A Day at the Park

With limited funds, I've been wandering a lot, exploring the city and going back to the places I miss. After a quick stop in Europe's largest bookshop, Waterstones on Piccadilly, I wandered further away to Green Park and then to Knightsbridge.

Across from Harrods, right near where I used to live when I studied here in 2004, a man was handing out free pain au chocolat and I certainly took him up on his offer. Delicious! I picked up some lunch and went over to Hyde Park, which is still, after all this time, one of my favorite areas of London. It was home for me for about four months and those four months are still to this day the most unforgettable, carefree four months of my life.
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I sat on the grass under one of the willow trees. I watched the couples strolling by holding hands. Families with small children giggled and ran across the grass. I always look at Hyde Park as the perfect place for an Autumn photo shoot for Vogue, somewhere typically English where the children all wear knitted jumpers and the women wear riding boots for the horse run that cuts through the park. Behind me, a horse stomped its hoof on the grass and shook its head. In front of me, swans swam in the Serpentine. I stared into space with my book in my lap, sitting on the grass, feet stretched out in front of me and thought about how I would love to live there again.

It was getting dark when I decided to go home. I got off at Queen's Park and dragged my feet through dry leaves on the edge of the path, their crisp edges crunching under my feet.

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I had stopped in Lush earlier that day and bought a Honey Bee bath bomb a You've Been Mangoed bath melt, so the rest of the night was spent on bubble baths and books, a relaxing day all around.

Journey: an anti-sex trafficking exhibition

With some time to myself, I decided to explore the anti-sex trafficking exhibition in Trafalgar Square. It was set up in seven box cars that were painted in graffiti on the outside. They lined the top of the steps in front of the National Gallery. I took some photos of the outside:





Inside, it was a medley of strange sounds and smells. Key-shaped peep holes in the first carriage revealed hopes and dreams of Elena, the Albanian girl the story was based on. It was a true story of her journey to London at 19, coerced into the prospect of a better life by a woman who came by her market stall. The woman was paid to find innocent looking village girls to send abroad once she gained their trust.
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The second carriage was just black, dark, with a sign that asked you to close your eyes. It gave the sensation of movement, sitting inside a train carriage that was chugging along, transporting bodies. A soundtrack of a train’s wheels clicking over the tracks played loudly.
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Elena arrived in London Victoria and met a woman who turned out to be the person who she came to fear, who told her she owed her a ridiculous amount of money. She was given clothes to wear – high heels, little tiny dresses and thongs left behind by old workers. The third carriage showed face sized holes where you look in to see your face on a girl's body dressed in these little costumes.
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The next carriage was repulsive. Absolutely hold-your-breathe-repulsive. It was a bedroom scene with a tattered single mattress with the names of a thousand men who wrote “Ben was here. Jason was here. Ryan was here…” In one corner was a garbage pail, overflowing with used condoms and tissues. There were dingy lights. The room stank of stale cum and the rubber of used condoms. A dirty sink in the corner had a constant flow of water from the taps. The wallpaper was peeling. To get to the next carriage, you had to push your way through a flapping group of condoms strung together in long strands.
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The customers were next. There were giant photos of typical men you see on the street: the 22 year old kid playing football in the park, the large-bellied man running a convenience shop on the corner, the family man smiling with his kids. Her first customer was an Indian man who brought with him a carton of juice. He asked for a blowjob. She had never in her life seen a naked man. She had no less than 40 customers a day, 7 days a week. She made about £800-1,000 per day, of which she was allowed £10.
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Coincidently, I’m currently reading September’s issue of the New Internationalist which happens to be all about sex trafficking. 11% of men in the UK buy sex. There are an estimated 80,000 sex workers in Britain.
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Of all places, Elena was first employed for two weeks in a flat in Mayfair, one of the richest areas of London, rather than a seedier area of the city like Soho, where you almost expect that sort of thing.
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The next part of the tour was an art installation of what was no other than a big black hole that seems to draw you inside when you stand in a certain spot. That was to represent the stigma placed on the girls who have been victims of sex traffickers.
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Then we were led outside where we were handed a recorder to listen to, which was the voice of Elena telling her whole story. It was quite long, but very interesting as she added details that weren’t included in the exhibition. She was arrested with 100 other girls one day and locked up in a Charring Cross jail for two days for breaking visa laws. They never once asked if she was okay or how she got there. When she went home, she felt like a different person and couldn’t look her mother in the eye. Her mother was under the impression that she was doing well and would bring back money she saved for her family because her father had passed away and they were having trouble getting by.
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In the last carriage, the British laws of sex trafficking are written on the walls. Then you are led outside to a tent that is set up for questions and are asked to sign a petition.
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The exhibition has ended, but for more information, see http://www.helenbamber.org/

A Tour Along the Thames

Tonight, I met a girl from my hometown in New York who had come over to study in London for a year. I'll call her C. She was about the same height as me and wore a burnt sienna coloured coat that tied around her waist. Her hair was tied back. She's homesick. Very homesick.
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Her residence here is like a jail, she told me. Her flatmates call their dining room the Interrogation Room because it just has some rickety old wooden furniture and a single lightbulb that hangs from a wire.
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We walked under the tunnel toward the old fortress, the Tower of London, then down the path a ways to the stairs that led up to Tower Bridge. The River Thames flowed slowly beneath the bridge that 40,000 people cross every day. Darkness spread across the sky already, but the stars were hidden in the clouds of city smog.
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Making our way to London Bridge, C told me about her boyfriend E who I know from home, stories about her family, and how she can't believe what she has gotten herself into. Culture shock. I told her it will get better and to hang in there.
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Walking into London Bridge station, I drooled over the Pure Pie stand as we passed seeking out salad for C. Then I got my pure pie. A haddock pie with mash and gravy and peas. Nummy. We carried our containers back through the tunnel that smelled of sour mildew and underground, back into the chill of the London evening. People rushed by in black suits, stood on street corners outside pubs smoking the cigarettes that are now banned on the inside. Everyone was in their own little world.
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C asked me about which areas to avoid at night as we followed the alleyways back toward the river. I pointed to the glowing purple top of the power station that was transformed into the famous art gallery, Tate Modern. She's an architecture student so she appreciates these things more than most.
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Her first experience with buskers was when we passed under one of the bridges near Tate Modern and two drunken tramps were singing in screechy tones with cigarettes dangling from their lips. One was strumming a guitar that was badly in need of tuning.
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But when we passed under Blackfriars Bridge, my favourite bridge in London, we were welcomed by the beautiful rich tones of a cello, a melody that echoed smoothly through the tunnel. It was played by a man in a tuxedo, his eyes closed, the back of his coat flapping gently in the breeze.
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Strolling along the river, we passed the round white and black Shakespeare's Globe Theatre, the National Theatre and the Royal Festival Hall. To the right, the river flowed opposite our trail and on the bank where we walked, I pointed out the skateboarder's graffiti-covered area and the South Bank Book Market that was only marked by a sign attached to the river wall. She loves books as much as I do and I'm sure she will be back.
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Ahead of us glowed the bubbles of the London Eye that peak at 443 feet above the river. It appeared still as it always does, but as we approached we could see it moving round at a snail's pace, 10 inches per second so it takes a total of half an hour to rotate around once.
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To our left were rows of trees lit up with blue and white bulbs and street performers lined the south bank. As we walked, I remembered the many days and nights I spent on the south bank three years ago, when I worked for Fleet Street Publications with an office on the seventh floor of the Sea Containers House overlooking the river.
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The south bank at night, the lights stretching the length of the Thames, the laughter that bounces on the wind carried over from tour boats, the sweet songs of the street artists, the skateboarder's little graffiti-covered world and the book market, the unique structure of the Millennium bridge... This was where I first fell in love with London. It seemed so grand, so important, so full of life and culture. I felt a shiver through my shoulders and pulled my jacket tighter against the breeze. I shook myself back into the moment.
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C loved the rounded structure of the Saatchi Gallery and the Aquarium. I showed her Namco Station, the little arcade where T and I used to play on the bumper cars and lose money in the 2p games.
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When the Houses of Parliament and the glowing clock tower that houses Big Ben came into view, she gasped and stopped to stare for a minute. I smiled and said, “Now there's some architecture for ya, eh?” “Very gothic,” she said. “It's gorgeous!”
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We walked toward the architectural masterpiece, over Westminster Bridge, back to the north bank. I pointed out Brian Haw's peace protest camp in Parliament Square that has been going on for the past six years, and Westminster Abby beyond that.
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We turned right and headed away from all of that down toward the gates of Downing Street where guards stood to protect the residence of cabinet members and Prime Minister Gordon Brown in the infamous number 10.
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At the end of the road lay Trafalgar Square. I tried to explain the appeal of the lions that guard Nelson's Column and the pretty fountains. C liked the idea of the National Gallery. I led her past some cheesy tourist shops with double decker bus ornaments and Big Ben teapots in the windows, through some winding streets. I showed her the sprawling arcade of Trocrdero and Amora, the Academy of Sex and Relationships. We continued to the famous advertising lights of Piccadilly Circus. I've always found them quite tacky, even though they are mesmerising, and she agreed.
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From here it was either toward Oxford Street or Soho. I ruled out Soho for the moment and we carried on past the closed shops on Regent's Street. Naturally, I pointed out Lush and told her she must indulge when she can. However, she's here for a year with no job racking up a debt of American dollars to her parents. Everything, therefore, will be paid for doubly, and I doubt too much indulging will be taking place.
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Carnaby Street stretched to our right and I told her about the shops that way and Ain't Nothin' But... the blue's bar on Kingly Street. And then there was the glory that is Oxford Circus, and being that Top Shop was still open at 9:30, we went inside. Her eyes popped at the sight of all the bags and jewellery and coloured tights on the first floor, the collections of sparkly tops and underwear on the second and the rows and rows and rows of shoes and cheap designer clothes on the bottom floor.
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We wandered down to Tottenham Court Road area and, at 10, we figured out where she needed to go to get home. I taught her how to use the bus here and then walked back to Oxford Circus and hopped on the Bakerloo line with my book, secretly proud of myself for learning the streets of this city well enough to walk confidently from Tower Hill to Oxford Circus without thinking twice about directions. When I first came here, I was tube-obsessed and didn't realize how close the stops really are. And I knew I could easily walk furthur on to Baker Street from Oxford Circus.
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I toook a cab from Queen's Park and was greeted by a jolly old African driver who came from Eritrea, a little country in East Africa between Sudan and Ethiopia. He had velvet skin and big animated hands that waved about as he told me stories of his travels, his trips home, his sons and his family. He got a kick out of a trip to America. He kept going on about how big everything is and chuckling. He seemed so happy.
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The smile he flashed me, exposing an even row of white teeth, one gold toward the back, as I handed him my £6 stuck with me. It was contagious and as I slipped past one of my flatmates who was lazing on the couch in the lounge watching Dallas, he said, “What are you smiling about?”

I shrugged and went to the kitchen to wash some raspberries. I coated them with sugar and went to join him and tell him all about our adventures.

NW3Hampstead

I was quite happy for a change in scenery when I was asked to attend the first NW3Hampstead meeting. It was a bit like a Student Association meeting, only with older people in more sparkly outfits with different concerns. And plush pink velvet seats as it was held at Everyman Theatre. Not to mention little cocktail sandwiches and lemon water with ice. Plus 20 minutes of socializing before anything got started.
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I signed my name in the pretty guest book and sat down next to a few girls from a Hampstead theatre who looked my age. One was a press officer and the other was in marketing so we got to chatting.
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This is my first official meeting in London. Not on a topic that particularly interests me other than for the fact that I work in Hampstead two days a month. But it was a welcome change from the office and a chance to meet some interesting people.
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The main topics of concern were rent and parking. Surprised? Neither was I. Money money money. The world revolves around the stuff. Someone suggested a tram or a bus to combat the commute up hill and others liked the idea of a traffic free Saturday afternoon where they close off the high streets once a month and bring back the village feel.
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Seems this village feel was a big thing before my time and it's now completely changed to welcome what one person called a slew of dull restaurants and chain shops that are starting to resemble (gasp!) Bluewater...
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But when the now empty used-to-be aquarium shop on the corner is renting for £35,000 a year, who's going to move in there? Not small traders and local businesses. Nope, it's going to be more of the big boys- the mobile phone shops and the estate agents.
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There were some estate agents at the meeting, in fact. And some lawyers and bankers and a fancy author broadcaster guy from Marylebone who grew up in Hampstead and says it's gone to pot. It looks... common. He suggested everyone take a cue from Marylebone. Which I will say I agree with. If I could live anywhere in London and cost was no concern, Marylebone would make my top three. The shops are much more unique, the pubs are more authentic, and the walk is just as nice as Hampstead. Marylebone has Regent's Park, Hampstead has the Heath.
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Some local residents and small business owners were there, but they voiced their opinions less often. The ones who did were well into their 60s or early 70s, but then most of the crowd was at least 50. I was easily the youngest by a landslide. Besides the two girls next to me who I bet were in their late 20s. It was a Hampstead crew though, sparkly jewellery, fancy suits, all white faces. Money money money.
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I think it's a great idea to have a community group, to make an effort to change the way they live and bring more business to the area. They tossed around some interesting debates and ideas that could take shape over time as the meetings progress. With more voices speaking as one, the council is more likely to take their opinions into account. My only question is, why is this only starting in 2007?