 1pm we decided to make our way to some fish and chips. i’d been waiting for fish-and-chips o’clock since i got to england, so i was geeked. i had a referral for a proper “chippy,” and i even had a little hand drawn map of its baker street location. a real map, however, showed that baker street wasn’t anywhere near the beach. after some discussion, we agreed to hoof it there as we all figured it would be cheaper to buy food away from the touristy shore.

the walk there was not short. no one really complained, but i still felt bad because i had been the one to suggest it. however, the walk did lead us past the incredible Royal Pavilion, a gorgeous india-inspired structure of spires and domes and intricate detail work. we all took our requisite photos and pressed on in the uncharacteristic british heat. did i say 78 degrees? hmm…maybe it was 81.

^ king george iv’s phat-ass royal pavilion ^

when we finally reached the chippy, sweaty, tired, and hungry, we discovered that—ack!—fish and chips was more expensive there than at the beach! a passerby confirmed for us that it was an excellent spot, though, and no one wanted to walk back again on an empty stomach, so we decided to go for it. as a result, my $9 (£4.50) fish and chips meal, already pricey by my standards, went up to $12.70 (£6.35). who pays over twelve dollars for one piece of fried fish and some french fries? as take-out, no less. ummm…well…apparently not jan on a side holiday in brighton…

what happened, right, is this: steven and i walked down to the off-licence to get some sodas. when we got back, the orders started coming up. everyone was getting their food and stepping outside. when she called the cod and chips order, i went up. she asked if i wanted salt and vinegar, and i said just salt. she salted and started wrapping the food up. she got distracted for a second then went back to wrapping. “oh,” she said in her strong british accent, “did i already…” something something something. i couldn’t quite make out the end. assuming she was thinking she hadn’t salted the food, i answered, “yes.” she finished wrapping, put it in a bag, and handed it to me.

others of us were already waiting outside with bags, so here’s where my guilt comes in: i half thought someone must have paid for the order while i was off buying soda, and i half thought i was about to get over. i had a grubby ten pound note clutched in my hand and a grubby little thought that maybe what she had asked me was “did i already charge you for this?” i walked out into the shame of the sunlight and asked (um…as we walked away) if i owed someone in our group for my fish and chips. everyone said no, and the ch-ching of $12.70 saved kept me from going back in to clear up the mistake, even as i felt the urge to quicken the step of my utterly guilty getaway.

on the flip side of the ch-ching, though, was the deathly knell of karma. was i now going to be pick-pocketed? or would i wind up losing twice as much money some other way? or would retribution be even harsher, like the robbery i had just read about on my friend abeer’s travel blog in which she and her friend lost $6,000 worth of property from their hotel room, including their laptops. ugh…what have i done? in hindsight, i’d rather have the peace of mind than the $12.70 still in my pocket. i also can’t help but wonder, at the risk of questioning karma, what the hell abeer must have made off with—a car? sheesh.

after pilfered fish and chips in the park along with a bit of frisbee playing (if you can call it that), we made our way slowly back to the shore with me teaching the french contingent all kinds of dirty expressions in english along the way. i should point out that these two girls are the only people on the planet for whom i will answer to the name “jane.” i give them the benefit of the doubt that it’s a pronunciation thing.* after all, i sometimes strain to understand them, particularly with sentences like this: “‘E his ‘ear hall-ready?” i think jamaicans do the same thing with their h’s. i always recall biggie’s mom describing the posthumously released biggie duets cd as “an ‘ealthy halbum.” cute, right? let’s chuckle a little: ‘ee-‘ee.

at the end of the day, the bus ride back to london was kept interesting by my conversation with steven. most of the people you meet couch surfing will have a tale to tell, and his had a lot of parallels with my own. it was odd to hear someone else voicing the exact same conclusions and ideologies i’ve arrived at in my own head. odd…and comforting. all in all, it was such a top to bottom nice day in england that the only word i would even consider using to describe it is, of course, lovely.

vocabulary:

• chippy = fish and chips spot
• twee = cute in an old-fashioned, non-flattering sense
• gooseberry = third wheel

*afterthought: whenever dieretou exclaimed “damn,” it sounded more like “dame,” so it makes sense that jan would turn to jane. nonetheless, i will use my full name, anjanée, when i go to paris. i mean, if i can be expected to pronounce dieretou…

day 20

hair “whoa’s”

forgive me, dredlocs, for i have sinned: it has been almost three months since my last maintenance session. i’ve washed for myself, of course, but i’ve never been one to do any kind of hair manipulation. i don’t twist; i don’t braid; i don’t roll. that said, there was a lot of new growth wildin’ out on my scalp, and i was thrilled to find a highly recommended london-based locs salon via the internet. today was the day of my appointment. here’s the short version of the story: i went in like this 😀 ; i came out like this 😦 .

right now my hair looks so ugly it hurts. no wait, it’s that it looks ugly AND it hurts. witness below the face of evil:

no, not mine—the dude’s! after a soothing washing session, i sat in Dr. Evil’s* chair and discovered that the washing had merely been the calm before the storm. first of all, this dude made out like the concept of me combing out my ends was the most unbelievable thing he’d ever heard. he acted so dumbfounded that for a minute i thought we had a language barrier and i started explaining what i intended to do more slowly. he bugged out his eyes, shook his head, and chuckled for the first several minutes of the endeavor.

things were still light-hearted at that point, but it got real serious real fast. this guy has torture devices for hands! thirty minutes into the process, i found myself writhing in the chair and contorting my face in agony. “like, whoa, Dr. Evil—you don’t know your own strength,” i quipped, wincing. he just chuckled. later i tried: “gee, Dr. Evil—do you work out??” he still didn’t get it. finally, when i was damn near falling off the chair, the shop owner jokingly asked me if i’d ever taken a lamaze class. (to learn to manage pain—get it?) at last Dr. Evil got the hint.

“am i twisting too tight?” he asked. (i could see the shop owner nodding yes in the mirror.) i was like, “dude—i’m not a professional or anything, so i can’t tell you that. what i can tell you is that it REALLY hurts.” he blamed me for not telling him (!) and said he could reduce the tension. well, that was apparently untrue. by the time he was done, my entire scalp felt inflamed and enraged. it was like being sucker punched in the skull. with a searing hot anvil. i don’t know how i will even sleep tonight. and to top it all off, i look AWFUL. my roots are twisted so tightly that they’ve doubled over onto themselves like hostess cupcake icing loops. it will take ages for this to calm down. thanks a lot, london. x-(

bus “whoa’s”

dejected, i backed out of all my plans for the evening. i just wanted to catch a bus home and “have a sulk,” as the brits would say. so i got on the first bus i saw to london bridge because i knew i could get a connecting bus from there back to streatham. i suppose i’d gotten too comfortable with the buses—reading newspapers and outright taking naps and such—so they were out to let me know who was boss. we got to some utterly random stop in a part of the city i’d never been to, and suddenly it was: last stop—no passengers.

umm…whoa. i paid 90p to go to london bridge. what’s this “primrose street” rubbish? the whole lot of us was perplexed, queuin’ up to ask questions, but i just hadn’t got the energy to kick up a row. i slogged on to the next proper bus stop to get myself sorted. i goggled the map for a tick, and—brilliant—a connection to a streatham-bound bus was just round the corner. i could go on, but i’ve been reading a british book and, as you can see, it’s bloody turning me into a brit.

i’d love to have have a lie-in tomorrow to forget my woes, but i’m to be up early to catch a bus to brighton. pip-pip—i must be off!

*names changed to protect the inno…hmph, like hell you’re innocent NAAMAN!

day 18

today, i feel: 😦

i’ve been cooped up with work from east coast morning to london night. no going out. no seeing anything new. no meeting anybody. yesterday was the same. two days in a row of this have saddened me, i fear. i’ve been feeling isolated and sorry for myself, and that is the entranceway to the slippery spiral of self-pity and questioning of one’s decisions and all sorts of other purgatory circles.

i commented to my husband recently (yes, i speak to him a little over email) about a situation at seamus’s house. see, back in philly, i was living in the house my husband and i bought. it’s a joined house made much the same way as seamus’s, only smaller. behind the philly house is a walled back yard, and into that yard would creep any and every stray cat in the south philadelphia area. and what would these cats do in the yard? why, they’d poop, of course.

so as i sat in seamus’s kitchen last week, watching the second stray cat in two days creep about the back yard and noting a recently deposited turd just outside the back sliding door, i thought i’d mention the similarities to my husband. well, he seemed to take it as a sort of “wherever you go, there you are” statement rather than just a funny coincidence. his response implied that i had tried to escape myself and simply run right back into myself again. different continent; same old shit. literally.

well, i don’t agree with this—his assessment or that irritating little adage. quite to the contrary, upon running into me over here, i have hardly recognized myself. who is this girl going out to pubs and dinner with strangers and making friends and conversation all over the place? it certainly isn’t who i was in the states—a wallflower of the a shrinking violet variety. an asocialite, if you will. the change of environment has actually done wonders for me; the change of company even more so.

“wherever you go, there you are” is like saying that people don’t change. can’t change. if you’re consistently finding that wherever you go, there you are…maybe you just need to go to better places.

vocabulary:

• terrace house = row house
• garden = yard, if it’s grassed
• yard = yard, if it’s paved
• pub = bar (i know—duh)