Barbecue, Gardens, and People of Iron

What an exciting, fun week it’s been! 

In the last 7 days I have visited France, Belgium, and The Netherlands; spent two delightful evenings and one lovely afternoon with various friends; and proudly watched from afar as my sister graduated from MC to UMBC, my parents celebrated their 33rd wedding anniversary, my partner competed in and conquered his very first Iron Person race, and my Aunt Peggy celebrated her 50th birthday!
 

I’m positively exhausted!

I’ll speak more about my travels anon, but for now I want to focus on a few of the things I’ve done in the London area this week, specifically yesterday.

In addition to being my parents’ anniversary, yesterday was Nic’s big race! I knew I would go stir-crazy if I just sat there refreshing the athlete tracker all day, so I decided to try and keep myself as busy as possible. (This was a wise choice on my part since the stupid tracker stopped doing its job after the 56th mile on the bike.) 

So, after starting my morning off with a 5 mile run—don’t forget, I’m training for my own big race (and still looking for sponsors to help me raise $440 by July, which you can learn more about here)—I took my ever-generous host / flat-mate MM up on his offer to go walk around Kew Gardens, where he works. 

I had been meaning to do this for a while now, but with the recent weather it hasn’t really been an option before now. MM and I spent most of the afternoon there—it’s such a lovely park—but my camera battery was low because I forgot to charge it after I got back from my trip, so I didn’t get many pictures. 

Highlights included seeing: Kew Palace, where King George III lived for part of his reign (and which is featured in the film The Madness of King George); some wonderful sculptures hewn from dead trees and created by Kew’s artist-in-residence, David Nash; and, seeing the amazing greenhouses like Temperate House, which is the largest surviving Victorian glasshouse in the world!

The backside of Kew Palace

Temperate House

By the time MM and I returned from Kew Gardens, it was almost 6:00 PM—yet, with the time difference, I knew it would be another 9 or 10 hours before Nic was done with his race. This meant I needed to find something to pass the time last night as well.

Fortunately, my friend TvH invited me to join him, LD, and KS for a night of frivolity at my favorite London club, Heaven. Since Heaven doesn’t open until 11 PM, though, we had some time to kill and went to Lupo first.

————

I’m going to stop talking about last night for a second, and jump back to Thursday.

On Thursday afternoon, TvH and I met up for coffee at LJ’s so we could catch up on the respective trips we had both taken the previous weekend, while enjoying delicious coffee and amazing (albeit messy) caramel shortbread thingies.

Around 5 PM, we set off for Village, where we were to meet-up with LD for cocktails—and just a few at that, because I was determined to avoid a repeat of the prior Thursday’s sloppiness! Unfortunately LD was denied entrance because he forgot his ID and so, after TvH and I finished our wine, we headed someplace where LD knew he could get in: Lupo.

I had never been before, even though it was right down the street. It wasn’t bad, though most of the clientele seemed to be yuppy straights who didn’t quite know what to make of the three of us, bouncing around flamboyantly on our bar stools to the music. On the flipside, the bartender—a lovely Melbournian named Dominica (Dom, for short)—seemed to adore us, and it was in large part because of her that we wound up staying there as long as we did.

Lupo--we sat at the bar. [NB: This image is not mine!]

Eventually, our bellies reminded us that we were famished, and so we set off in search of food. We finally found this barbecue place called Bodean’s. (BTW, check out that website—it's awesome!)

It. Was. AMAZING! 

Seriously, it was some of the best barbecue I’ve had—far better than most of the stuff I’ve had in the US, even! I swear, they must have imported their sauce from the Carolinas, or Memphis, or some other similar place known for its BBQ! (My mouth is watering just thinking back on it…)

Anyway, back to last night…

————

So, I joined LD and TvH (and later KS) at Lupo. Our lovely bartender from Thursday was on-duty again, and provided us with a series of killer drinks and shots! 

Finally, around 11 PM, it was time to head over to Heaven, where the four of us spent the remainder of the night dancing our little queer asses off. We even made it into the VIP area before the night was over (though I didn’t think it was so great, personally—at least compared to the main floor).

All the while, though, I kept a close eye on the time!

I knew I wanted to be home by around 3:30 AM, as that was Nic’s ‘best case’ finish time, and with the inevitable drama that plays out on London’s night buses travel frequently takes longer than expected. Sadly, despite my careful attention to the time, the buses nearly thwarted my plans last night. 

The bus that would have had me home in plenty of time was too full so I wasn’t allowed on, and the next one—20 minutes later, which would have been cutting it close but still an option—never showed. (I can only assume there was drama aboard and it stopped somewhere until the situation resolved itself, as the drivers are wont to do.) 

Finally, I managed to get on a bus at about 3:13 AM. Since there weren’t many passengers, the trip took a lot less time than expected, and I found myself walking in the door at about 4 AM—happily, I returned just in time to learn of Nic’s successful completion of his race as it was happening!

Whew! What a day, not to mention week—but more on the rest later!

Sick. (Again.)

I’m sick.

Again.

Second time during this trip.

Except, this time, it’s my annual bout of asthmatic bronchitis. 

I’d thought I was doing better yesterday, but this morning I woke up and it felt like my lungs were encased in barbed wire. Oh yeah, and my face is swollen and puffy from all of the congestion.

It’s not a pretty picture. See…

This is my sick face. Is it pretty?

So, yeah.

K&M are home from their trip, and I should have migrated back to my flat, but they were kind enough to take pity on me and have allowed me to continue monopolizing their guest room. They’re such good people, and I’m so grateful to have friends like them!

I’m also grateful that I’m not back in Chicago right now, because there’s enough drama between Nic and I when one of us is sick—but when we’re both sick at the same time (like now): 

It. Is. Not. Pretty.

Fer serious.

See for yourself:

The video seen above has been falsely attributed to filming for the third Transformers movie in Chicago but, in reality, Nic and I had a minor cold at the same time—it was like a battle between Optimus Bitch and MegaDick over whose symptoms were worse.

But I digress…

The point is this: it’s Easter Break, and I want to feel better!

Casual Over-Drinks Topics...

There’s not too much to talk about at the moment, but I figured I should do a quick entry just to highlight a couple of things that I’ve done over the last week.

Tuesday night (20 March) I traveled to Leytonstone—birthplace of Sirs Alfred Hitchcock and Derek Jacobi—in order to meet-up with two UEL students, JA and GC, for drinks. The peers in question are both thesis-level Cultural Studies students who occasionally pop into my horrid ‘Culture, Power and Resistance in the Twenty-First Century’ class. One of them (JA) also happens to be the UEL student that came to Columbia last year. We met up at the Red Lion (which I think might be affiliated with the pub I went to with K&M on my second night here), and spent a lovely couple of hours catching up over beer and cider. We chatted about everything from white privilege and racism in Europe, to the failings of abstinence-only education in the U.S., to the attempted privitization of England’s healthcare system. You know, casual over-drinks topics…for Cultural Studies students at least.

Tuesday night wasn’t my only stab at being social this week. Last night (23 March) I happened to catch a Facebook update from another friend, AH, that he was stuck at Victoria Station, waiting for a train to take him back home (which is about an hour away). Now, I’ve ‘known’ AH online for around 13 years—we’ve been part of the same He-Man/She-Ra community since the mid- to late-1990s—but we’ve never actually met before. (Namely because of the ocean which separates us.) So, upon spotting this update, a hurried flurry of messages were exchanged, and plans were made to finally meet up in person while he waited for his rescheduled train. A short while later, and we were finally greeting one another face-to-face.

Me and AH at Victoria Station

Since AH had a couple of hours before his train was scheduled to depart, we nipped over to the Duke of York, a pub not far from the station. This was actually my first experience meeting another He-Fan/She-Raver in person—everyone’s so spread out in the States that it’s hard to do so—and I loved every second of it. It was so surreal: two grown, 30(ish) year-old men—in a dark, noisy bar surrounded by stumbling heterosexuals trying to dance to ‘Hot in Here’ (and the men suggestively removing their suitcoats)—talking about everything from the father/daughter relationship between Hordak and She-Ra, to what kinds of material the Four Horsemen will use to design Scorpia’s tail, to the role of the Filmation series in producing a generation of really swell, inclusivity-minded people. You know, casual over-drinks topics…for He-Fans/She-Ravers at least.

Beyond those two bits of excitement, there’s really not too much else to tell. This week’s kind of flown by (and, honestly, I wish it would slow down)! I’m housesitting for K&M at the moment, and keeping their delightful dog Bowmar company. I’m loving every second of the peace and quiet here. I hadn't realize how stressed out I’d become living in the other house until I came here, but I suddenly find myself very relaxed.

Of course, part of the stress I’m feeling might have more to do with midterms than the constant thumpa-thumpa at my flat. Basically, our entire grade comes down to two grades: our final (60%) and our midterm (40%). Oh, and they do not award 100% over here, the rationale being that if your work warrants 100% then you should already be a teacher. Realistically, the highest score most students earn is about 75%. So, basically, my midterms have to be spot-on if I want to try to maintain my 4.0!

Fortunately, midterm madness is almost over. One of them (‘Realism, Fantasy & Utopia’) was due last week, and the other two are due this week—followed by two glorious weeks of Easter Break (yes, it's called Easter Break here), during which time I hope to visit Scotland!!!! 

And then we go straight into working on our finals, because there's only like 5 weeks left of the actual semester following Easter Break.

Two final things I want to mention, but which don’t really fit anywhere else:

First, yesterday was a gorgeous day! Mind you, this is still London, so of course there was a curtain of smog blanketing the skyline—I have yet to see a day that is both sunny and clear—but I’ll take what I can get! It was simply too nice restrict myself to the indoors all day, so after class I ran to K&M’s house, spent some time with Bowmar, grabbed the laptop, and headed to a coffee shop in Soho. The place was called LJ’s CoffeeHouse, and my choice to go there was pretty random: I simply wanted somewhere that was open-air and had free wifi, and this is where Google directed me. After visiting their website, however, I also became smitten with LJ’s through the following ‘prayer’ posted on their site (and which I can totes relate to):

Caffeine is my shepherd; I shall not doze.
It maketh me to wake in green pastures:
It leadeth me beyond the sleeping masses.
It restoreth my buzz:
It leadeth me in the path of conciousness for its name's sake.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of addiction,
I will fear no equal.
For thou art with me, thy sweetness and thy crema they comfort me.
Thou preparest a carafe before me in the presence of my barista:
Thou anointest my day with pep; my mug runneth over.
Surely richness and taste shall follow me all the days of my life:
And I will dwell in the house of LJ's forever.

The service was only decent (though very friendly), but the coffee and the atmosphere as a whole were excellent. The gay Sohoians seemed to come alive, renewed by the sun’s warmth. People were so happy and pleasant, and it all jived perfectly with the mood I was in. (It was not, however, conducive to working—I spent 90% of my time there just chatting with Nic over the interwebs.)

Secondly—and containing spoilers (consider yourself warned)—I was saddened to learn on Thursday night that ‘Eastenders’ had killed off one of my favorite characters, George-Michael-obsessive Heather Trott (Cheryl Fergison). Alongside the Dot, Kim, and Shirley characters, Heather was one of my favorites. And the way in which she died—and the status of her relationships with best-friend Shirley and her murderer at the time—is just too sad. And sadly, it seems as if the U.K. soaps don’t bring back characters from the dead in the way the U.S. soaps do. Ah, well—I’ll miss you, Heather, but at least I can find some of your shenanigans on YouTube still: 

  

Until next time…

"Is it Drunk, Ye Are?"

[Yes, that title's a reference to Darby O'Gill and the Little People. It's still practically St Patricks' Day, so bite me if you disapprove of my obscure 'Irish' references.]

I have definitely been paying homage to my Irish roots this weekend, and I know my liver will be quite happy to return to a state of normality over the next few days. But, an awesome time was had throughout, and I was able to engage in some much-needed catching up with friends…

Friday (16 March) found me meeting up with my friend EN—the other student from Columbia who’s attending UEL—for a late dinner. And I mean late! Initially we had difficulty finding anyplace that was still serving dinner because it was after 10 PM. Finally, on the verge of absolute starvation, we stumbled into a place called Maxwell’s in Covent Garden...what we didn’t catch was the blub about it being the “best American restaurant in London.”

Seriously.

After we caught on—somewhere between seeing the large portrait of ‘Aunt Jemima’ that loomed over my shoulder, and the giant, golden Presidential Seal that was visible over EN’s shoulder—I was forced to ask her why it was that we kept winding up in American cafes? (You may remember from this post that the first time we toured around London together we also wound up in such a setting—quite by accident, I assure you!) We never did come up with an answer.

You can actually catch a glimpse of the 'Aunt Jemima' poster on their website! *SMDH*

At any rate, the food was both okay and reasonably priced. Sadly, the waiter sucked—he was so busy schmoozing with the table behind us about his time in Italy that it took almost 20 minutes (I was timing it) to get his attention so that we could request the check. In the end, we didn’t leave Maxwell’s until about 12:15 AM. That’s right: A.M. Suffice to say, I won’t be rushing back to dine there anytime soon.

Freed from Maxwell’s, we headed to Soho—turns out EN had never been to a gay club before, and I was determined to rectify this grave oversight in funness. (Yeah, I know that's not a real word.) Though EN and I had wristbands to get into G-A-Y Bar from earlier in the night, they were already closed, and so we headed to Village instead. We had enough time for exactly one drink, accompanied by a bartop performance of Aretha Franklin’s ‘Think’ (the 'Blues Brothers' version, one of my favorite songs) as rendered by a queen and some scantily clad men, before Village too shut down. Le sigh. A bit disgusted, we called it a night.

Whereas Friday wound up being an early night (relatively speaking), last night was anything but…but I’ll get to that in a moment.

First things first: my Saturday night started off with a trip to Leicester Square Theatre in order to catch the divine (and problematic) Joan Collins in her one-woman show ‘One Night with Joan.’

Two Sexy Bitches?

It was everything I expected it to be, and more! 

Basically, the gist is that you have an auditorium filled with middle-aged gay men who are hootin’ and hollerin’ as Collins sits back and tells them (us) about her sordid life—everything form her childhood, to first-husband Maxwell Reed’s attempt at selling her to “an Arab sheik for £10,000”, to Marilyn Monroe’s advice about the Casting Couch. In all, no big shocks there, and pretty much what you would expect from such a performance.

But it really was funny in that uber-campy way! Her stories about run-ins with the likes of Joan Crawford (her namesake) and Bette Davis were riotous, and she never once hesitated to make fun of her own acting abilities and/or the roles that she's accepted during her career! (And yes, she did make a dig at Linda Evans/Krystle, and joked about the shoulder pads being so large that the women had to enter rooms sideways.) There were so many names dropped during the show that I was tripping over them as I left. Also, putting her ‘bitch’ reputation on display for the audience, Ms. Collins started heckling a drunken guy in the audience during the second act for the way he laughed—that's right, she heckled an audience member. Fortunately he didn’t seem to mind. 

And how could I talk about the actress behind Alexis Morell-Carrington-Colby-Dexter-Rowan-Colby without addressing her ensemble? Ms. Collins spent the first act in a heavily sequined, black, off-the-shoulders number that was highly reminiscent of the Catwoman costumes from the Adam West era. (NB: This is different from the costume seen in the video and picture above.) And then, for the second act, she switched into a white-and-gold gown that could have come from the Dynasty costume department. Awesome!

As for the theatre itself, it was super-small! My ticket—though it was billed as being off to the side and near the back—was practically in the center and only twelve rows back, owing to the size of the place. I could see everything perfectly, including the little puff of smoke (vapor) coming from Ms. Collins’ cigarette. Also related to the performance space, I have to give major props to the Leicester Square Theatre staff for getting in on the fun: the announcer's voice at the beginning—the one that tells the younger people to silence their cell phones and the older people to unwrap their Wearther’s Candies—concluded with, “[If we catch you taking pictures] our staff has been trained to go the 'full Alexis' on you!” HA!

In the midst of my night with Joan I received a text from TvH asking me if I wanted to “drink like the Irish do?” For some reason, at the time this struck me as a challenge to my Irishness by my German friend, so I replied that I would meet him and his friends at Village following the show. Thus began my St Patricks’ Day shenanigans in earnest…

In total, the seven of us went from Village, to another place with overpriced drinks that we never caught the name of (and which  might have been a club for straights), back to Village, to G-A-Y Late (circa 1:00 AM), and, finally, Heaven (around 3:00 AM). By the time I left Heaven and made it to my bus, the sun was coming up.

Shockingly, I got up before noon and didn’t really feel any negative side-effects. Mind you, I also didn’t try to do anything mentally or physically challenging, opting instead to spend most of the day in bed, watching old episodes of ‘Come Dine with Me.’

Then, a little before 5 PM, I made my way back down to central London for the third time in as many days, this time to meet K&M at a pub called The George. The pub’s roots date back to (at least) the mid-16th-Century, and it has been connected to Shakespeare, Dickens, and even Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales. Of course, I simply had to celebrate the history surrounding The George with a couple of Guinnesses (Guinni?)—it would have been rude of me not to. In all seriousness, though, it was great to finally have a chance to catch-up with K&M—they’re such wonderful people, and have been so kind to this lonely American abroad in so many ways.

The George [NB: This is not my photo!]

So, yeah: crazy-long weekend, but one filled with good times and great friends! 

GWM ISO Human Contact...

Keeping a blog about an experience such as my time studying abroad is an interesting experiment in self-surveillance. 

What do you include and what do you censor?

----- and, perhaps more interesting, why? 

As the author of something that can never be totally erased once you click ‘publish’—the moment wherein ‘the umbilical cord between the object and its creator is broken’ (Ades as qtd. in Chris Jenks’ Transgression: p. 153)—do you attempt to edit-out by omission the moments that you don’t want to be reminded of later, thereby ensuring that when you look back in the future you only remember the rosier moments?

----- or do you try to maintain a realistic slant by including the good, bad, and ugly to the greatest extent possible? 

Do you issue warnings to certain readers—that is, if you’re willing to make the arrogant assumption that anyone is still reading consistently—that they might want to skip over this or that entry?

----- or do you let them read at their own peril because, fuck all, this is your experience and your life?

Also, who is the author of the blog writing for in the first place?

----- In my case, is it for me? my friends? family? future students that might participate in this exchange program (that is, assuming Columbia College Chicago doesn’t shut down the Cultural Studies program as the interim provost recommended earlier this week)?

I think, when it comes to my own authorship/blog, there’s a little bit of everything that I just described. Certainly, I’ve prevented myself from blogging about certain factors because either I don’t want to be reminded of them later, or I’m afraid of being judged by those who read this. (Case in point: I’ve started smoking again. Not often, mind you; but I did break down and actually buy a [half-]pack the other day, which I haven’t done in about four years.) Also, I remember at least one entry wherein I specifically issued a warning to my parents that they might not want to read any further. But, in general, I think I’ve done a somewhat decent job of trying to maintain a reflective representation of my current situation.

And it is with such considerations of my own practice that I embark on this entry, which attempts to account for not only today, but also some of the things that I (consciously) omitted earlier in the week in the hopes of presenting a more pleasant scenario.

So, obviously, I’m living in London. 

It’s one of my favorite places in the world! As a child, intrigued as I was by fantastic stories of king and queens and sorcere(rs/sses) and dragons, I just knew that I had to make it to London one day, because it epitomized all of those things. That overwhelming desire to cross the Atlantic stayed with me into adulthood, and I was adamant that it would be the destination for my first overseas journey. Then, in 2008, when Nic and I came to London for Dawn French & Jennifer Saunders’ farewell tour, it was everything I wanted it to be and more. I fell in love with the city all over again, for the first time!

So, since I’m finally living in one of my favorite places, why have I been in such a friggin’ funk the last few days? I would blame it on today’s weather—it’s cold enough to see one’s breath, and the fog shrouds the skyline like a damp cloak (i.e., the stereotypical London image one sees on television, minus the gas-powered lamps and cobblestone streets)—but, if I’m being totally honest, I’ve been in this funk for a few days now, and the weather during the rest of that time has been both warm and sunny enough to sit outside without a coat and bask in the sun.

So, again I ask, what’s wrong with me?

I’ve been thinking it over a quite a bit (and for most of the day), in a vein attempt to snap myself out of the foul, weepy mood that I’m in, and I think I’ve arrived at some of the contributing factors:

In the first place, I think I’m just plain-old-fashioned homesick. Obviously, I miss Nic and Aki and Chris Hansen and the Agents (and the Gong)—that sense of longing is so engrained that I hardly even feel the need to justify it or explain it here. It just is, and I assume that everyone can recognize that.

But I’m also a touch homesick for those little things that you don’t necessarily think of until you’ve been gone for a while: I miss being able to communicate with friends and loved ones without fear of waking them up because I forgot that it’s the middle of the night their time; I miss American coffee; I miss my alarm clock, which I can turn off and on and reset and reprogram without even looking at it; I miss the little gulley that’s formed on my side of the bed and which fits my sleeping form oh-so-perfectly (and unlike the sharp, invasive springs within the mattress I’m sleeping on here); I miss being able to use kitchen accoutrements without feeling the need to rewash them first; I miss having access to (an admittedly crappy and unstylish) wardrobe that lets me go more than one week without doing laundry; I miss having access to a dryer, and so on…

That's the super surface-level shit. Let's go a little deeper though...

Another thing that I think has contributed to my mood this week is rooted in pure selfishness, and is beyond anyone’s control really (including my own): it’s the simple fact that seemingly everyone around me—both at home and here in London—has been incredibly busy this week, meaning that there’s not much time for communicating. 

Now, the twin facts that I’m in this amazing city and have quite a bit on my own plate at the moment (in terms of workload) should mean that I’m hardly able to register this lack of communication, let alone be saddened by it. But saddened I have been. (It’s certainly not a matter of resenting anyone for not dropping all of their other obligations in order that they might pay attention to me. Not in the least—and I want to make that abundantly clear!)

Rather, the situation forces me to confront one of my own personality traits that I find particularly irritating: the constant conflict between my hermitic and social sides. I know that the idea of inhabiting both of those positions sounds oxymoronic, but I do it all the same. It’s not that I want to be alone per se—I’m just perfectly comfortable keeping my own company…until the option of having someone else to talk to is suddenly restricted, and then all I can think of is the fact that I want to talk to someone and can’t. (How Lacanian...I think.) 

Like I said earlier it’s a selfish desire, and I recognize this—which, of course, just makes me feel even worse, thereby perpetuating the cycle.

The other component of experiencing such feelings of lack is that I become hyperaware of everyone else’s access to a social life in that moment: even if he’s too busy to access them, Nic has access to our friends back home, and they he; likewise, my parents/sister have each other, and vice-versa; and my new friends here have their own friends, family, etc. But me…I’m kind of stuck in this weird, ghostlike no-man’s-land where I don’t really feel like I have full (or at times even approximate) access to any of it. It's profoundly lonely.

And now we come to the final point that I think has contributed to my overall funk in the last few days: I miss intimate human contact—not necessarily sexual (though that is certainly missed and desired as well), but intimate human contact in the sense of skin-to-skin contact between two human beings that forces each to recognize the other as a 'real person' for a moment. Something as simple as a lasting hug would suffice.

On that note, allow me to digress for a brief moment. During my first semester at Columbia I took a course with Dr. Louis Silverstein called ‘Education, Culture & Society.’ Now, let me tell you a bit about Louis before I go too much further: he is a self-described transcendental philosopher, an author, a peace activist, a wonderful human being with a brilliant mind and wicked sense of humor…and he’s a huge hippie (and I say that with great fondness)! 

At Louis’ insistence, we used to start every single class by going around the room, reintroducing ourselves to our peers (all the way up until the end, and long after we'd learned one anothers' names), and then sharing with everyone something positive that happened to us since the last time we met—it quickly became the highlight of each week, and remains something that I actively encourage every teacher I meet at Columbia to adopt because of the positive, collegiate atmosphere it creates. Further, Louis' insights on everything from the things a baby learns while in utero, to sex, to drugs, to death and grieving, to old age, etc…they’re just incredible, and have forever changed my perspective on a great many things.

At any rate, during one class Louis shared with us a newspaper article discussing how senior citizens were (are?) amongst the fastest growing populations to be afflicted by HIV. This sparked a conversation within the class about the sexual needs of the elderly, which in turn led to a discussion about the importance of physical human contact. Louis emphasized this point by noting nursing home patients, and how those patients who come in physical contact with others on a less frequent basis deteriorate quicker than those who are commonly touched by family members, etc.

That tidbit stuck with me and—though I had no reason to doubt his assertion at the time (and didn’t)—I realize now just how right Louis was. With the exception of a few hand-shakes here and there, and a welcoming hug that KG gave me on the day I arrived, I haven’t experienced intimate human contact since leaving Chicago. 

And it sucks. 

I find myself thinking about it all the time: wanting someone to just put their arm around me, or something equally benign and yet all-powerful in its ability to acknowledge me as a person. 

Hell, when I first got here I was super-conscious about making sure I made myself as physically small as possible while on the tube so as not to encroach on the space of others…but now, it’s almost the opposite, and I secretly hope that the jostling of the train will cause my shoulder to bump into someone else’s.

Louis, being the awesome hippie that he is, would (and did) encourage us to be unafraid of asking others to fulfill this very human need when we feel it. Within the confines of that amazing class and the atmosphere Louis foster(s/ed), I wouldn’t have thought twice—and, in fact, at various times throughout that semester there were occasions where one or the other of us would make just that request and another (or many) of us would respond.

But I’m not in Louis’ class. In many regards, I’m a stranger in a strange land. A ghost in no-man’s-land…

In closing, please don’t think that my saying any of this is my way of lamenting my decision to come to London. Likewise, it is in no way, shape, or form an attack on anyone. Rather, as I said near the start, I am merely trying to provide a reflective representation of my current situation—in this case, the ‘ugly’ part of living alone and 4,000 miles away from my home and loved ones for an extended period.

Peace (’cause, hell, I could use some right about now)…

Paris or Bust...By Bus!

I suppose I should start blogging about my Paris experience while it’s fresh on my mind. The problem is, there’s just so much to say that I don’t know where to begin. So, I think I’m just going to break it up day-by-day and in chunks, and take it from there…

18 February 2012:

Saturday morning started at O’Dark Early as my old friend and coworker Teresa used to say. The bus that was to take me from London to Paris was scheduled to depart Victoria Coach Station at 8:00 AM, but I was supposed to be there by 7:00 AM. Under normal circumstances, it would only take me about 50 minutes to get to Victoria Coach Station from where I'm living—except, the city’s transportation authority decided to shut down a portion of the District Line between my flat and the station. Fortunately I found out the day before, and was able to plan an alternate route by bus.

Yes, the bus. 

Now, almost everyone in my immediate circle knows how much I detest the bus, and they also know that I will usually take whatever out-of-the-way routes are possible to avoid taking the slowest, most irritating form of transportation (that was surely developed by the Marquis de Sade) ever concocted! Nonetheless, at such an early hour, I pulled myself up by the bootstraps and climbed aboard a friggin’ bus. 

Over an hour later, I was finally at the station and, finally, at about 8:10 AM, we set off for Paris!

From Victoria Coach station, we crossed over to the ‘southside’ of London and down through Lewisham. (In fact, we passed near Blackheath, and I even saw the side-road where KG&MM lived when Nic and I stayed with them back in 2008!) From there we headed toward Kent, passing within 6km of the beautiful Leeds Castle, and then on to Dover (though, sadly, I was not able to see the famous cliffs).

Our Approximate Route Across England

At Dover, we approached the entrance to the chunnel (a.k.a.the channel tunnel), where we encountered the following sign, leading to generalized excitement amongst the passengers:

'Lies, Damned Lies And Statistics!' ~ Benjamin Disraeli

However, said-sign was misleading: first we had to go through the border crossing process (which, in hindsight, took far less time that the nightmarish crossing back—but that’s a post for later). We sat in front of this sign for about 20 minutes, at which point two agents from the UK Home Office finally boarded the bus. We were all told to give them our passports, which they collected and disappeared with for another 20 minutes or so. Eventually, the agents returned and gave our passports back to us with the appropriate stamps in-place.

Cleared, the bus was allowed to move toward the chunnel. Now, I don’t really know what I expected the channel tunnel to be like, but it was nothing like what I encountered. I suppose I had a vague assumption that it would kind of be like a regular tunnel—you know, like the kind that cuts through a mountain, or the Chesapeake Bay Tunnel or something—and the bus would just drive through.

I was wrong.

The area was like some kind of bizarre mining operation—or, perhaps a better example, like the Fright Zone from the ‘She-Ra’ cartoon!

Inspiration for the channel tunnel?

There were tracks as far as the eye could see, and these massive train cars—tall enough to hold either two rows of cars stacked on top of each other, or conversely a single row of double-decker buses. 

I watched with a profound sense of wonder as our bus actually maneuvered its way into one of the giant cars, and we settled in for the crossing.

Once we were loaded up and en route, we were free to move about the train. Of course, there wasn’t much to see—the windows looked out onto a dark tunnel, no different from a typical subway—and the only places to go were the bathrooms at either end of the massive train. Nonetheless, I got out and walked around for the sheer fact of the experience.

Now, some things worth noting about the undersea journey between England and France:

1. Yes, your ears do pop a bit.
2. To pass between the massive cars, you have to press this scary looking red button for two seconds which, I guess, equalizes the pressure between the cars long enough for you to cross between them.
3. There are these lovely placards everywhere that tell you what to do in case of an emergency, and they are accompanied by a lovely graphic (drawn in a sedate, calming blue) of the train pausing at a special ‘emergency access tunnel’ between train lines, and letting off a bunch of happy, walking passengers in an orderly fashion. Upon seeing this image, I couldn't help laughing because I remembered the airplane scene in Fight Club and pictured the chaos that would ensue should there be an actual emergency—you know, like 250 feet-worth of water crashing down on top of us!

Fortunately, there were no emergencies, and we emerged on the other side successfully and, at last, I caught my first sign of the European continent!

Calais, France, the town in which we (basically) emerged, looked to be a charming place from what little I could see of it from afar. And there were old steeples absolutely everywhere! The effect was quite pretty.

However, I must confess something here, as it was around the time of our emerging from the channel tunnel when I had this realization: 

France smells, Now, I know that’s a positively horrid thing of me to say, and I’m sure a great many people worldwide would say the same about the US. But, whereas (for instance) Ireland was possessed by a pleasingly sweet scent, which danced in the air and just slightly graced one’s nosehairs every now and again, France was filled with a heady, somewhat overpowering perfume-like smell. You know the kind I mean—that stuff the older ladies in Atlantic City use. And there was no dancing in the air or graceful tickling with this stuff—it hit you in the face like a can-can dancer’s…well, I digress…

But enough about unpleasant odors...

Within about twenty minutes, we had started the longest part of our journey—about three hours through Northern France’s countryside. I wish I could regale you with tales of its beauty, but—owing to the time of year, and rainy weather—there wasn’t much to see. 

Honestly, it kind of reminded me a bit of a cross between Montross, Virginia, and Galway, Ireland. And many of the houses were somewhat reminiscent of the Dickens Village houses you see at Christmastime: tall and skinny, with angular roofs. Immediately, the song ‘Little Town’ from Disney’s Beauty and the Beast came to mind:

 

 

In fact, after watching the above video in setting up this entry, I realize just how accurate my initial recollection and comparison of the architecture was.

Aside from these occasional ‘provincial’ towns, the only other things worth noting from this portion of the journey are a preponderance of high-speed trains (why, oh why, don’t we have these in the US yet?), and a breathtaking glimpse I had about 40km from Paris of two people in full, navy-blue horseback riding kit galloping down a steep hill atop their beautiful horses!

Eventually, the bus reached our penultimate stop: Charles de Gaulle Airport. Now, I didn’t get off at this stop, but I kind of which I had. It was a huge facility, and designed in such a way that it was like being in a giant honeycomb—or maybe an ant’s hive is a better comparison. The roadways were all massive, looping and corkscrewing! And neither time I was there—either on the way in to Paris, or on the way back to London—did the drop-off and pick-up area seem clogged, no doubt owing to this ingenious layout! It really was stunning! (Of course, much like the traffic circles in London, I’m sure this is an engineering marvel that simply wouldn’t work in the US because we’re too stupid to use it properly.)

After leaving Charles de Gaulle, it took about 20 minutes to reach Gallieni, where I debarked. (FYI: according to Wikipedia, Gallieni is named after General Joseph Gallieni, who commandeered 600 taxis in order to get his troops to 1914’s First Battle of the Marne. Don’t know if that’s true, but—if it is—it’s an interesting story!)

And now that I was in Gallieni, it was time for my Parisian adventure to begin...

"Borgen" Series Finale

I think I just watched the final (series 1) episode of “Borgen”. My goodness, that show is spectacular, and very reminiscent of another television favorite of mine: “The West Wing”! 

Series 1 DVD—damn you, region encoding!

 

For those who aren't already familiar with the Danish series, this is the general premise:

Pilou Asbæk

Courtesy of various political maneuverings, Birgitte Nyborg (played by Sidse Babett Knudsen)—a politician tied to Denmark’s moderate political party—finds herself thrust into the role of Prime Minister. However, the world of politics being what it is, she only has two people within her inner-circle whom she feels she can trust. One of those people is her (gorgeous) secretive spin-doctor, Kasper Juul (Pilou Asbæk). One of the things Kasper’s keeping a secret about, though, is his relationship with a powerhouse news anchor named Katrine Fønsmark (Birgitte Hjort Sørensen), and their role in orchestrating Nyborg’s rise to power.

So, getting back to the “West Wing” comparison, you’ve got: President Bartlett in Prime Minister Nyborg; John Lyman and Sam Seaborne in Kasper Jull; and, CJ Craig and Danny Concannon in Katrine Fønsmark. There’s even a niche for Leo MacGarry and Abigail Bartlett in Nyborg’s Financial Minister and husband, respectively.

"Borgen" Principal Cast

"The West Wing" Principal Cast

At any rate, I highly encourage any of my stateside friends to conduct a desperate search for it—it’s worth the watching. (Just make sure you find the version with UK subtitles—unless you happen to speak Danish.)

In the meantime, if I can't find someplace in the US to watch series 2 and 3 when I get back, I may have to consider never forgiving KG & MM for introducing me to the show in the first place!

The (Rambling) Media Edition: Part 2

Before leaving KG & MM’s wonderful home—and let me just take a brief moment here to reiterate how grateful I am for their hospitality, and putting up with me while I searched for housing—we started watching a fun flick that we still need to finish. It’s a Norwegian horror film called "The Troll Hunter."

Do yourself a favor and take a moment to watch this trailer:

Is that not simply awesome? It’s like a cross between “The Blair Witch Project,” “Pan's Labyrinth,” and “French & Saunders”!

 

The Euro Crashes and Socialism's Father Rests

This weekend’s been somewhat of a wash, so there’s really not too much to say. In other words: this will be short.

Most of yesterday was spent writing (draft) essays for various scholarships I’m applying to for the 2012/13 school year, and when I wasn’t doing that, I was helping Nic run lines for his show that opens in about two hours (8PM Central)—break a leg, baby! Later in the evening, however, I joined KG & MM  for "EuroCrash! The Musical," which was written by their landlord. The synopsis is as follows:

“Meet Mark and Gilda—the Hansel and Gretel of Euroland—as they discover the fantasy world of the single currency. Meet Papa Kohl and Madame Mitterrand, the charming couple who hold it all together; meet the Snake, a clanky prototype; Jean-Claude Trichet, the last great eurocrat; the PIIGS, paying for past profligacy; the dark eminence of the mighty Bundesbank; and the wild, exotic currencies of central Europe. All this packed into a pantomime. Vicious rhymes, great music. From the creators of last year’s sell-out Broke Britannia!” ~ "EuroCrash! The Musical" Official Website

 

 

Image Courtesy of "EuroCrash! The Musical" Website

 

Now, I know what you’re thinking: that sounds…interesting. And you would be correct. It was actually quite amusing for the most part, and I walked away with a much better understanding of the euro’s history than I ever had before. The acting was good, and the lyrics to the songs were very cute! Who knew an economic downturn could be so much fun?

Following the show, I joined KG & MM at The Sun Inn for dinner and drinks (the second round; the first being at the show). The food was excellent, as was the atmosphere, but the company and conversation are what put it over the top as wonderful!

The Sun Inn / Image Courtesy of their Website

Somehow, today was even less productive than yesterday. Once again, I helped Nic run lines for a good portion of the day. Then, this evening, K&M went to her cousin’s house for a bit, so I went out for some British Chinese take-out at Xiong Mao. Instead of the stereotypical fortune cookie, however, I received two chicken wings. And no chopsticks. I was confused—either the hostess really, really liked me (hence the wings), or she hated me (hence the lack of a cookie and chopsticks)—so, of course, I took to the Facebook-program-store to state as much. Fortunately, a more worldly friend clarified that the fortune cookies are an American thing, and that the wings were probably because it’s Chinese New Year’s Eve, and then another friend, who lives in Cornwall, said that he’s never known Chinese take-away over here to come with chopsticks. Ah, cultural adjustments… Seriously, these are the types of tidbits that should be in one of those London: From A to Zed books!

At any rate, at home with my take-out, I turned on the telly, and what should I find: “Come Dine with Me.” I swear, that show is like crack and I’m a filthy junky! After noshing away and enjoying this week's batch of participants, I chatted with Nic and the folks for a bit, and then retired to watch BBC iPlayer in bed—which is currently streaming “Doubt,” an AMAZING movie if you haven’t seen it yet!

Well, that’s enough for now. Not sure what’s on the schedule for tomorrow yet—the hunt for housing resumes, and laundry happens. Those two things are definites. Beyond that, though, I may do the Westminster Abbey tour tomorrow.

P.S. to Cultural Studies and Queer Lit friends: I just found out that Karl Marx and Radclyffe Hall are buried in the SAME cemetery, and that it’s not far from here. Who’s going to be a creepy graveyard stalker? This guy!

Karl Marx Memorial (NB: This photo is NOT mine!)

Radclyffe Hall's Memorial (NB: This photo is NOT mine!)