Trainspotting at Notting

Words cannot explain.

Portobello, Hello! BYOB Orchestra, and Tamed!

Saturday Lydia and I went to Portobello Market and looked at clothing which I could not justify buying then continued down a narrow cobbled lane to the produce stalls where we found an abundance of 1 quid bowls of fruit, vegetables, and 3-for-a-quid brie!! It was so rewarding. I came away with 2 bunches of bananas, a bowl of apples, a bag of mushrooms, and a brie wheel for 3.30 GBP. And we saw George Orwell's house!

We came upon an antique bookseller and I saw something that I want more than anything in the world--a 2nd edition copy from 1926 of The Sun Also Rises. It's hard to summate how important that book is to me; it's shaped my world view and I have written a lot of criticism about it. I could never run out of things to say about it. The copy the guy was selling was 40 quid (yoikes!) and came into existence when an error was discovered on pg. 118 of the first printed edition ("stoppped"). So to cancel out the anguish of not being able to buy it I got a bratwurst instead and then on Monday I bought:
I cannot wait to get into Jonathan Safran Foer's Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close, which is about a young boy who loses his dad in the 9/11 terror attacks then searches the 5 boroughs for the lock to which a key his dad left him fits. I've read page 1 and I had to shut it fast or else I would not have gotten anything else done. It's gripping. Introducing Wittgenstein is a sort of graphic novel biography of the linguist-philosopher and I could probably read it in one sitting. But first I have to read Solzehnitsyn's One Day In The Life of Ivan Denisovich, which is about political prisoners in the gulag, for my Making of Modern Russian Culture class. I'm excited about that one. I love the oppressed!

Saturday evening was a lot of fun. Johnny came in from Oxford and we went to this really cozy pub in Soho, The French House. The people were really nice and chatty and warm and for a while we couldn't even get a seat until this couple got up and offered us their table. We stayed there until they closed then went to Shoreditch where we found another corner in another pub, and we sat in this 1.5-person chair propped against a bathroom door, which was weird to some people but not so much to us. Engrossing conversation about Heidegger, set theory, and quantum physics ensued. Got back late, apples, slept late, all in all a great time.

I'm GOING TO KILL the construction workers who seem to be doing more damage than creation to the building adjacent to mine. I've learned to sleep through the morning ruckus, but now I have to circumvent the entrance to my flat by about 100 metres because there is a moat coalescing. Blergh. And this one dude, he's from Ghana, now thinks we are best freaking friends when really I was just being polite and rarely have the time to chat in the mornings when I'm trying to make it to class, which means trying to make it to the Tube, on time. Ack!

Best thing EVER happened in Soviet & Russian Foreign Policy today. This one girl, who is either Russian or Ukrainian and kind of a brat, would not stop whispering to her friend and the professor had already asked her nicely to stfu. So then this kid raises his hand and I thought he was going to ask a question about Crimea, but instead he turns to her and says in a loud, stern voice:

"Stop talking. You're being rude and I don't think you get it. If you can't be quiet then don't come at all. He's lecturing and you're disturbing the entire class and insulting everyone in it."

My jaw dropped.

So then the girl looks completely injured and tries to defend herself feebly to the very professor whom she had previously disrespected, then other students chimed in telling the girl she really just needed to stop talking, and it was GREAT. I have never seen someone get tamed so hard in my life. And the best part was that everyone was on the kid's side because the girl was really being a brat. At one point she even tried to tell on him, she said, "Ever since I put down my bag, he's been rude to me. There are ways to be nice about it."

And he said something to the effect of, "There are also ways to shut up."

Then Dr. Titov returned to the lecture, but not before saying, "Kind of resembles Russia-Ukraine relations."

BURN.

Last night we saw the Orchestra of the Age of Enlightenment at Queen Elizabeth Hall. It was awesome. We sat on the stage behind the orchestra and they played Handel's Arrival of the Queen of Sheba, a Vivaldi concerto in D, and a cantata with a real-life soprano in a hideous dress. And they used baroque instruments! It was only 4 quid, super lax (you could BYOB and come and go) and there was a bar for students and the announcer was an offhand comedian and the whole thing was refreshing. Makes me want to dust off my violin and go at it.

Fly By Night

Friday has a unique quality, and while it isn't my favorite day of the week (Saturday is), I can't help but appreciate the unmatchable pardon that is Friday. Shakespeare said it best:

Love goes toward love, as schoolboys from their books, But love from love, toward school with heavy looks.

Too true, Billy!

Another great lesson I learned this evening was, as convenient as it is to leave Shoreditch before midnight and catch the Tube on a Friday night, the trouble of drunken bastards mobbing the train almost makes waiting for a bus worthwhile. Almost. Ew, I'm not okay with that sentence but not enough to change it. I saw the most horrific thing on Old Street, a girl pulled down her stockings and underwear IN FRONT OF A CLUB and peed on a wall. It was disgusting and embarrassing and people came out from inside to behold the grotesque spectacle. It was as gross as Girls Gone Wild is totally so much fun!

Next drunken annoyance--violin player on the Tube. His bow had about 4 hairs left and he was wasted, so while the other passengers winced and made vomit-faces I cranked up baile funk on my iPod. But I did notice that he took the change he'd collected from his violin case and put it in his pocket before starting up again on the Tube. Capitalism in action.

Speaking of capitalism, true London reveals itself at night in the backstreets like Brik Lane, where Lydia and I navigated through a series of Pakistani, Indian, and Bangladeshi restaurateurs, each vying for our business. They'd jump out at us, offer us "drinks on the house", and one dude even did a little dance. The hand wasn't quite invisible.

Amidst all this hustle and flow, I did observe a lovely simple grace while riding the Tube back home. A guy helping his wasted girlfriend (she looked like she had been retching &/or crying earlier) stuff her sweater into her purse, then zipping it up for her, and just sorting her out and making her feel comfortable in her apparently semi-conscious state. He tucked her in, and it was considerate and sweet, like he'd been there before.

Weird dream from last night--I said:

"Profanity, for writers, it's our naked lunch."

???

Post-Weave Consciousness

Tonight Lydia and I went to the FOUNDRY which is basically a grungy hangout with a bar and a bunch of couches and art everywhere. Television sets abounded, and the crowd was real chill and friendly and welcoming. It was like being in Pittsburgh except the people, we'll call them British yinzers, seemed far more involved, whether they were students or working artists or just hangers out. I guess they didn't seem as grungy retarded (not to be confused with lovely retarded) in that caring-is-for-sellouts, my-bubble-is-better way. That's to say the exhibits had agendas, and those agendas were relevant to the world beyond Old Street.

WHAT AN IDEA!

I met Shepherd, who wants to do a project where he covers a wall with weave, but he wasn't sure if it was too offensive. "The more offensive, the better!" I told him, then showed him my shaven head, which he proceeded to massage with veneration. "I should take pictures of you!" he said. I'm down, and not just because I'm a narcissist, but because my participation is precisely in tune with the message he wants to convey. "I HATE WEAVE!" he shouted while a guy named Sam rocked out some blues guitar from inside a house made of trees.

Tomorrow I'm going to the squat (which made the front page of today's paper) to learn how to protest-dance.

And now, a poem inspired by Shepherd and Romeck, the writer:

Get that weave out your hair so your brain can breathe, girl
Get that weave out your hair and go see the world, girl
Get that weave out your hair
Throw that weave in the air
And say, Holla back, jack
Weave will not hold me back!

Pressure Drop

I didn't do much of anything today EXCEPT skanked in my room to The Clash.
And something about it felt poetic and present and alive because I am here in London and I can see the places Joe Strummer's growling about. And the history he recounts, and the social tension that is unique to England's cultural history.



I'm going to Manchester to scope out Ian Curtis's old flatblock and look at the places where Anton Corbijn took pictures of Joy Division like this one.

Amsterdam next month and Dublin (for 5 pounds!!!) in March. As for tonight, Notting Hill Arts Club.

Free Wax People

My president is black and my throat hurts. I'm going back to bed.

I'm the best dancer in this country

I'm a foreigner and everyone knows it.

People keep knocking on my door, saying they've "heard about me". I'm the new girl, the American, the gringo. No, I just added that one for effect.

Hans asked me if I was into baseball, Georgia asked me how America felt about Obama (And I got so emotional and proud that I almost started crying), and Arron remarked about how "random" it was that "you're a black girl from Pittsburgh studying Russian in the UK." How curiously astute a comment it was, given the paucity of black people in my part of Pittsburgh. But anyway, everyone I've met in Goldsmid House is very interested in learning about what it's like where I come from.


Culture shock #1: Celsius
So I was baking in the flat's kitchen and did not turn the oven, only the fan, on. That's why it took 2 hours to cook chicken. Chicken cooks at 220 degrees. Thanks to my flatmates for understanding that I'm actually not retarded, just foreign.

(°F - 32) x ⁵/₉ = °C

Culture shock #2: Humour
While American audiences turn to the deplorable Dane Cook (who makes me embarrassed to be an American) and other kiddults who can't assimilate into the mature and responsible sphere, British people seem to appreciate a deadpan, potty mouth sort of humour. Case: my Russian translation teacher explains to us what a phrase with some words left out means, lit. Fuck your mom, but it takes him nearly ten minutes because he skirts around it with a series of dustups like, "Goodness gracious me". My teachers are hilarious though, especially Pete Duncan, my Soviet & Russian Foreign Policy teacher who is far too polite to be that damn funny. Maybe that's the joke.


Culture shock #3: Scenes
Because the drinking age is 18 in this country, kids can start clubbing as early as 16. On Tuesday I went to PACHA with the freshmen from my building and I felt like a geriatric. So not my scene. Everyone, still stuck in that "look at how much fun I'm having!" stage was Facebooking themselves to death. The grossest boys were photographing girls dancing, none of whom could actually dance, and the music was so outdated, as in late 2008 Rihanna. The DJ didn't even have "Single Ladies". Seriously, brush your game up Pacha.


Why I love it here #1: Great DJs
On the other hand, I seemed to have walked into an orgasm the following night when Mojan and I went to Favela Chic, where Gringo da Parada was spinning hip-hop, pop, breaks, and funk carioca, which is my favorite thing in the world. During an interlude, I found myself doing the Charleston. Only in England, really. Gringo da Parada finished off his set around 2am with "Ante Up (remix)" so of course I had to find a ledge and completely rock out while screaming the lyrics. I caused a bit of a spectacle, and afterwards three girls came up to me as said, "You dance really well!" Such lauding, and the video below from CARGO last night, may explain the title of this post:

Finished off Wacky Wednesday with virgin Bloody Marys in the hall kitchen at 3am. Mojan put Tabasco and pepper in them so the whole thing was quite off, but lovely nonetheless.

Why I love it here #2: Everyone knows someone in Georgia.

One would assume that on a different contienent thousands of miles away, one would not encounter people who had even heard of Georgia. False. Shehnal's boyfriend was visiting on Wednesday and they came into the kitchen while I was eating. I mentioned I was from Atlanta and, of course, her boyfriend's cousin goes to Georgia State. So we chatted about Atlanta, which he really likes, and Lenox, the mall. Too funny. Proves that no matter how far you go, you'll find something that reminds you of home.

Why I love it here #3: My legs look great.

By Tuesday I thought I was going to need medical attention for the searing agony in my legs. Then on Wednesday I met up with Lydia at Favela Chic and we had a screaming sesh about our first few days in London, after which we were nearly crippled by leg pain. Coincidentally, we had both been wearing rain boots, which are very heavy, for days and walking everywhere in them. Today is Sunday and my legs have adjusted to the intense hoofing I've been doing, and in fact they look damn good. I'm gonna have some ill stems by the time I leave town.