Ocean Hopping: NY to London

New Blog!

2009-05-17T22:51:00.000+01:00

I am now blogging here: http://littlelondonobservationist.wordpress.com/

Disappearing World

2009-02-08T16:01:00.003Z

Last night's sunset over Blackheath.

V-Day Article

2009-01-30T14:37:00.002Z

I have an article in Seven Magazine this week about V-Day if anyone is interested...

"V-Day turns 10 in London this year; not, of course, the V-Day associated with shiny red hearts gleaming in high street windows, February roses sold by the dozen, and restaurants booked to capacity. This V-Day doesn’t mix love with consumerism. This is playwright and activist Eve Ensler’s V-Day, a “V” that stands not only for valentine, but for vaginas and victory over violence. It’s a V-Day that cynics can embrace and one that inspires even the single women." Read the rest here:
http://www.sevenglobal.org/index.php/the-issue/41-north-america/330--the-v-day-about-real-love.html

Innocence and Innocence Lost

2009-01-19T11:16:00.001Z

This weekend, I went to a free screening of Until the Violence Stops, a documentary of sorts on the creation and purpose of V-Day (Eve Ensler’s movement to raise awareness of violence against women.) I went because I’m writing an article on the Vagina Monologues, her play that is put on in many countries around the world to raise money for this movement. It is the 10th anniversary of the London V-Day this year.

It was a difficult film to watch, though funny in parts as well (and the seats in the Belsize Park Everyman theatre are comfortable reclining couches). I remembered the first time I saw the Vagina Monologues, the moment I sat in a crowd of people where the women who were abused in the past were asked to stand; among them, many of my own friends. And then the people who know women who were abused stand and after that, everyone who promises never to let a woman be abused again. It’s a powerful play.

The documentary we watched included interviews with Japanese “comfort women” who served the sexual needs of soldiers during the war. One of them spoke of how she was shunned by her family for the shame of revealing her story and seeking justice. In the film, they spoke to a community of Native American women where there is a long history of domestic abuse. It showed Eve Ensler visiting Kenya where a centre for education on female circumcision was set up. They explained the different types of female circumcision, one of them cutting everything away, sewing up the girl with only a tiny hole for urine and menstrual blood. When the girl is married, her husband will sometimes use a goat’s horn to force through the wound.

On top of that, I’ve just started a book called The Road of Lost Innocence by Somaly Mam. It’s her memoir of growing up in Cambodia abused and sold into prostitution at the age of 16 where she was treated horribly. She felt dead inside. Her story is an amazing tale of survival and she is now an advocate for sex trafficking, working with young women rescued from brothels in Cambodia where she lives with her three children.

There is so much violence and anger in this world.

Here’s a short excerpt from Somaly’s book. Page 63-64:

My punishment was harsh, but the way they punish prostitutes today is far worse than anything I ever had to suffer. When I was with Aunt Peuve, except for that one time with electricity, the punishment was mainly beatings and our own fear - things like snakes. Now, I see girls in brothels with nails hammered into their skulls. That sounds unbelievable, but we have photos. Girls are chained and beaten with electric cables. They go mad. We've rescued several children from brothels who have completely lost their minds..Recently, some dead girls were found in the sewer of a brothel: they had drowned. Another time, after a fire, the police found several girl's bodies, still chained up. They know who owned that brothel - everybody does, but he isn't picked up and nothing is done about it. He has too many connections and the girls are nobodies. .The cuts and weals we see on escaped prostitutes these days are unbelievable. The clients do it, or the pimps. Maybe it's the influence of Chinese films; the pimps watch them avidly, like a lot of other men. They're full of scenes of torture. .Nowadays, the girls are much younger, too. This is because men in Cambodia will pay thousands of dollars to rape a virgin for a week - it's always a week, for a virgin. Sex with a virgin is supposed to give strength. It lengthens a man's lifespan and even lightens his skin..To make it clear they offer true bona fide virgins, the brothels today sell children. Often, they are very young girls, five or six years old. After the week is over, they sew the girl inside - without an anaesthetic - and quickly sell her again. A virgin is supposed to scream and bleed, and this way the girl will scream and bleed again and again. They do it maybe three or four times.

Tell me, can you read that without sadness and anger?

These are the reasons we need V-Day and what makes it important. It is not a male-bashing event, as some people find it. It’s supported, in fact, by many men who understand what it is about. It’s about empowerment of women, to help them feel comfortable with their bodies, to help them understand that their bodies are their own. To cast a blanket over dark pasts, to help those who aren’t strong enough to help themselves, to bring women together in compassion for one another. For peace.

A Letter to Halima Bashir

2009-01-03T21:56:00.002Z

Here's a book recommendation: Tears of the Desert by Halima Bashir.

It's a true story of her survival growing up in Darfur, Sudan. It's a place in the world that has become synonymous with violence and genocide, but Halima breathes life into it by sharing stories of her playful childhood and loving family life. She becomes a doctor and helps her people which gets her into trouble. Eventually, she does escape to London where she lives now.

Her story is incredible. And so I wrote her a letter, sent it off to the head of media at Aegis Trust, who she mentions in her book and asked him to forward it to her. He did. He read it as well and sent it to the CEO of the company who asked if it was okay to forward it to everyone there as a sort of motivational end of year email showing the chain of people their work has touched.

It's nothing special, but this is my letter:

Dear Halima,

For the past week, the part of my day I looked forward to most was my morning and after-work commute during which I could absorb your story in Tears of the Desert. It was one of the most heart-breaking and vivid stories of life and survival I have ever read and the first book to make me cry on public transport.

I’m the sub editor for an online magazine called Seven (www.sevenglobal.org) and had edited a story about a woman who travelled to The Hague with 47 survivors from Darfur. The author's story touched me and, in it, she wrote that someone had recommended your book to her. The next morning before work, I went to Waterstones and bought it. When I turned the last page, I felt I had to write to you. You are such a strong, inspirational woman and your ability and courage to speak out about such horrendous events is extremely admirable.

Having grown up in the comfort of an American suburb and lived in London for the last two years, it has been nearly impossible for me to fathom such inhumanity to this degree. I have read many articles about innocent people dying in Darfur and the torture and desperation that has been forced into their lives, but being so far detached from the situation makes it difficult to fully understand and easy to push behind you.

Your book is important because it will give people the crucial ability to see the situation on a different level. When westerners see facts and figures quoting hundreds of thousands of lost lives and millions displaced, those numbers are cold and empty. Reading a true, personal account of someone who was actually involved - someone who had a warm and loving family life and childhood that we can relate to – will make a difference in understanding and empathy.

One aspect I loved about your story was the glimpse into the true culture – learning about the food, how people live and work together, the traditions and beliefs, the environment and the languages. Most stories about Darfur focus on the violence. Your story also brings us the love and humanity of the people, the strong family bonds, hospitality of neighbours and the innocence of childhood.

I admire your dedication to your education and the way you were able to help people even if, at times, it was slipping them a bit of aspirin to make them feel “treated”. How you found the strength to face the girls who had been raped, I will never know. It absolutely broke my heart just to read about it. But thank God for your knowledge so that you could help. My boyfriend is a doctor in London and he has a dream of being able to go abroad to places where people have so little in the way of medical supplies and make a tangible difference. I’m going to buy him a copy of your book because I know it will inspire him even more so to follow it.

Thank you for sharing your story. I want to send my deepest condolences for the loss of your friends and neighbours, your strong grandma and, of course, your beloved father. Best wishes to you in your search for the rest of your family. It makes me thankful for my own family because, even though they are 3,000 miles from here, I know they are alive and safe. I can not imagine the pain of not knowing and all that you have gone through. You are in my thoughts.

All the best,

Brecon Beacons, Wales & Bath, England

2009-01-01T23:41:00.006Z

A million tiny stars, like pixie dust of wishes and magic, were thrown to the wind and stuck to the thick black oil paint of the sky. We stood under the Milky Way in the middle of a dark road and dared to question our role as humans on this planet, challenging the insignificance this universe laughingly plants on our teeny heads. For some time, the cold, bitter air seemed not to exist and it was only us and the stars. A million tiny stars.
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It was beautiful driving over the rollercoaster hills of the back country roads, flicking the headlights off for a second to envelope ourselves in total country darkness. There is no darkness like country darkness. But it is a safe kind of darkness, unlike the nerve-wracking sort of city darkness or back alley darkness. This was peace. And when the lights went off in those quick moments before they flashed back to help us navigate the next curve up a mountain just in time, we had our first glimpse of Welsh stars. Magic beyond words.
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It was my birthday weekend, my quarter of a century, between Christmas and New Year's. K, my boyfriend, and I were staying two nights in the Brecon Beacons in Wales. We stayed in a small village called Trecastle, the sort of place you’d smile at as while driving through, never really thinking to stop. It consists of a few houses, most of which were, surprisingly, festively decorated with Christmas lights, our hotel, an organic farm and antique shop across the road and not much else. But it was perfect. It was just what we wanted to escape the city rush. At the Castle Coaching Inn where we stayed, the owner, a middle-aged man with greying hair, a welcoming grandfather’s smile and a hint of excitement about him, upgraded our room. It has purple walls, little touch lights at the sides of the bed and a sparkling clean, white bathroom with a heated towel rack. Cosy, safe, warm. Perfect.
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We drove down on a Friday and when we woke up was a gorgeously sunny Saturday morning, though the kind of deceptive morning that chills you to the bone and leaves a layer of frost clinging to the windows of parked cars. Even the leaves were coated in a shimmering icy glaze, fragile looking, yet pliable. I didn’t have my New York birthday snow, but scraping the car gave me enough snow to whip a few friendly snowballs in K’s direction; though he proved to have some excellent Dubya-dodging skills.

During breakfast (of bacon, eggs, toast and tea – presumably from the organic farmer across the road), the owner gave us some advice on how to spend our day. He even drew us a map. By 9:30am, we were layered up and out the door.

Winding country roads spread out before us and white sheep with coloured markings on their backs grazed in fields in every direction. We were on a mission to find a waterfall. Eventually, we parked and walked uphill at least a mile and then found a trail pointing to our destination. For the next few hours, we trekked over dirt paths, up hills, over rocks, into ditches, over streams and roots, following a creek that would eventually go over the falls.

We found them and had them all to ourselves, not a single soul in sight. Thirsty, we crept close to the edge and cupped our palms under the water, scooping it into our mouths, all down the front of our coats. It was clear and cold and clean and probably the best water I have ever tasted.

Retracing our steps I thought about how wonderful it was to completely detach. Both of us left our phones off or dead all weekend and there was no internet and we didn’t turn on the TV. It was just us, some sheep and horses and the muddy, wild, wilderness. At one point, we saw a horse standing across a field. I blew on a piece of grass to whistle and it came charging over to where we were standing. When I made the noise a second time, he stuck his nose over the fence and nuzzled at us. We stroked his white nose. What a massive and beautiful animal.

The Nant Ddu Lodge was recommended to us for lunch and we found it after a bit of hunting. Sitting next to the fireplace, we ate Welsh dishes and shared a pot of drippy dark chocolate fondou with fresh fruit and sweet marshmallows for dessert.

As the sun was setting, we drove back down the narrow, nearly-deserted roads. They were one lane, meant to be for two-way traffic, round curves and down hills. Any oncoming traffic meant pulling over and hoping you do it in time in case they don’t see you while coming fast round a bend. Lucky, there were not so many cars out that night.

We ate dinner of Welsh lamb chops on a giant wooden table in front of a burning fire in our inn.

On the way back toward England Sunday afternoon, we flew through throse country roads, feeling the freedom of open spaces and no speed cameras. After driving through Brecon and Hay and finding not much to see there, we decided to stop over in Bath for lunch.
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Bath was as I remembered it, the sand-coloured buildings standing proud and overpriced tickets to see the ancient roman baths. K had never been so he paid our entrance and we wandered about dipping our hands in places next to “Don’t touch the water” signs. It was green and full of algae, steam rising like a cloud from the surface. We abandoned our audio tours, both of us agreeing that modern culture, the way people live today, is much more fascinating than the lives of ancients.

When we approached the edge of London and the city lights spread out in front of us, I felt a surge of excitement rush through me. Any time I leave the city and come back, it’s always exciting. Even K, who has lived here his whole life, said he gets that feeling coming back into the city. We were both high on the glory of a perfect weekend escape, flying quickly into the city surrounded by headlights and music. I felt like I was on top of the world.
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Happy New Year

2009-01-01T23:28:00.006Z

2009.

A time of the future, full of 365 days to make do with whatever we please.

365 days to live rather than exist, to watch the seasons change, from the icy cloud breaths of short winter days to the scent of pink flowers poking out of soil in the spring, long summer nights of crackling bonfires, BBQs and conversations under the stars and then the changing leaves of autumn falling to the ground and rustling along city streets.

365 days, each one with minutes and hours to better understand the world and push ourselves closer to our dreams and goals.

Days for travel, for hard, honest work, for losing ourselves in books, meeting strangers, exploring, discovering, building our personalities and making love. It’s exciting to think about the year ahead, about opportunities, experiences. Life is the most beautiful thing we have and a new year is always a reminder not to waste it.
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In 2009, what I really want is not to lose sight of the happiness and clarity I have right now, not to fall into a stagnant state of mind. I said last year, I wanted to live instead of exist and not take life for granted. Well, that still stands. 2009 will be a year of laughter, love and life. Cheers to that for everyone.
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D, me and K welcoming in the new year with mulled wine in Trafalgar Square.

Fresh Air for Christmas

2008-12-16T16:32:00.003Z

One part of growing up I always looked forward to, and still now, of course, were vacations or holidays, time away from my everyday environment to experience something new.

I was one of the lucky ones who went away nearly every year - sometimes across the country, sometimes across the ocean, sometimes just camping a few hours away. But what was important about it was the time to discover something about the world and about myself. These were, and continue to be, times of growth.

There are many people who grow up not so lucky. Maybe they don't have the money or the right situations in their lives to be able to go away. Going away from the place you were born and where you spend your days, especially as a child, is an essential experience.

And there is actually a group who help make that a possibility for kids who can't put together a trip for themselves. It's called the Fresh Air Fund, a group based in New York City which has been around for more than 230 years. They send kids on camping trips or to stay with host families.
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The kids are from New York City. They range in age from 6-18. This sort of thing lets them forget about the chaos of the city for a while. One of them said: "In the city, you have to think about what is going to happen around the next street corner. In the woods, you walk with a group of friends and counselors. You don't even think about city problems."
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Need a feel-good project for the new year? They're looking for hosts, and of course, donations. Though, hosting sounds quite interesting if you ask me. If I lived stateside and had my own place, I would probably do it. I think you can take a lot away from an experience like that - maybe even as much as the kids do.
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Morning London Photos

2008-11-23T13:55:00.015Z

One of the best (and free) things to do in London is walk around the city in the early hours of the morning and watch it unfold. It takes some motivation to get out of bed at 6am on a weekend, but when I do, it is always worth it.
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My favourite place to go that early is Brick Lane. There is nothing like sitting in Coffee @ Brick Lane with a cup of tea and a notebook, watching the market come to life the vendors pulling boxes from vans to set up the markets and the pavements and streets slowly filling with people.

Besides Brick Lane, I love to wander around the near-deserted South Bank in the early morning light. So when I found myself on the train pulling into Charing Cross at 9am yesterday morning, I decided to go for a walk instead of jumping straight onto the tube. The air was so cold that the only hands visible were the pink ones shaking cameras at the London Eye and Parliament. The Christmas Market stalls had yet to open. And I was grateful for my Starbucks caramel macchiato to warm me up.

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Here's a few photos:
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The Homicides of a Marine and his Wife

2008-11-21T14:36:00.003Z

There are a host of issues that come into play in the recent homicides of Marine Sergeant Jan Pawel Pietrzak and his wife of only two months, Quiana Jenkins-Pietrzak, an interracial couple. They were shot in their own home after Quiana was raped.

Speculation says race was a major contributor to the case as Jan Pawel was white, married to a beautiful black woman and all four men involved in their deaths were black. Though authorities say robbery was the motive, the facts suggest otherwise.

I was asked to write an article this week for Seven Magazine about the story so if you're interested in reading, you can find it here. Please feel free to start a discussion as it is an important issue.

Other than that and a lot of editing, I've been Christmas shopping, spending a bit of time with Dr. K and having a very annoying cold. On the plus side, I also bought an ultrasonic mouse repeller and, despite having about 15 other snap or glue traps lining my walls, I think it may finally have gotten rid of the evil rodent - *fingers crossed* anyway.

LaVena Johnson Article

2008-11-15T21:14:00.003Z

Tons of amusing things have happened lately, but I think I will just post this for now. On Wednesday night, I was asked to write an article for Seven Magazine on LaVena Johnson. It went out in the mailout for the magazine Friday morning as the lead story. Thought I would share - not because it is my article, but because it is an important issue that everyone should be aware of...

It starts:

November 11 was Veterans Day in the United States, a day to honour and respect those who risked their lives for American freedom, and those who died for it. As in many other cemeteries where veterans are buried, endless rows of white gravestones line the grass of Jefferson Barracks National Cemetery. Among them, with the simple black outline of a cross and an American flag waving at its side, there is one that reads: LaVena Lynn Johnson, PFC US Army.
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LaVena, an honours student from Missouri, died on 27 July, 2005 - just ten weeks after she was deployed to Balad, Iraq, as a weapons supply manager for the 129 Corp Support Battalion. She was just 19-years-old when a shift supervisor from a nearby military cafeteria heard a bang and found her mutilated body inside a contractor’s tent. Though many remembered her bravery on Veterans Day, her death has not been given the respect and honour that this day commands.
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A broken nose, loose teeth, acid burns on her genitals which were presumably to eliminate DNA evidence of rape, a dislocated shoulder, abrasions on her body, a long burn from her shoulder to thigh, torn vaginal area and a bullet wound through her head, LaVena was lying on the stony earth with gashes on the sides of her mouth, her hair tangled in the dirt, a bench turned upside down on top of her.

“Suicide,” the US Army Criminal Investigation Command claimed, despite nine months of investigation. Case closed.
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To read the whole article and help LaVena's family, go to the Seven Magazine page.

Now This is America....

2008-11-05T08:18:00.002Z

For the first time in quite a while,
when I woke up this morning
(after very few hours of sleep),
I woke up
proud
to be an American.

Paris

2008-11-02T16:29:00.008Z

Paris, je t’aime. It’s a good thing too because I have a free return ticket to go back. A cigarette butt started a small fire in the carriage nine toilets so we had to pull into the emergency tunnel. In the end it took longer to get from London to Paris than it usually takes me to get from London to New York. So they gave everyone free return tickets.

The best thing about Paris was the language barrier. The French protect their culture by not speaking English even though you know most of them are fluent. Though it was occasionally a challenge to form the correct sentences, they appreciate the effort to communicate in their language.

I had quite a bit of time to myself while D was at work. I wandered along the Seine checking out all the old books and bric-a-brac in the green wooden stands that line the river. Walked across Pont Neuf bridge, which is the oldest one, and down to Notre Dame through a flower market, into some random little boutiques along the way and saw a rollerblade dance team and a few street artists. Some police are also on rollerblades. Discovered the Pompidou Centre which is the modern art building with Crayola-coloured piping on one side and a set of escalators scaling the other.

Went to Place de Clignoncourt to investigate a small part of the market. The beginning is all hip hop culture selling "designer" bags, shoes, tee shirts, bling, etc. Lots of rap blaring from speakers. Then I cut through a small alley and it was like a completely different market. Old guys were sitting in front of antique displays whistling Then I found myself in a huge lot with blankets spread out and garage sale type of stuff everywhere.

Saw Edward Scissorhands, or Edward aux Mains d'Argent, for free in the sound box on night and Jamie Cullum for free in box seats the next. Both were absolutely excellent.

Ate tons of crepes, spent one day with a French girl who took me around the Jardin des Tuileries, Musee d’Orsay, Angelina’s for delicious hot chocolate and on a river cruise to see Paris la nuit. The Eiffel Tower glittering which it does every hour for 5 minutes at night. In between, it was blue and lit up with the stars from the EU flag on front to mark France's term as EU president. Hung out near the weeping willows on the Ile de la Cite.

Spent some time in Montmartre, walked through the small market area of artists who were drawing portraits in all styles, went into the Sacre Coeur, into some cool little shops and down to Pigalle where we saw the Moulin Rouge and walked around the sex shops.

We went to the Cimetiere de Montparnesse where Simone de Beauvoir and Paul Sartre are buried and to Cimetiere de Pere Lachaise to see the graves of Jim Morrison and Oscar Wilde.

All in all, a fantastic time. I just put a massive four-entry write up in my other blog so this is short and sweet, but here’s a couple of the 400 photos I took while I was there:
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26 Hours

2008-10-20T22:54:00.002+01:00

L and I met just outside Camden station late Saturday afternoon to walk through the markets. Not planning to buy anything, she ended up with two pairs of shoes, a ring and a lip ring and I bought a new winter coat. But I have been saying I wanted another one that wasn’t black. So I justified it in my head.

It was L’s first Camden experience so I took her round the entire market, past the steaming aisles of Indian, Japanese, Moroccan, Chinese, etc., ooohing and ahhhing at all of the dresses, bags, shoes and even to Cyberdog, the crazy shop on the corner with pounding techno, glow-in-the-dark space age clothes and occasional dancers. We went to Proud Galleries and looked at photos of Janis Joplin while a band was going through a sound check.

Then I found the first mulled wine I’ve seen this season. It was quite possibly the best mulled wine I’ve ever tasted as well. Perfect warm temperature when I wrapped my cold hands around the white Styrofoam cup, perfect amount of spice and sufficiently strong enough to make me slightly giddy when I finished.

Just before the sun set, we sat down to dig into £2 trays of Chinese food.
N, the Australian guy I met on the N52 the night before called then from the station. The three of us walked through the side streets to Dublin Castle. We found a place to perch ourselves on a wide window sill open to the night sky, people drinking on either side of us.

After a drink, we walked down to The Monarch, formerly Misty Moon, formerly The Man in the Moon. There was an open corner full of couches and we made ourselves comfortable pouring over the travel section of the paper someone left behind and planning imaginary trips around the world.

Then it was on to Barfly for some live music. Live music must be my favourite thing in the world besides travelling. L left halfway through and N and I stayed for all four bands.
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I took him to Marathon next which is quite possibly my absolute favourite little hideaway in London. It’s one of those places you know about through word of mouth. On the outside, it is a kebab shop. On the inside, once you walk through the kebab shop, it is a jazz café. Inside, there are benches and tables with Jack Daniel’s bottles dripping with candle wax. It fills to the brim, shoulder to shoulder with people from ages 18 – 80 just mingling together, squashed, laughing, dancing, singing along as the same man and women who are always there work their magic on the sax and a variety of other instruments.

Another amusing thing about this place is that it has unisex toilets so the guys have to wait in the queue with us. Sweet revenge.
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Anyway, N and I had an absolute blast - relaxed with the jazz and smiling faces and people standing up in the crowd eating kebabs over the shoulder of the person next to them.

By the last song, New York, New York by Frank Sinatra, we were all singing loudly and standing up kicking feet simultaneously everyone with their arms around a bunch of strangers. We giggled over silly things and fell into the stream of bodies flowing out of the small door and into the cool night.

I don’t know why we couldn’t stop laughing, but everything was funny. We ran halfway across the street and stopped in the middle bit. We stood there forever trying to take pictures of ourselves while cars zoomed past us on both sides.

It was probably after 5am when I walked in the door. A day later, and N is already back in Melbourne. When he was hugging me goodbye earlier, I said, “It’s so strange to know we might never see each other again, isn’t it?” He said, “Well, that would be a sad ending to the past 26 hours.” It’s incredible actually, to think I met him on the bus the night before, and only by chance – but he was absolutely lovely and for what it matters, we each brought about 26 hours of smiles to each other’s lives. That has to count for something.

When Strangers Collide: A Tale of Borders and the N52

2008-10-20T22:46:00.005+01:00

Peppermint tea from Sacred Café sat on the floor next to a pile of design magazines and books on Mongolia near my legs. It was Friday night and I was stretched out in a quiet corner of Borders on Oxford Street near some empty shelves in the history section. Engrossed in a magazine featuring bizarre advertisements from around the world, I didn’t take any notice of the stranger browsing the history books next to me.
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That is until I looked up to take a sip of tea and caught his eye. We ended up in a discussion about teaching English abroad, how he lived in Japan, China and Korea over a period of a year doing just that. He said, “Hey, want to come with me to get a drink upstairs?” It was a good conversation and I had no plans so I shrugged, abandoned my stack of magazines, and followed him toward the escalator. After sitting in a corner near the Learn-French-in-15-Minutes-a Day books, he read my palm and he taught me how to read his. Then there I was sitting on the floor in the language section in a giant bookshop with a stranger, his hand wrapped warmly around the back of mine, his index finger tracing the tiny lines in my palm.
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We went to an awesome little Korean restaurant called Arirang on Poland Street. The interior was lovely with massive mirrors lining the walls of the basement area where we were seated at a shiny red table. I ordered the beef bulgogi that came with a bowl of sticky rice and a bowl of egg soup which was the most unusual soup I’ve ever seen – basically a thin broth with little flaky bits of egg whites floating around. It sounds horrible but it was actually quite tasty. A small Korean woman served us jasmine tea in handle-less mugs with Chinese writing on the sides. Around us, mainly Asian languages floated through the air and we picked away at our meals with chopsticks actually made out of silverware material rather than the typical disposable wooden ones.
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Our conversation over dinner was all about cultures, traditions of people living in other countries, places we want to go, what the world is coming to, and so on. It was nice to have a conversation like that with a stranger. It was gone 11, but the Tattershall Castle – the boat pub across from the London Eye – was calling. The upper deck was absolutely abandoned, and down the dock away from the street and crowds, floating gently on the water under a bright white moon was bliss. We could even pick out a few stars. The Eye was lit up in green. Muted music from the club below us sounded like it floated along the river from a distant party. We sat there chatting, watching the small waves of passing ships rock up against the side of the boat. It was chilly, but a refreshing, crisp Autumn kind of chilly. Clocks ticked slowly past last train times.
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I hate the night bus – full of drunken people, screeching people, puking people, violent people, smelly people, etc. I usually take a different one, but decided to wait for the N52 for a change. Around Hyde Park just before Knightsbridge, I watched a drunk guy cycling in the street steer himself into the curb and fly off his bike into a lamp post. He sat on the ground, his bike still lying in the street with wheels spinning, and he cracked open a can of beer that was in his pocket - playing it cool.
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Around my stop, I met two Australian guys looking for directions. After a bit of conversation, we ended up at Paradise down the road. That’s Paradise in Kensal Green, the pub. Later, N walked me home. We walked slowly, even stopping to admire the way the clouds broke into a grid like pattern in the nearly blue night time sky, stars peaking through the cracks, twinkling. Not a soul passed by once we turned off of Chamberlayne Road.
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We exchanged numbers and decided to catch a gig in Camden Saturday night. I went inside at 4am thinking about how, when I left work, my plan was to wander around Oxford Circus and then take a sandwich and some tea down to the river to write on the docks for a while and have an early night home. I love this city when strangers collide like this.

Assalamu Alaikum

2008-10-16T22:29:00.002+01:00

One thing I love and appreciate about London, amongst the many others, is the opportunity to listen to different languages. Having grown up in a city where everyone speaks English and only English and I only speak English, it’s incredible to be surrounded by this. It's like making up secret codes when we were kids.

I listen to my housemates speak Afrikaans and people on the busses speak whatever languages they speak. Sometimes I don’t even know what they are. I listen to students at the college speaking German, some of my co-workers speaking Polish to each other, other students speaking Spanish or various African languages.

And I love to listen to one of my other colleagues speaks Urdu on the phone. I asked her today why she always says “Hello” in English. She said everyone does, but usually they also follow it by saying, “Assalamu Alaikum” as a further greeting. It means “Peace be with you.”

I told her I thought that was such a beautiful thing to say. It is. It’s amazing, actually, hearing her stories, just how peaceful Muslim people are in general. Islam itself means “peace, submission and obedience.”

The media has managed to create this stereotype around Muslims mainly after 9/11. It’s a shame really. It leaves an air of suspicion, mistrust, sometimes fear, around an entire culture that people just generally misunderstand. In fact, many cultures are so misunderstood and that’s what creates fear and that’s what leads to violence.

The world is so incredibly diverse and it makes me feel very small sometimes. There is so much to learn, so much to see, to do, to understand. It will take a lifetime and many more.

In other news, it has been a very busy few days for me this week. Marc, the editor of Seven Magazine, invited me to be the chief sub-editor for the magazine. I've missed editing and it's a great feeling to be able to do that again.

Besides that, I'm enjoying the fact that it is now Autumn, though it does make me miss the organic fire for red, orange, purple and yellow that sweeps over New York at this time of year.

Smoke Signals in the City

2008-10-11T00:19:00.002+01:00

Regent Street pavement was clogged with the usual onslaught of weekend tourists and late night shoppers. I was walking quickly back from Borders toward the tube, head down, weaving between couples and groups and bags and beggars.

Then I overheard a woman say, “This city is unreal, it’s beautiful…” and she trailed off there. I stopped. The gaping grimy entrance to the tube was just ahead. I could be home in half an hour. Or, I thought, I could stop rushing about as if I had somewhere important to be and notice how beautiful it actually is. I chose the latter.

A few minutes later, I felt like a different person. I was awake and aware, a freshly-poured tall Tazo tea in one hand, a bag with a brand new camera from John Lewis and a one from Borders swinging in the other. I bought a book on travel writing, Wanderlust and Real Travel magazines and a mini French-English dictionary for my trip to Paris in two weeks. And I walked, head up, smiling, down Regent Street toward Piccadilly Circus. In a few months, this street will be draped in glittering displays of Christmas lights, shop windows wrapped in bows and holiday music the soundtrack to every shopping trip. But not yet. I love this time of year. It’s fresh, a gentle transition from summer to winter, inspiring.

Despite The London Paper and The Evening Standard’s front page news of Black Friday and the FTSE crashing to a 6-year low, the shops were throbbing, bags dangling from arms dressed in new winter coats. I walked past the windows of Burberry piled high with dry, crunchy tan Autumn leaves and the regal old buildings snaking around the end to the lights and crowds of Piccadilly Circus.

Following a familiar sound, I stopped in Zavvi to browse and bask in the Bob Dylan tunes floating from the doorway into the ears of people from around the globe. Around me, the melodies of different languages mixed and mingled with laughter, eager chatter and Sixties folk rock.

As I passed by Canada House toward Trafalgar Square, a continuous cloud of smoke that looked like the mist of Niagara Falls wafted through the spotlights of the National Gallery – an unusual and eerie effect. As usual in this city, I had happened upon something amusing.

I had come here to write. It was quite an ordeal trying to find a notebook after all the shops shut. Desperate, but not desperate enough to steal a stack of McDonald’s napkins to write on, I found myself, embarrassingly enough, standing in a tourist shop holding a few £s and a notebook covered in cliché images of London monuments. Of course, it took about 10 minutes to check out behind a family of four with a basket piled high with “My friend went to London and all I got….” teeshirts, shot glasses, Arsenal beer mats, wall plaques and some dreadfully tacky-looking tea pots. But hey, at least I got some paper.

Trafalgar Square is closer than South Bank, my first choice of somewhere to kill an hour writing, but it is just as well. It’s a magical place to sit comfortably as an anonymous stranger amongst equally anonymous tourists. Despite all the people, a muted peace spreads over this square because the flow and splash of fountains on either side of Nelson’s Column blankets the rush of people and traffic. The rest becomes background noise.

So, here I am. And here’s this amusing event I didn’t know about. It’s called The Memory Cloud and it involves a large, continuously spewing smoke machine and a projector. I read the board explaining it was the work of brothers Stephen and Theodore Spyropolous. Anyone can send a text that will be projected in large blue serif type onto these giant plumes of smoke, a dissipating message board, modern smoke signals. Words like “Sex” “Love” “Hope” and “Peace” popped up to the delight of a crowd that has gathered on the steps, yelling out when their text is displayed.

Above me, the sky is black as black, an empty blackboard with a chalk moon, the stars erased by light pollution. Straight ahead, Big Ben chimes, showing 9pm on a glowing face and the London Eye spins, barely noticeably, a purple dotted circle in the sky. Scruffy boys in sagging jeans saunter by with high-healed, high-pony-tailed, caked-in-make-up girlfriends. And I think about how not a soul in this world knows exactly where I am at this second. If a girl sits, unrecognised, a stranger on a bench, somewhere, anywhere in a mystery location, does she still exist?

Boys walk by now in tight jeans and striped colourful scarves toting Louis Vuitton purchases. Two 16-year-olds just sat on the bench next to me, one pushing the other closer saying, “Go on; don’t be chicken shit.” They leave seconds later, giggling, running in circles, and are replaced by two German tourists.

The German tourists kiss passionately on my bench and I really wonder if I do exist in this moment. This city is like that. People kissing on benches in chilly October air, on clear nights, whispering German passion between breaths while smoke signals announce text message love to the world in front of them. Love. And nobody looks twice. They could make love here on this bench and barely a Londoner, if any were about, would bat an eye because it’s not their business.

I love this city at night. I love it in the cold October air and the way it lightly kisses my cheeks. I love the red busses moving through the streets, moving people who are breathing warm air and reading newspapers oblivious to me sitting on this bench, breathing cold air, writing about them. I love the excitement of screaming sirens and the roar of motorcycles flying around curves. I love that I can sit here alone and not think about anything unpleasant, not worry about the people around me or how I’ll get home or what time I need to be somewhere now. Because I don’t need to be anywhere but here.

The lions perched majestically around the column remind me of my childhood trips when my brother and I would climb on their backs and sit between their giant paws. Those were the days they sold food for the pigeons for £1, the days the pigeons made Trafalgar Square what it was.

A girl walked by just now carrying a bag. Onto it was pinned a cloth that read, “Everything is Beautiful.” Everything is beautiful, indeed. I could sit here forever and watch people, soak in the smellssightssounds of this giant living, breathing, moving organism of a city. But I have finished my tea, I am hungry and have a new camera to explore. I think I will go home. Home. It’s nice to have a house, to be able to be home, in London. These are the days I fall in love with it again, the days I let this city take me wherever it wants me to be.
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So, I shall follow the wind and the smoke as it drifts upwards and filters out the light of the glowing moon. I’ll follow it for a minute until I disappear underground and let the tube carry me through the deep veins of the city. Carry me home.

La Creperie and Flask; Hampstead

2008-10-03T23:41:00.004+01:00

Besides the weekend, my favourite night is Wednesday. Since the beginning of the summer, I've been going to Hampstead after work for the best crepes ever at La Creperie de Hampstead.
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The usual is rum, dark chocolate and sometimes bananas, though I've tried all sorts now including ham and asperagus, ham and cheese, lemon, honey and sugar, etc. No matter what, they are always tasty.
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The other thing that makes Wednesdays the best is our discovery of Flask, a pub down aptly named Flask Walk just near the tube. Every Wednesday, starting about 8pm, a lovely guy named Iain hosts an open mic. It's not really your typical anyone-shows-up-and-plays open mic; we've seen some great talent there including Ro Tierney, Pimigi and some other unusual sounds. .

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It's free to get in, an awesome, friendly, chilled-out atmosphere and the best possible way to wind down with great friends in the middle of the week. It sort of sucks getting home, but it's well worth the effort.
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Plus, the next day, Iain uploads pictures from the night before on the MySpace so you can remember how well-worth it the cold bus stop or rediculous out-of-the-way tube journey really was.

Expats, Arancina and Jetsetters in Notting Hill

2008-09-22T22:11:00.002+01:00

On the plane ride back to London from New York last week, I opened the first page of a book called Expat, edited by Christina Henry de Tessan. It is a compilation of short stories written by American women who have spent time living abroad.

A quick and interesting read, this book left me thinking about one of the ideas that popped up somewhere in the middle of it: cultural whiplash. That is probably the best way to describe the last few years of my life. Lately, I am constantly bouncing between cultures, be it by actually visiting home or just by chatting to friends and family from America, or anywhere in the world, for that matter. While it is immensely fun and entertaining, there are consequences as well.

One of these is the dwindling of childhood friendships into forced conversation about people and places we don’t have in common anymore which inevitably leads to falling back on reminiscing. Slightly depressing. But I guess it’s all a part of growing up and moving on. There are always those few who will never lose touch.

The other consequence is feeling like I belong not in America or in England, but in this hanging limbo between the two. When I wrote about this feeling on my other diary, one of my infinitely wise friends spun it for me and said, “I think part of that identity dissonance comes from the fact that you aren't identifying yourself as from a place or of a place. You are you, living your life, beyond those simple qualifiers. And simple qualifiers make it easier for us to perceive our role and our position in the world.” Which I suppose makes it all a good thing, right? (Thanks, Glenn.)
Beyond this cultural whiplash, I am extremely happy to embrace this quirkily charming city, as always, once again. As much as I love New York and America in general, and as much as it does have to offer, for some reason, London just feels like the place I’m supposed to be. Supposed to be right now.

On the bus today, as we were driving by road works on a journey that should have taken 12 minute but took closer to 40, I watched the people walk by the window. One part of life here that I adore is the diversity. And not just the races and skin colours, but everything – ages, religions, outfits and styles, the way the rich and poor walk within inches of each other on the same streets and no one seems to judge anyone else outwardly.

That’s London – the place where people have this amazing ability to mind their own business, not to stare, to occupy their own space. That’s one thing that gets to me sometimes as well, because it’s not as openly friendly as the suburban streets of America where I grew up. People are more suspicious here, and maybe rightly so, of someone who approaches to start a conversation. But you get used to that mentality and the effects of it, which include good things, like privacy in a city where seven million people of such diversity can co-exist.

D and I went to Arancina tonight, a little Notting Hill pizza joint that attracts photo-snapping tourists with its orange car at the front window displaying the goods. We walked up the narrow few flights of steps carefully balancing a tray heaped with pizza (half-vegetarian) and two bottles of cold organic green tea to a small upper room with couches and a fake fireplace, a crazy orange clock and Notting Hill Carnival prints on the walls. We chose a table near the window where we ate until we could eat no more then shuffled the cards. Outside the window, we watched people walk by – some all fancied up and some wearing interesting combinations of bad patterns. We watched the red double decker busses stream past, anonymous faces stuck in The London Paper or some selection of book from the used book shop across the road where I go on my lunch break.

We walked home through Portobello Market, past the darkened antique shops with ‘closed’ signs flipped quickly in door windows like an afterthought. People sat outside in metal chairs smoking in the doorways of chic little restaurants and we chatted about living in the market, how we open a café at the bottom of our house and use the money to fund lavish fantasy pursuits of travelling the world like jetsetters. Jetsetters who live in Notting Hill.

This is London. Cosy, full of secrets, anonymous, exciting, fresh and full of freedom to be that person who might not be fully attached to any one place in the world except that place in the present. London is the type of place that lets you dream of being a jetsetter who lives in Notting Hill. It won’t even stop to judge.

In the Life Span of a Human Eyelash

2008-09-20T23:10:00.013+01:00

It’s been a while. Okay, so it’s been five months – the lifespan of a human eyelash (Don’t ask me how I know that) – since I’ve last written here. I stopped because it was becoming redundant for me, writing similar, albeit less-detailed, stories here and in my other personal blog. I’m starting again for a few reasons, but I won’t get into all of that.

So, where has my life taken me over the past five months? The short story: S and I broke up in April; I had a two month summer fling with an American guy who turned up in London for the summer and though we still talk regularly, we decided not to make it a long distance relationship (I will refer to him as ‘B’); Got two new flatmates in exchange for two others – one who moved to Dubai for tax-free living and the other who is crashing on our couch for a few weeks before moving to Botswana or Zimbabwe; I did London-y things all summer – went to Brighton, drank Pimms in small gardens of quaint little pubs, sat in the park when the sun decided to peek out of the clouds for a few hours, drank tea around the firepit, had house parties with people from 16 different countries gathered in our back garden and oozing out of the kitchen, etc; I went to Ireland and then Northern Ireland on a whim in August with B the weekend before he went back to NY; and, I just got back from two weeks of relaxing in NY myself with the family and a few friends. Came back yesterday to unpack, unwind and find that we had gotten a new fridge, new TV and a warped kitchen floor.

In other news:
I’ve booked my Eurostar tickets to Paris, where I will be going not long from now for a few days to visit a friend. I just finished an inspiring book called Expat which is a series of short stories written by American women who have lived abroad. I’m starting to build a website for my Traveling Mag Project which I hope to re-launch with the new site next month. My book collection has grown to nearly 200 since I moved to London in January 2007. Not quite sure what happens when I want to move. I had a two page article with four pictures published in Art of England this month. Read This, the Vancouver-based magazine I’ve been editing the Arts and Culture Section of, has decided to add a travel section for me to play with which excites me.

My newest aspirations are as follows:
* Take a TEFL course and learn to teach English as a foreign language so I can…
* Go live in South East Asia teaching English for a few months and travel as much as possible around the region, through Thailand, Cambodia, Vietnam, Laos, Burma, etc.
* In the meantime, save up some cash for a trip to Mongolia which will likely include travel through Russia and China. I found something to consider called the Vodkatrain that takes you through all three and hooks you up with local guides. Alternatively, there is a program where you can become a journalist in Mongolia with your own English speaking column. For some reason, I’ve developed an infatuation with Mongolia that probably won’t be quelled until I’ve gone.
* I’d still like to study for my MA, but that seems to be kept on the back burner due to my undying curiosity about the world and my insatiable need to spend all of my money on plane/train tickets.
* I would also like to learn another language; however, with so many to choose from, I’m not sure which would be the best bet as far as most useful. Maybe French, since I’ve already got the basics. Maybe an Asian language…
* The re-launch of the Traveling Mag Project.

Now that we’re up to speed…I suppose I should give you the (very very short) photo version. And very short means a very select few because I’ve taken over 2,000 photos since February.
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This is Agnes, the mother fox who lives in our backyard. Farley lives with her and they had three baby foxes - Jasper, Willa and Rufus - in April.
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This photo more or less sums up most of June, besides meeting B who wasn't there this day. Long days in parks - in this case, Holland Park, followed by ice cream, cards and bonfires.
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My housemate, G, from South Africa and AJ from Sudan bonding over their 'African-ness' at our house party in June.

Besides the company of friends and fellow expats in London who represented 16 different countries, we had about 20 American students from my old university in New York who were here studying for a few weeks. In this picture, I'm with two of my lecturers who were leading the group.
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This video was shot at the end of this party when those of us left standing were hanging out in the kitchen at 4am. When Oasis came on the radio, everyone started singing, which I thought was quite incredible seeing as, for most of the people in that room, English is a second language. Oasis was our common connection even though the people singing are from America, England, Sudan, South Africa, Zambia, Turkey, Australia, etc.
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July brought more sunny walks through London parks, trips to the Tattershall Castle - the boat pub on Embankment, the discovery of The Castle - a London gem for anyone who loves rock climbing, and also the discovery of an awesome Wednesday night open mic at Flask in Hampstead - something that became a tradition that I will write about more later.

This month also meant nights at The Island, a going away party for two awesome flatmates who are well missed, and more barbeques than I ever thought possible.

Plus, a trip to good old Brighton to play in the freezing English Channel, waste all of our 20p coins in the arcade and sit on the sidewalks listening to street bands. Not to mention the obligatory fish and chips wrapped in paper, eaten with a wooden fork on the stony beach whilst trying to deter the seagulls from dive bombing and wrapping up tight against the chilly wind. On the train back home, we saw a rainbow out of one window and a sunset on the other side.
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In August, we saw break dancers on the south bank, among other amusing acts.

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We found the strange juxtaposition of cows at Mudchute Farm near Canary Wharf.
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We walked through the Leake Street tunnel near Waterloo again to find the second Cans Festival - awesome graffiti by talented artists - still open to the public for free.
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Then, of course, there was the infamous Notting Hill Carnival carnage (yes, that's a dildo in her chocolate-smeared cleavage).

Followed shortly after by the closing ceremonies of the olympics in which London became the next host city for 2012. The Red Arrows flew over St. James Park during the festivities.
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Then there was the weekend trip to Dublin and Belfast that created a lot of good, music-filled memories.
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The next weekend, there was a sad but beautiful ending to one of the best summers I've ever had.
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And then, after all of the lovely London summer days, it was time for a little trip home to relax and reconnect with my home town in the suburbs of Buffalo/Niagara Falls, NY.
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These were taken at the local market on a Saturday morning.

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And this one was from a camping trip for a Mai Tai weekend.
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The trip was a great escape full of family, friends, shopping on the dollar, great food and drinks, a game of Scrabble, a 50th birthday party, the camping trip and a whole lot of other things in between.
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Now, hopefully, I won't have any more eyelashes falling out before my next entry!

London Restaurant: Souk

2008-04-24T21:43:00.002+01:00

As usual, our Tuesday Night Tasting adventure left D, Target and I stuffed, smiling, and wishing we had room for more! And this time another friend, O, joined us for some Moroccan dishes at Souk.

Awesome atmosphere with heavy cloths draped over the ceilings, waitresses wearing jingly wraps around their wastes, candle light and good conversation. Apparently it can be quite crowded on a weekend so Tuesday was a good bet.

Souk, 27 Litchfield Street, London WC2H 9NJ (Near the Seven Dials)

A Kitty and a Kite Festival

2008-04-13T20:03:00.003+01:00

I woke up to find a soft white kitty in the lounge. I named her Snow Belle. She followed my flatmates home last night. No collar. She was still there in the morning sitting on the back steps so we let her back inside and played with her. She’s outside again now, but I hope she wants to come back. She was nice and fluffy.
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This afternoon, I met C in Victoria for the train ride to Streatham Common where we went to a kite festival. Wellies, kites and tea under gray London skies, umbrellas, smiles, pretty colours and a bit of rain. Not to mention the giant purple octopus.
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Abercrombie in London vs NY

2008-04-13T11:06:00.004+01:00

There are certain moments in life that call for a bit of retail therapy. And so I've indulged. New spring coat, the obligatory sexy red break up dress, shoes, a few choice CDs. I've developed a slight infatuation with Amy McDonald.
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Amy MacDonald. This is the Life
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And even though our break up has been amicable and our friendship has blossomed from it, it never hurts to have your photo taken with a sexy shirtless Abercrombie model either.

There's been movie nights, pub night, coffee dates with the girls and a bit of excitement for whatever decides to come by next.

But back to this Abercrombie boy.

At home, Abercrombie has models outside the shops, but there's never people offering to take your photo with them with a Polaroid camera. And while there is loud music, there's never a clubbing atmosphere with pretty people dancing on top of balconies like there is in the new London branch on Savile Row.

Maybe that's why the same pair of Emma low rise jeans I was wearing were selling for DOUBLE what I paid for them in New York. Ridiculous. You also can't access the US Abercrombie site from a UK computer which is interesting indeed. Probably to prevent people from comparing prices. At any rate, I wasn't about to buy anything as the selection here isn't even as good as our small shop back home. However, the model boy out front... I approve!

A Small Moment

2008-04-02T21:38:00.002+01:00

Is it possible to steal happiness?
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Reading The Book Thief on the bus home, I came across that question.
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I’d imagine it is possible, but I think the best sort of happiness is shared, not stolen. I also think the best happiness comes from the moments that anyone can have if they open their eyes to them.
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Walking home in the fading daylight, under silver clouds, it began to rain.
It was warm sprinkling rain, the type that makes you linger instead of walk faster. The kind of rain you welcome to patter against your skin.
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In my hands, I carried a pot of African Violets with silver and fuchsia petals. Velvet, a tickling of tiny hairs running over the leaves.
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There is freshness in the extra hour of day now, in the air that holds the light for you just until you reach your doorstep.
It’s this last hour of light I hold onto like a gift, a chance to breathe in the tease of long summer nights.
An hour for slow walks home.
An hour for peaceful happiness.

Budapest Birthday Trip

2008-03-29T23:58:00.004Z

For my birthday in December, S bought me tickets for a trip to Budapest over Easter weekend. Since then, life has been a bit chaotic - visitors, house broken into, you know, the usual...but here we go:

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Friday
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After exchanging my £100 for 30,000 forint and a two hour flight, we rode through the streets of Budapest in a taxi, staring out the window trying let the Budapest-ness saturate our memories. The first thing I noticed: colorful buildings, the deep yellows and orange cement. Architecture was a main focus last weekend, the intricately carved buildings, the paintings and frescos, the towers and dilapidated old homes that fall back to the Communism era. It was gorgeous in a washed out, well-worn, cultured sort of way. Since joining the EU, it has also become a juxtaposition of old and new. Next to the crumbling cathedrals, there were Burger Kings and H&M. It was still early when we checked into the Atlas hotel with a private Jacuzzi and a beautiful room.
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We stopped in an underground tunnel to order gelato and communicate in simple English with a Hungarian woman who scooped different colors while her young daughter stared at us and wrapped napkins around the cones. Budapest was nearly eerily quiet, perhaps because it was Easter weekend, but most shops were closed and there were not so many pubs to sit inside and while away the hours. And so we wandered. Which was fine.
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After dwelling in the warmth of an empty Irish pub for a while, we ventured along the Danube River, freezing, past the massive structure of the parliament building and over the famous chain bridge. The sun set over the water and the view from the top of the hills we climbed was immaculate.
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We ate dinner in a cave restaurant called Marquis de Sade. The man himself was a French aristocrat and revolutionary, a man who wrote pornography that was often violent yet laden with philosophy. Pursuit of pleasure was his highest principle and he spent 32 years of his life in an insane asylum. And while there was no pornography in the restaurant there was a great deal of pleasure.
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The menu was a mix of Azerbaijani, Russian and Hungarian food, served to us while we sat on couches under crumbling tunnel walls, a candle lit beside us. I ordered a soup with lamb filled dumplings, a pot of tea and a chicken dish topped with apricots, prunes, raisins and a Tojaki wine sauce famous in Budapest. I brought a bottle of the sweet dessert wine home. It was served with salad and sticky rice.
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Saturday
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After two hours of searching unsuccessfully for the weekend flea market that was supposed to sell a mix of Soviet antiques, clothing and rock and roll records, we decided on lunch. Well, breakfast really as we hadn’t eaten yet. And it would be 6pm before we put anything into our growling stomachs.
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We got distracted by the transport museum.
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By a giant time wheel that sat on rollers and was rotated 180 degrees manually every year, sand dripping down the hour glass, a reminder that time is slipping through the cracks.
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By a castle and table tennis in the middle of a park.
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By mad elephants swaying from side to side behind bars.
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By a gigantic bath house.
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By Hero’s Square and art museums and a museum of terror.
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And finally, we came to a small market where we bought slices of something like pizza baked in a round wobbly oven by a large man with giant oven gloves.
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By a giant pillow fight.
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By Vaci Utca, a famous street of shops and bars and then we came to another market, a large open space with wooden stands, mulled wine, a gypsy band and a lot of meat. We shared langos, something like fried dough smothered in sour cream and cheese. Beautiful and traditional. A wine cave next. We shared an octopus salad.
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And then to a place down a small alley called 1,000 teas. They really did serve 1,000 teas. We each got a pot. I got a spicy chai from somewhere in Africa and S ordered a smooth green tea that I ended up buying in loose leaf form to bring home. There were small wicker chairs and carved tables with glass on top, or places to sit on cushions. No shoes allowed. On the walk back to our hotel, we ran into a wine festival, bought some tickets, got some free shots and bought another bottle of wine for the hotel and some huge pretzels.
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Sunday
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Sunday, we had just a few hours. The sun was shining. The streets were empty. Everything was closed. At 9, we woke up and had buffet breakfast in the hotel lobby, checked out and left our bags in a small room.
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In total, I only spent £100 all weekend and these last few hours were about using up the remainder of our forint change. And so we wandered again down Vaci Utca, bought some souvineers, some bottles of Unicum, the famous drink in the area, then around the market stalls once more.
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I bought bits of creamy chicken and mushroom in a hard round roll similar to chicken stew in a bread bowl from Tim Hortons. Delicious.
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And too soon, it was time to drag our bags through the airport, be transported back to London by Malev airlines who gave us little chocolate buttons that said Happy Easter.
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A Crazy Week

2008-03-08T10:23:00.002Z

Tuesday night: Dinner at awesome Italian joint on Old Compton Street in Soho called Amalfi. Met up with long-lost friends, drank excellent wine and even fit dessert without having to roll out the door.

Wednesday night: D, man of connections, scored free tickets to see a preview of Jersey Boys in the West End. Story about Frankie Valli and The Four Seasons. Good for a few laughs. The Spice of Life pub and a glass of wine to follow.

Thursday night: Bookshops, CD shops, an excellent spinach and cheese crepe and good conversation with S. Following the shops, a Spanish pub and a pub decorated with large gothic chairs and old chemistry sets. Special mention to Tea Pigs, where they have mesh teabags to accomodate the large bits of leaves and flowers that diffuse their flavours into the tea. Had peppermint, intend to return to try chocolate and stearing clear of the popcorn flavour.

Friday night: Relaxation and freelance catch up.

Saturday: Banksy tour around East London. Pictures later, perhaps.

On a side note: Love my job now. Working with distance learners all around the world, I have met some absolutely amazing and inspiring people from all cultures.

Seven Magazine Launches New Site

2008-02-24T14:01:00.004Z

Searching for a refreshing change, a magazine that wasn’t just about celebrities or high street clothes, I stumbled upon a glossy with a black front and intriguing cover stories. Seven Magazine came home with me and I fell in love with it because was exactly what I was looking to read – something with substance and heart.
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True to its name, Seven looks at both serious issues and culture on every continent. It is described as a magazine for politically-conscious men and women with an interest in international arts. It is even forming its own charity called Seven Foundation.
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This week, Seven launched their new website at www.sevenglobal.org. Some of the magazine articles from the print version have been posted and there are more to come. It is definitely worth a read. One of my favourite articles discovers the gangs of Cape Town, South Africa, but there is plenty more right here.

A Weekend in Amsterdam

2008-02-23T23:01:00.002Z

Clinging bicycle bells welcomed us as we stepped out of Amsterdam’s Centraal Station into the cool late night air. The streets were buzzing with mingling tourists, smart cars and blue and white trams that roll down the centre of the main streets. An intimate network of small streets can be walked from one side to the other in 30 minutes. Carefully, of course, as there are 600,000 bicycles to contend with along the way. Webbed with weathered bridges and houseboat-lined canals, Amsterdam is a quaintly exotic oasis of culture. It is not only a city, but a way of life.

After a quick stop in St. Christopher’s Inn The Winston on Warmoestraat, our hostel and home for the weekend, we set out to explore our surroundings in the Red Light District. I felt a bit sad for the women dancing under the glow of seductive lights in large windows, on main streets and in alleyways, but maybe that’s just the feminist in me because they seemed to be enjoying themselves.

Fat City, now a pool hall and pub, was our first stop. My parents met there long ago before it changed from a club and youth hostel where my dad was a DJ and my mom was a backpacker. Being in Amsterdam where coffeeshops dot every street, we stepped into a smoky den and then made our way past whispering drug dealers back to The Winston, where we spent the rest of the night dancing in the club run by the same management as the hostel.

The next morning, our first full day, we started with a hostel breakfast followed by tea at a café called Bagels and Beans (coffee beans, that is) then the obligatory canal tour that starts outside the Heineken Experience.

From there, we walked along the canal, up through the grassy space near the Van Gogh museum and got distracted with hot waffles, cherries, ice cream and Chocomels to wash it all down.

Eventually, we made it to Vondelpark, a welcoming green space with joggers, Frisbee players and more bikes. Back on the other side of town, we dined at a pancake house and walked through the Bloemenmarkt flower market before heading out for an unforgettable night at The Paradiso, a huge club converted from an old church.

In one room, we caught a show called The New Young Ones, which featured six hot new Dutch rock bands. In another room, the sold out Willy DeVille, bluesy rock that was around back when my mom saw him in Buffalo in the 70s under the band name Mink DeVille. A new crowd filed in for a techno dance hall and DJs till 5am, complete with an acrobat woman who dangled freely from a set of curtains over the crowd performing tricks. After a stop at the glorious Chipsy King at some hour of the morning, it was bed and then breakfast before our last full day on Saturday.

What better to do Saturday morning than visit the infamous Amsterdam sex museum? From the intimate to the absurd, we laughed and gasped through the halls of exhibitions which were far from your typical ‘boring’ museum. I even got a picture sitting on a giant penis. Classy, I know.

That afternoon, we went to more coffeeshops: The Bulldog, Het Derwoud and Hill Street Blues before heading off for the best night. We didn’t think it was possible to top Friday night, but we did, thanks to some stage diving and crowd surfing to a German punk band called Beatsteaks and some newfound Dutch friends who spent the night dancing with us in the Indie room. Then it was one last stop off at Chipsy King before a few hours of sleep.

It was almost like falling in love with London the first time. Maybe it was the canals, the coffeeshops and relaxed atmosphere, the charm of bicycle bells, the seduction of the sex shops and red light district, the music, the clubs, the people... I’m not sure exactly. But, something made me want to stay there, to live there for a while. It was the first time I wasn’t the most excited person in the world when arriving at Heathrow again.

Sometimes it Rains like Glitter

2008-02-01T17:40:00.000Z

Rain is coming down in streams, the wind whistling and howling through slats in the wooden fence around our back garden. I’m sitting on the floor next to my door that leads outside and I can feel the chill in the air coming in against my bare feet. Occasionally, a gust slams against the bushes and leaves dance like green snowflakes in the air before settling on the grass. It looks greener than usual, dotted with beads of fresh water, radiant against the gray sky. Roses are already blooming down the road on a twisting stem of thorns that snakes along the top of a fence. Pink roses. Pale pink like cotton candy, petals with graceful curves.

In New York, it is snowing and I remember this last year as well, the way London welcomes Spring more quickly, the crocuses springing quietly up from the dirt, the naked branches of trees sprouting the first buds.

Spring is for new beginnings and that is exactly what this month is all about. I’m starting a new job on Monday at The London College. It means I can walk to work through Portobello Market every morning, passing the vendors with colourful vegetables and vintage coats and shoes. It means new horizons, new opportunities, new contacts and a new environment.

On top of that, I’m focusing more on freelance writing this year, putting time into developing a business plan, sending queries, promoting, nitpicking at my image and carving out my niche. I have a few projects in the works already.

Beyond that, I’ll soon be putting some sub-editing hours into Seven Magazine as they get ready to launch a brand new website.

I’m working with the Haute staff as Arts & Culture Editor planning the second issue of the quarterly magazine, interviewing people and writing articles, recruiting writers and photographers.

I’m also revamping The Traveling Mag Project to minimise shipping costs and loss of books, bringing it closer to the participants by expanding on the online version, The Homebody Mag, and posting regular scans of the books while they’re in circulation.

Sitting here thinking of all I have to look forward to this year, I have every reason to be excited. S and I celebrate one year together this Sunday, my brother comes to visit in about a week and we’re heading off to Amsterdam. In March, S and I are spending a weekend in Budapest. My parents and a few friends are visiting in May. In September, a big group of us are planning a trip to America – New York and California.

I think the rain is beautiful, the way it’s clinging now to colourful clothespins hanging from the washing line. It’s slowed to a mist, with a barely-visible steam-like quality. It reminds me of Niagara Falls. When I touch the glass of the windows in front of me, they are like ice, as if they would crack under a tap of my fingertips. Heat radiates behind me and I’m grateful for this house because I’ve fallen for it and it finally feels just like home now. Just right.

I love to keep myself busy, working toward my dreams even if it’s work experience or my own unpaid projects. It’s something like the rain, seeing the beauty in something that other people may find miserable. It’s streaming down the windows and clouding my vision, but it shimmers and shines if you train your eyes on the right spots. Eventually it sinks into the ground and from it sprouts life, beautiful blossoms that take time and a bit of nature’s love to create. The rain comes when the blossoms are alive and it comes when they die. It never stops being raining; there are only lulls.

They Said Never in Your Wildest Dreams

2008-01-23T20:32:00.000Z

Today marks an official year since I left New York for London.
Hard to believe.

It’s been a rollercoaster, but it has proven to be the best decision I’ve ever made.

Here are my top 10 highlights from the past year in London:

1. The entire beginning, the magic of starting a new life in a new country, the excitement and anticipation of everything to come. It was always a dream, and the challenge of keeping it a reality proved to be an adventure in itself.

2. Moving into my house with people from all over the world, signing my first lease, and finally having a place to base my life here, a place to come home to instead of taking the last train back to Kent where I was staying (even though I was lucky to be staying there at first). It made everything feel a bit more permanent. Even if I didn’t have any sheets for a few months.

3. Finding a job at Jiq Jaq, the art gallery where I spent my first year as a marketing executive/promotional writer. Days in the gallery brought some interesting acquaintances and I also met some great new friends. Marketing wasn’t my first choice, but it was an excellent first job to have, putting together an art catalogue, writing letters and email ad campaigns, learning about the art world and being surrounded by colour. Not to mention the glory of that first salaried paycheck when my bank account was dry as the Sahara.

4. Obtaining my British passport and making my dual citizenship official. The day it came in the mail was the day I knew I could keep my dream alive, even if I ever did have to go home for a while. It was the moment I knew I could always come back and work here with no restrictions. Here, and anywhere in the EU.

5. My recent week of work experience at The Sunday Times was definitely a highlight. It brought back the rush of exhilaration that comes from being in a newsroom and solidified my goals of being involved in journalism. With the task of calling high profile people and researching for future stories, I made quite a few great new contacts and received some excellent advice from the people on the news review desk.

6. Having my first article published in a magazine. I had articles published in newspapers, but Graffiti was the first magazine to let my words grace its pages. It has since changed its name to Art in London, but it is still the same. Seeing my article title on the front cover and four pages of my work and some images in the center as a feature was another rush. Also, becoming the arts and culture editor for a new Vancouver-based magazine project, Haute, and an invitation to be a sub-editor for Seven Magazine.

7. Summer festivals. I was lucky enough to go to both Isle of Wight and Reading festivals this summer. In fact, they were my first camping festivals ever. I’ve always been a huge Smashing Pumpkins fan so being a few feet from the stage with an enormous crowd pushing from behind me when I saw them at Reading for the first time ever was unbeatable. Not to mention Rolling Stones who headlined Isle of Wight, some sunshine, a little bus trip to the English Channel “beach”, good company, dance tents, campfires and fish and chips. Also, though it wasn’t a festival, a trip to Brighton that caused much fun and frolicking on a cold beach and ended up with arcade games, tea and donuts.

8. Love. Meeting S. He’s been there for me since the beginning, making sure I had everything I needed when I moved into my house, spending money on my happiness left and right, moving in with me, making me laugh, taking me to new places and introducing me to a whole plethora of new friends. Not to mention being supportive of my dreams and booking a three day holiday in Budapest for my birthday with a double deluxe room and a private Jacuzzi. So maybe I’m spoiled.

9. The general awesomeness of London, which includes all of the free gigs I’ve been to, the new bands I’ve discovered, the amazing people who have become great friends, the culture, the fact that there’s always something going on, the tube and its usefulness, all of the exhibitions I’ve seen, the beauty of the parks that let you escape from the city noise, the shopping and the markets, the fire pit we built in our backyard for barbeques and parties, the social life, the fact that we have two almost tame foxes living in our back garden the food from all over the world, the new magazines and books I’ve discovered, etc. I am deeply in love with this city. After a year, it’s still just as fantastic and I don’t plan on leaving any time soon.

10. Finally feeling like I’ve made London my home. Also, being lucky enough to be able to visit my other home back in New York twice in this one year. I will always be tossed between the two, I think, but the fact that they both now feel like home makes me quite lucky, don’t you think?

It's Getting Haute in Here

2008-01-19T17:03:00.001Z

I suppose I’m not much of a role model for the green movement having flown across the ocean five times in the past year, but when you have a home on both sides of the world and five of your friends get together to buy you a plane ticket for Christmas, it’s hard to turn it down. This is part of my excuse for not updating in a month. I spent about three and a half weeks in New York reacquainting myself with snow and the bitter chill of Niagara Falls in winter.
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My friend D came over from London for nine days. It’s the first time I brought a piece of my London life into my New York life rather than the other way around. He said it gave him a lot of insight into the mysterious other half of my life (which really isn’t all that mysterious at all, only different). Besides enjoying the company of family and friends, D and I built a short-lived snowman named Pierre and documented his existence. He was a French snowman, slightly angry, with a lot of attitude. Sadly, he was quickly destroyed by his archenemy, Sun.
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RIP Pierre.
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Another highlight of my trip home was movie nights with my mom to see Juno, a hilarious and heartwarming story about a cheeky pregnant teenager who decides to put her child up for adoption. The story evolves around her relationship with the couple who is set to adopt her child and her high school experience as The Pregnant Girl.
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We also saw The Kite Runner, the controversial film based on Khaled Hosseini’s number one best-selling novel. It was one of the best books I’ve ever read, highly recommended. As always, the book was better, offering more details, but the movie was quite good as well. Plus, I’m a sucker for subtitles. I love em. The actual story is about a boyhood friendship in Afghanistan that falls apart after one boy is raped and the other witnessed it but didn’t have the courage to stop it. Excellent story with a twist at the end: the best kind of story.
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My dad and I spent some time up in Canada at Niagara-on-the-Lake, I was taken out to dinner a few times, played a lot of pool with my brother and scrabble with my gram, celebrated New Years, Christmas and my 24th birthday. All around, an excellent three weeks. Plus, when my brother comes to London in February we’re planning a trip to Amsterdam and our parents surprised us by offering to pay for our flight, hostel and a QPR football game back in London.
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When I came back to London, S told me what my birthday present will be: he’s booked flights and a nice hotel in Budapest for us over Easter weekend! Awesome boyfriend I have, no?
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There goes that carbon footprint again… but I think to discover other cultures and gain a greater understanding of the world or reconnect with family at home, it is worth it. What is life with out travel or family?
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My other excuse for not updating in a while is that I’ve been enjoying a work experience on the news review desk at The Sunday Times all week. Excellent opportunity. I met some great people, made a lot of phone calls and did a lot of research. Mainly, I got to see what a typical day is like in the newsroom. Quite honestly, it’s just a larger scale of The Leader where I used to work. And I still love the energy that comes from being in a newsroom, the constantly changing stories and topics. It’s magnetic and I know it’s where I want to be.
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Friday was my last day. Eleanor Mills, the news editor, said to me, “So, are you ready to be immersed in the giant newsroom of a paper like The Sunday Times?” “I would absolutely love it!”
“Usually by Friday people who come in for the week are overwhelmed and can’t wait to get out of here.”
“Really? If anything, it made me want to do journalism more.”
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I was told to keep in touch with ideas and come back anytime for more. I’d love to. But money is good too, so I’m off to do a bit more job hunting.

First, in more exciting news, Zin has finished the final version of the very first issue of Haute. Here’s a bit of it - the beginning and my article. I’m going to continue to be Culture Editor and am really looking forward to putting together the next issue. We’ve been brainstorming for topics and general story ideas - always exciting. Here's a more readable version and the rest of the articles!
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Reviving a Melody

2007-12-08T13:58:00.000Z

It has been almost 10 years since my fingers last coaxed a melody from piano keys. Ten years since I tried to look at a line of music notes and already hear them in my head.

For 11 years, all through my childhood, my grandmother gave my brother and I piano lessons. It started when I was 3-years-old. I had to sit on a cushion placed on top of the piano seat so I could see properly. I played every day. And then, when I turned 14, I just stopped.
I stopped because I was too cool for piano. I wanted to play sports instead. I didn't appreciate it.

And then, as I got a bit older, I started to regret that decision. When I went to my grandma's house, I'd sit and listen to her play, watch her wrinkled fingers with perfectly manicured nails skip over the keys effortlessly while she closed her eyes. It was as if she was listening to someone else play Handel or Bach, as if her hands were not her own.

So many times, I almost asked her to teach me again, but I was nervous I'd forgotten everything she ever taught me and what a shame it would be if that turned out to be the truth. So I never touched her piano again. Not one note.

S came home last night with a box. A big box. He set it on my bed and tore it open, pulled out bubble wrap and soft packing material. Then he pulled out a keyboard. He said he wanted to learn how to play and his grandma had it stored away for years and she just gave it to him.

He sat on my bed and started playing random notes and chords, trying to hit the right note. When he plays bass or guitar, he doesn't really read music, he plays by ear, working it out from songs he plays on his laptop. I watched.

Then I saw a book. It was yellowed, ripped a bit and curled at the edges. I pulled it from the box and opened it, releasing a puff of air that tasted of stale cigarettes. It was a simple beginner's book with no chords and only the treble clef. Songs like Silent Night, Yankee Doodle, Oh, My Darlin' Clementine.

While S played, I studied the lines of simple music in the book and closed my eyes trying to remember how to read music. A few minutes later, he left to take some stuff to his mom's and said, “You have a go.”

When I heard the front door close, I put my fingers on the keys and I looked at the book. It came rushing back to me and I went through the entire simple book, playing every song so easily I surprised myself.

I took out my laptop and searched for free sheet music. I wanted to see if I could find some chords, some music with the bass clef, a little challenge. When S came back, I was working through a more difficult version of Silent Night, with chords on both hands. It all came back to me. I had to stop and think about the really high or low notes and I was still really rusty, but I know if I started practising again, I would be able to get back to where I was at 14.

Those 11 years of lessons haven't gone to waste.

James, the Mac and Cheese Mouse

2007-11-28T13:43:00.000Z

A few days ago, I had a rare London moment: eye contact and a smile from a stranger on the underground. *Gasp*
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It was at Euston Station, walking toward the stairs that led up from the platform. A woman and I were walking side by side, each in our own “can't-wait-to-get-home-from-work” mindset when all of a sudden, a furry body scurried in front of us, stopping us dead in our tracks. Hence the look and smile before continuing up the stairs.
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The mouse wasn't rare, of course. They sniff and scuttle along the rails all day and night. From afar they're sort of cute. In fact, it came to our attention that we even have one in our house. This is fine when we hear him squeaking from invisible mouse-sized crevices in the kitchen walls. We even gave him a name: James. But last night, James came into sight for the first time and that was not okay. James should stay hidden if he's going to live with us. That was our unspoken agreement.
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C told me about a shop called The Rosslyn Delicatessen on Roslyn Hill in Hampstead just a short walk from where I work. They stock all sorts of American food and have been voted Best Deli the past three years in a row. Bonus: They're located practically across the street from the award-winning and delicious Hampstead Creperie.
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Anyway, I bought some graham cracker pie crust, Kraft mac & cheese, authentic Buffalo wing sauce, some A&W vanilla cream soda, and some Aunt Jemima's pancake mix. When I got home, I left the mac & cheese on the counter intending to make it when S came back from the gym.
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Back to James.
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It was, oh, around 10pm when I decided it would be a good time to start cooking. I walked in the kitchen and James emerged from a corner of the counter sniffing at the air, little paws held up like he was praying...and ran straight across the stove and dove in a gap between it and the counter on the other side. I froze and walked slowly backwards into my room and shut the door behind me.
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James has crossed the line.
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In fact, yesterday was not a good day for being home. Not just because of James and his sneaky appearances on the kitchen counter, but because the heating broke and we all sat around frigid in Arctic conditions with bundles of clothes and blankets. Not exactly conducive to doing much of anything but curling up with a good book, which is exactly what I did.
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But first, I had to make a cup of tea. I walked into the kitchen wearing two hoodies. One of them had fur around the hood, which I was wearing because it was That Cold. It earned me a new nickname from H. I am now The Stephskimo. Cute.
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Here's hoping the heating is fixed tonight and James is tucked safely away in a little crevice and doesn't decide to make any surprise appearances.
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In other news, I have been invited to participate in a week long work experience under Eleanor Mills, the News Review editor at the Sunday Times.

A Website, A Job, and An Opportunity

2007-11-16T15:11:00.000Z

Since I've last written, quite a bit has happened. It started when I found out the gallery is closing. Turns out, this is great because I need something more challenging and stimulating anyway. Perfect motivator.

First I got S to teach me how to build a website using just HTML and Notepad. I know there are programs like Dreamweaver and FrontPage, but I like to know how things work and it turns out it's not so difficult. I spent the next few days creating a website that employers can use to see some of my clips and my CV. If you care to see, it's live now at http://www.abowlofcherries.co.uk/.

I also tossed my CV up on Gumtree, which turned out to be a great move. First, I found out that Marc, the editor of Seven Magazine is looking for some help. I wrote about Seven a while back and Marc found the entry and left me a comment. Since then, we've been in touch on and off through email.

Well, I met with him a few days ago and he offered me a position as Sub-Editor for the magazine, something I can do from home on nights and weekends. I love this because Seven is something I really believe in. It's a magazine/website that looks seriously at issues on all seven continents (hence the name) and also at the culture, arts, fashion, music aspect of countries around the world.

If you know me, you know this is right up my alley.

Then I got a message from another man called Sean. We met for about 2.5 hours this morning.

He is from Ireland, has family in England and lives in Slovakia for work. He works for a blind charity in Britain. He had a friend, Brian Faul, who died of cancer who was also seriously involved with the blind charity. Apparently, this man gave up all of his appointments but the ones he had with them.

And so Sean wanted to do something in his memory. The Brian Faul Foundation is what resulted. It is almost ready to be “launched”, so to speak. As in everything is in place, it just needs to be finalized, which will happen in in the next few months.

Last week, he was browsing Gumtree and found my resume. He said he read it and then had to go make a coffee and come back and read it again. He was amused by the fact that I was American and interested in all this international stuff. What struck him were my projects – Jammin' for Jamaica and my new Traveling Mag Project, funny enough. Then he read this blog. He had asked me to send him the last entry so he could use for his English classes he teaches in Slovakia.

He works with street kids in the Ukraine among other less fortunate people in other places all over the world. What he wants this charity to do is to give people a chance who wouldn't have otherwise been given one. And he wants to do it by letting people use their talents/creativity to raise money for these projects that will benefit them.

His idea for me is to be a project manager/co-ordinator. I would come up with ideas like the Traveling Mag Project and Jammin' for Jamaica (which you can read about on my website if you're interested), ways to reach out to groups of people around the world, to connect them so they can better understand each other and to give them opportunities. I would set up and manage projects around the world, promote them, travel to the countries where they are occurring on occasion to check things out. There would be basic admin as well as I would be the link to Britain for the charity so I would answer a phone and deal with queries.

He said when he heard my ideas about the Traveling Mag Project, he asked if I would be willing to start similar projects in these different countries and he could then publish those under the name of the charity. He was very keen on the idea of asking the street kids he works with in the Ukraine to draw or write poetry in a book and then publish it and sell it and use the money to build them a shelter because, sadly, they live inhumanely in the sewers under the streets. I love that idea of redoing my project for something like that.

He couldn't offer me an official position yet until he speaks to the trustees, but he said he wants to go back to them with some ideas from me. I have a million ideas. If the trustees approve and want to meet me, I will have another inteview with one of them.

If they don't offer me a job, Sean said there's still opportunity to freelance for the Foundation.

I've also had a few emails in the past few days from different companies asking what my freelance rates are for writing marketing articles.

Now that my website is up, I'm going to use it in my applications so it will be much easier and I'm going to apply to lots more places, but I'm hoping this international projects one follows though because I think it would be awesome. And creative and stimulating and rewarding, etc.

Guy Fawkes at Roundwood Park

2007-11-06T11:10:00.000Z

Fireworks on the Fourth of July meant sitting on blankets with family by the railway tracks, munching on pretzels and chips while the sky darkened and the excitement built up to the colourful explosions over the Niagara River. As I grew up, I saw them in bigger cities like Santa Barbara, CA, or Buffalo and Rochester, NY with friends. I didn't expect the local Guy Fawkes Day celebration in Willesden, London, to be much different, but it was.

For one thing, it's obviously November and not July, which meant being bundled up in winter coats, scarves, gloves, the works. Another thing was the dancing and the amusement rides, and the last thing was the violence.

I didn't realize Roundwood Park existed or that it was a five minute walk from my house. There were manicured flower beds, green grass and trees, a fish pond with a willow tree and a hill with a view of Wembley Stadium that would be a gorgeous place to watch the sun set.

As we approached the park, people were selling sparklers, flashing bunny ears, glo-sticks, light sabres, burgers, and everything that makes a regular fairground. There were rides, mainly for kids, strobe lights, haunted houses and people everywhere.

We found a nice spot near a cotton candy vendor and watched the sparks light up the sky. Most of the fireworks were white or red, a few were purple. My favorite ones were gold. They shot up with a bang and exploded in long streams of gold glitter. The very end of the grand finale consisted of only these. They filled the whole sky over a grey background of smoke and it looked like the sky was raining gold streams of glitter on the crowd. Everyone cheered. The air smelled of gun powder and cotton candy.

St and R were at the other side of the park. As we approached the hill, all we could hear was hip hop blaring out of speakers like it was an outdoor club. People were dancing, even the security guards were into it. R and St were sharing a thermos of mulled wine and we stood around talking for a while.

All of a sudden, we heard a bang in the crowd and people screaming and then a rush of 100 teenagers running down the hill. Then another bang and more people running and screaming. An ambulance put its lights on, the security guards disappeared, the music stopped. We stood there watching and heard a third bang, followed by more running and screaming. S and I decided it was time to go. We hadn't eaten yet and it was getting really cold on the top of the hill so we said goodbye and walked back toward the kiddie rides wondering what the hell was going on.

All of a sudden, we heard a whistle right above our heads. S instinctively shielded my body with his and we turned around to see a firework explode into the ground about four feet away from us.

I couldn't believe that people could be so immature to throw fireworks into crowds, and especially crowds full of little kids. I just don't understand what goes through people's minds when they do those things.

Hampstead Heath and Creperie

2007-10-23T14:57:00.000+01:00

My friend D was back in London this weekend, and when 6:30 rolled around on Sunday and it was time to close up the gallery, he met me to explore Hampstead Heath in the near dark.
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It was chilly, but not too cold as we walked up the hill, and we headed down a dark trail into a large grassy area, down a side street and a back alley, onto another side street. We cut back into the woods down another, more obscure, darker trail, feeling for the path beneath our feet, walking slowly to avoid tripping over roots and ruts.
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There was a huge pond at the edge of a clearing and a single bench. On the other side of the still water, the windows of apartment blocks glowed in the darkness. We sat silently, letting our eyes adjust. Swans glided along looking for food and crickets chirped in the grass at the edge of the pond. It was so peaceful. And to think, the bustle of London was only a short walk up the road. Hampstead Heath is an oasis of calm.
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On our way, we came by a blue plaque at 3 Villas on the Heath. The famous Bengali writer, Rabindranath Tagore had lived there. And I could see the appeal of the area to an artist or a writer. I said to D, “I could live here and write poetry.” The area was actually quite well known for its community of artists and writers and intellectuals. The list of famous names is quite long. Martin Amis, William Blake, Lord Byron, Charles Dickens, Audrey Hepburn, George Orwell, and more recently, Brad Pitt, Jude Law, Hugh Grant, Sienna Miller, three of the Spice Girls, Sting…. And the list goes on. For more, scroll down the Wiki entry.
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The street where Tagore lived lined one edge of the heath and the house was like a cottage on the corner surrounded by bushes. But as much as he must have been inspired by the charm of London, he was also affected by its loneliness. He once wrote about this city, “There can hardly be a more cruel place...in Winter; the sky turbid, the light lacking lustre, like a dead man's eye.”
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My dad warned me about the loneliness one can feel in this city with its grey skies and unpromising rain. But even the loneliness is darkly inspirational. I thought of the bench that D and I sat on that I could return and write for hours on my own. I could live back there, in the green solitude, with the excitement of London just an arm’s reach away.
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Back on the main road, we wandered, admittedly lost, trying to find the tube station. And then, we discovered The Wells, a little pub with heat lamps and tables around the outside, people playing Scrabble and Chess at tables inside. We ordered some chips and bread and snacked and chatted. The staff seemed a bit confused about taking orders, etc, and we ended up with a free diet coke. But it was a nice little pub and I grabbed a card so we could return. The bartender gave us directions back to the station.
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And of course, we had to pass Hampstead Creperie, the little crepe stand that boasts 27 years in Hampstead and usually about 27 people queueing for a crepe! Dangerous. D made me stand in line for about half hour so he could have his usual white chocolate crepe. But he shared and we were entertained by a wild clapping and dancing drunken man yelling at a line of 30 people that they all have no personality and no brains, so I didn't mind. By then it was pretty late and we decided to head home, vowing to explore the area more soon and come back for another round at The Wells and, of course, a visit to the beloved Creperie.

An Afternoon at Crisis and the Soup Kitchen

2007-10-14T11:54:00.000+01:00

I arrived at Crisis exactly on time. D was waiting on the stoop at the front of the shabby white brick building as promised. He wore a pale yellow tee shirt and squinted against the sun to greet me and shake my hand. He signed me in at the desk and explained that I could write my name down as “Bob” and it wouldn’t matter because it’s only for a head count; most people here are under false names.
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Staircases were lined with art from the homeless people who take classes there. Only they aren’t really classes. An instructor is on hand, but only to help if approached. There is no distinction between homeless and volunteer unless asked. Everyone is treated equally.
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I followed D up two flights of stairs. He introduced me to L, another volunteer. L was a tall man with chocolate skin and a bright smile. I was about to shake his hand when a demanding voice behind me said, “Where’s the fuckin’ tea, man? It’s 1:00.” L smiled and I turned to see a short man in his 30s, wearing a plaid blue shirt, with the top three buttons down to reveal a hairy chest, and jeans. His eyes were such a pale blue they seemed to belong to someone else. “Yea, I’m coming now,” L answered and walked away with a shy smile for an excuse.
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D led me into a computer room next. A few people about my age were using them and were in their own little worlds. So we walked to the next room, the art room. It was huge, with tables covered in sheets of paper and coloured pencils, jars of paint and half-finished drawings of plants and birds. We sat down on two dirty chairs and he pointed to people across the room explaining who they are. There were only about five people there, and they were engrossed in their printmaking and painting. One woman with a long braid was covered in paint and glitter.
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Up one more flight of stairs, we found L and the man in the plaid shirt talking over tea. Next to them were two men playing cards. We were in a recreation type room where tea is served for 45 minutes sharp at various intervals throughout the day according to the schedule. D made me tea in a Styrofoam cup and we sat down at one of the tables with a blue bag full of grapes at the centre. He picked one up and gnawed at one end and pushed the bag toward me. I took one.
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The room was inviting with tall wooden ceilings and windows that looked down on Commercial Street near Petticoat Lane market. It had a kitchen area and potted plants in some corners. Tables were set up for socializing and relaxing. I felt comfortable there. An older woman sat at the table next to us fiddling with a rickety old guitar. She stared vacantly at the wall, not strumming it, just playing with the tuning knobs.
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Another woman walked by and David reached out and touched her shoulder. He nodded towards me and said, “This is my friend, Stephanie.” No one is ever introduced as a volunteer. I'll refer to her as M. Meeting her was my favourite part of the day. M was born in Rome and came to London about a year ago so her Italian accent was strong and I had to strain to understand her vibrant conversation.
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She may have been a bit older than me. The first thing I noticed about her was her teeth. She didn’t have any on the right side of her mouth. Well, one, sort of and one that was kind of blue. The second thing I noticed was her smile. She didn’t stop smiling and she seemed so happy and animated. Stories about Rome came flooding out of her mouth, tales of men who walked into a pub and within minutes had all the patrons singing a song together, memories of Pairs. I listened intently and she warmed to me quickly.
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Dirt was piled thick under her fingernails and her dark, shoulder-length hair was curly, sticking out from a Nike baseball cap that was yellowed around the edges. It had a red Swoosh. She wore a long sleeved tee-shirt with a Van Gogh image on the front and a pair of jeans. Her arms were thin and her face was pale. But, that smile. Where did that come from?
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She went on about consumerism and superficial cultures and Chinese manufacturers and I admired her ability to speak intelligently about these things. Admittedly, I fall into the category of people who have accidentally judged someone based on their situation or appearance. Stereotypes suggest homeless people are less likely to be educated, but clearly she was. I wanted to sit with her and chat for hours.
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When she left, D turned to me and said, “I’ve never seen her open up to anyone the way she just did with you.”
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He asked me if I wanted to accompany him to Mother Teresa’s in Elephant and Castle. It was a 25 minute tube journey and it was only 2pm so I said sure. Every Sunday afternoon he helps out in the soup kitchen. Clearly, he is well-known in the area because he said “salaam” or waved to people we passed. It seemed so out of place to hear a ruddy-faced British man addressing Indian men in their language with a little wag of the head. I liked it.
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When we approached the soup kitchen, bushes formed walls around the garden and inside the walls of bushes, about 150 homeless people gathered with backpacks and sleeping bags and plastic shopping bags, waiting for the doors to open in 15 minutes. D waved to a few people and led me inside. A few men winked at me as I walked up the steps.
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I’ve worked in the Dunkirk soup kitchen in New York a few times, but this was completely different. I guess I should have realized there would be religion involved because it was run by nuns and I knew that much.
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When the tables were set, the nuns and the volunteers gathered in the sweltering kitchen where one of the sisters led the prayers and a blessing and the people chanted along and sang parts. D ushered me to a spot where I could read a poster on the back wall with the words. I didn’t participate, just bowed my head in respect and when they crossed themselves as Catholics do, I just stood there. Religion is another entry altogether, but know that it makes me slightly uncomfortable.
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At 3pm sharp, one of the sisters opened the door and as the men started flooding in with their belongings, the smell of unwashed bodies filled the room. I didn’t notice it after a while, but it was overpowering at first. About 75 people came in the first lot, no children, maybe ten women, the rest men. Some of them were young and wore nice clothes so I would never guess them to be people who sleep on the streets. These people were slightly rowdy. Others were older and have accepted their circumstances. The men had long white beards. They walked slowly with their heads down and didn’t speak much during the meal.
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When everyone was seated, the head sister called order and announced a hymn. Pages rustled. And then, to my amazement, nearly everyone joined in singing the old spiritual. I felt so awkward standing at the front in a line of a few volunteers, wearing clean clothes, freshly showered. There were tears in some eyes as they sang. A feeling of guilt rushed through me as I looked around. It was as if I had entered their secret little world to say, “Hey, look at me. Here I am up here. I’m not one of you.” And for a moment, a passing moment, I wished I was one of them instead, sitting with all those people who understood me. Why? Because they were all so god damn appreciative to sit there in that warm building and eat a sloppy plate full of processed mashed potatoes and frozen vegetables. A leg of chicken. A smattering of gravy. And a small scoop of ice cream. They were so grateful, and something so simple brought a smile to their faces so easily.
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The nun read a short sermon about the ten lepers and talked about the two most important words we ever learn: “thank-you” and “sorry.” People nodded in agreement and chanted along with her prayers at the end. I couldn’t wait for the religion bit to end. I felt my heart beating too quickly standing there silently willing for her to stop.
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And then, with a final “Amen” we passed out plates in assembly line fashion, handing them down the line. And then blue mugs full of tea and blue plastic bowls full of ice cream. Some people had seconds; they were allowed everything but the chicken. Men said, “Thanks love” and reached for my hand and kissed it with food stuck in overgrown beards and moustaches. It broke my heart when an old man asked for a slice of bread to take to his pregnant daughter and the nun said they don’t have any bread.
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One pregnant woman was there. She was with her boyfriend and they held hands. They held hands all through their meal and I wondered what it must me like to be in love and be homeless, to have each other and only each other. Not to have a private place to make love. And what of that unborn child. The whole thing reminded me of the Smashing Pumpkins video of Try, Try, Try.
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It was over as soon as it began. I helped clear tables, wash dishes, and reset tables with hymnals next to the napkins.
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I left before the second lot of 75 was allowed to enter. I don’t know if I will go back. The religion part put me off and it was difficult to see all those people standing out there when I knew I was going home to a warm house and a hot shower and my lap top and a cup of mint tea before crawling under my duvet. I want to say I will go back, that this is what I need to bring some sort of fulfilment to my life, but it didn’t feel as fulfilling as volunteering has in the past; it just brought waves of guilt under my skin and a sense of panic to my heart. I think most of that was knowing how insignificant my being there is to those people, that in the grand scheme of things, I know I can't help much at all.

Paradise By Way of Kensal Green

2007-10-08T13:22:00.000+01:00

It was a chilly day yesterday, but sunny enough, and a perfect afternoon to stroll down to Portobello Market. S and I walked along college road, away from home, breathing in the fresh, crisp air. Instead of walking along Harrow Road, which is full of cars and buses, we slipped behind the brick wall that follows its contour and moseyed through the cemetery paths.

There was instant peace and calm in the faces of the stone angels and the slow movements of the tree leaves scuttling along the trails. I remembered being in Scotland, right outside the castle a group of friends and I called home one weekend, three years ago in a chilly November. To access the castle, the paths led us between two ancient cemeteries and we walked through them talking about death and how it has shaped our lives. That was before my grandfather passed away, so I didn't really know death then.

But this time, with S, as we walked hand in hand past rose bushes and cracked old stones that listed the names of people who were once loved, who may have even walked those same paths as we were then, I knew death. And it was harder to talk about it but, as you do in cemeteries, we did. And I learned about his family and his character what I did not know, and when you are allowed into the depths of someone's heart, you feel a closeness with that person. It is a privilege.

When we came to the exit, we were tossed back into the noise of the city streets, the exhaust and chug of the red double deckers and the bendy buses and the groups of kids biking past on the sidewalks. We walked over the canal bridge and past the council houses and the old fire station, until we came to the beginning of the market stalls.

I've always liked Portobello Market, where the movie Notting Hill is based. There's an unusual honesty in the smiles of the vendors and I found a pair of Prada heels for £40 that I would have bought if I had the money. It's an antiques market mainly, full of knick-knacks, pottery and vintage prints, second-hand boots and books with yellowed pages. There are Beatles records and pearly hair clips, stuffed moose heads and the smell of the spicy falafel stand.

Then I smelled something that seemed to pull me through the stalls to its source. It was the unmistakable autumn scent of mulled wine, the slightly spicy, fruity, comforting spread of warmth through the bones on a chilly day. S bought me one and I shared it with him while we walked the length of the market and talked about life.

Down the road, we ducked into a toy shop. It was a small shop with tiny old collectibles, all safe behind glass in cases. There was a sign behind the desk that said, “No shoplifting. Persecutors will be prosecuted. (Stomped on!!).” Tiny smurf figures stood beside Tom and Jerry glasses and old Pez dispensers. I even found some circular Simpson's playing cards.

After two hours of walking, we headed home, back through the market, past sushi restaurants and pubs we made note to revisit. We stopped in a little food hall for a tub of Hagan-daaz Baileys ice cream and then in a little shop run by a group of Afghan men where colourful throws were hung along the back walls and sparkly sandals were piled high in baskets in the corner.

Instead of walking home the way we came, we went up Kilburn Lane and found a pub I've wanted to try for a while. It's called Paradise By Way of Kensal Green. It's a Gothic sort of building with an interior reminiscent of the cemetery we walked through earlier that day – shabby grey walls and long vintage cracked mirrors next to big red leather arm chairs and sofas. We sat in a little side room on a red leather sofa, next to a fire place and a wall that had bookshelves full of fake old dictionaries that looked real.

S ordered a Spitfire beer and I had a red wine. It was a smoky Australian wine and it went straight to my head. I felt fuzzy and told him all about how the pub got its name. That is, by this poem by G.K. Chesterton who died in 1936:
“My friends, we will not go again or ape an ancient rage,Or stretch the folly of our youth to be the shame of age,But walk with clearer eyes and ears this path that wandereth,And see undrugged in evening light the decent inn of death;For there is good news yet to hear and fine things to be seen,Before we go to Paradise by way of Kensal Green."

After our drinks, we realized we had better rescue our slowly melting tub of ice cream and found our way home. Sean cooked for me. We ate a stirfry with tuna steak and spring rolls and had cranberry juice to drink. Instead of eating in the lounge in front of the TV, we set up a cardboard box as a table and sat on the floor in my room like we used to, just talking after a fantastic afternoon.

Anti Sex Trafficking Exhibition: Journey

2007-10-03T13:15:00.001+01:00

Today, I had some time to myself so I went to visit 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.

This was the last day of the exhibition, but for more information, seehttp://www.helenbamber.org/

Design Museum and Tate Modern

2007-10-01T14:31:00.000+01:00

Being that it was my day off, I slept until 11 today, woke up to a giant cup of tea and a nice hot shower. C called and asked if I wanted to go to the Design Museum way down in Tower Hill. I had planned to stay in today to not spend money, but I said yes without a second thought. At 1, I found myself battling the rainy wind trying not to let my umbrella slip inside-out, with my new winter coat wrapped tightly around me.

I met her at Tower Hill. We were curious and wandered down toward a giant swimming man in the grass. It's been commissioned by The Discovery Channel to promote a new reality TV show called "London Ink." I was amused.

I liked this tall building we stood under for a bit and took a picture...

Eventually we found the Design Museum. I loved this so I had to take a picture... how English...Of course, we did as it instructed and stuffed our wet umbrellas into the little plastic bags.

The main exhibition was by an architect from Baghdad named Zaha Hadid. She's had her hand in a lot of projects from Dubai to Cincinnati and is now working on a project for the London Olympics aquatic centre.
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Apart from her building designs there were sets of silverware, tables, chairs and this random Louis Vuitton bag design...The next section was devoted to the work of a graphic design artist by the name of Johnathon Barnbrook, whose work I enjoyed. He had a lot of political pieces and has worked with Damien Hirst and for the magazine Ad Busters.

We stopped in the shop on the way out, which made me think C would love the Turbine Shop in Tate Modern just down the river; it's absolutely filled with graphic design and art and architecture books. So, after I stopped for a duck wrap from Eat, I took her there. Of course it was me who ended up spending the money. I bought this book called Color, which was a hard cover study of this magazine of the same name that is no longer published. It's all about culture and humanity and I love it.

C had to leave then and S got out of work about 20 minutes later so I strolled around for a bit and waited for him.

I met S here after he finished work, just outside Tate Modern. We ended up walking all the way to Oxford Street, chatting and stopping for some pain au chocolat on the way. It had stopped raining and it was nice to be with him in the city just wandering.

A Day at the Park

2007-09-30T13:48:00.000+01:00

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.

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

2007-09-29T13:26:00.000+01:00

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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.

The exhibition has ended, but for more information, see http://www.helenbamber.org/

A Tour Along the Thames

2007-09-26T13:57:00.000+01:00

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

2007-09-11T15:05:00.000+01:00

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?

Reading Recap

2007-08-31T12:10:00.000+01:00

It has been ages since I've written here, but I've been on a holiday of sorts. I also experienced a glorious 4 days at my first Reading Festival. Admittedly, I enjoyed Isle of Wight Festival in June a bit more because it was more chilled out and there were fewer kids with attitude, but Reading certainly has its perks.

For one, Smashing Pumpkins played. They have been my obsession since I was about 11 years old and for the first time, I got to see them live, even though they are not completely the original band. Three people from front and centre, I found myself swept a few metres to the side without even touching the ground, then elbowed in the face, then squashed up against the armpit of the man in front of me. Bruised and sweaty at the end, I came away satisfied and in a Billy Corgan influenced bubble of happiness.

The rest of the weekend, we ate Ribena ice lollies, saw Beth Ditto strip to her skinnies, danced to CSS, rocked out to Albert Hammond Jr and The Enemy and chilled in the grass while The Shins and Arcade Fire played. The line up wasn't the greatest in the world besides the Pumpkins in my opinion. There were a lot of bands I liked, but not a lot I loved. The alternative tent did bring a few new discoveries like Jeremy Warmsley who had on-stage makings of music videos that they played on screens to the side.

The food was expensive but tasty. The weather was gorgeous. The company was excellent.

After five days sleeping in a tent with gas canisters exploding around me and no shower, I was happy to be home.

And now that I've been paid, I will be back to exploring this fabulous city shortly. But for the moment, it's back to work...

Amora: The Academy of Sex and Relationships

2007-08-15T11:03:00.001+01:00

Written for an application for travel freelancing as a sample:

After a mesmerising look at the infamous Piccadilly lights above the London crowds and a few rounds of air hockey at the Trocadero across the road, why not pop next door for a visit to London's first academy of sex and relationships, Amora?

For £10, take a trip through the red-walled rooms and explore interactive exhibitions as the moans of orgasm seep through the surround sound. Learn your lover's hot spots, how to push your own buttons and the desired intensity of a spanking. One wall boasts a collection of 84 plaster cast genitals and breasts of every shape, size and variety. Across the way, explore a selection of sex toys. From there, move into the Amorgasm Tunnel, a walk through the stages of orgasm from the arousal to plateau, the explosion of ecstasy and finally, relaxation, all featured on TV screens. Next up: bondage. At the end, you will find yourself in a bar with aphrodisiac drinks and a myriad of books about sex and foreplay. Before you exit, there is, of course, the inevitable store filled with products and toys for all your sensual needs.

The downside? The educational parts can feel a bit like health class. There are pictures of STD's and a lot of heavy information to read on the walls, supplemented by an audio guide. The atmosphere feels a bit too bright and with other people walking around, you need to be comfortable being trapped in a little vacuum of all-things-sex with random strangers.

For the tutorials on how to find the g-spot and the prostate and other handy tips, I give it an 8/10. Did you know that when a male eats pineapple or cinnamon, his cum will taste better? Asparagus has the opposite effect.

Enough with the tourist spots; now the only thing you'll be looking for is the perfect little romantic hotel to test out all the little tricks you'll learn, like how to perform a striptease for your lover...

Exhibitions

2007-08-07T21:43:00.000+01:00

Being a huge city, London has the advantage of being able to house a lot of unusual or very specific exhibitions. Because of that, it's easy to find something for everyone. Here are a few that might amuse me.

London Exhibitions: Five to check out this week

1.) Htein Lin: Burma Inside Out
Produced while Lin was captive of the Burmese/Myanmar military government, these works will be on display for the first time in the UK. They are both abstract and figurative, ranging in subject from prison life to Buddhism. He painted on white prison uniforms using soap as paint and his fingers as a brush, among other tools. There, he finished over 230 different works.
When: 27 July – 13 October; Monday – Saturday 10am - 6pm
Where: Asia House, 63 Cavendish St. W1
Admission: £2.00
Website: www.rsf.org/article.php3?id_article=23101

2.) Daily Encounters: Photographs from Fleet Street
In the 80’s, Fleet Street was a booming area of London famous for its newspaper offices and pubs frequented by journalists and photographers. Fleet Street newspapers released loads of press photographs ranging from politicians and events to actors and models. A selection of these will be on display along side photos of the newspaper industry itself. Over 75 works will be shown.
When: 5 July – 21 October
Where: National Portrait Gallery, St. Martin's Place, WC2H
Admission: £5.00
Website: http://www.npg.org.uk/live/wodailyencounters.asp

3.) Chris Moffat: Experimental Photography and Design 1923-1935
An art student of New York (where he was born) and Paris, Moffat moved to London in the mid 1920’s where he opened an interior design company and his own gallery. His photographs of society figures were praised for his innovative use of colour. The portfolio donated to this collection contains over 1,000 works.
When: 2 August – 13 January
Where: Photography Gallery, 38A. V&A South Kensington, Cromwell Rd, SW7
Admission: Free
Website: http://www.londonlantern.com/articles/default.asp?snID=&cssType=0&Issue=200708&Area=0&TRCday=0&ID=828

4.) Keeping Time
We all remember puberty: that awkward time of sexual exploration, timidity, crossing the line into adulthood, growing into our skin, so to speak. While the focus of this exhibition is on female ice skaters, it explores the challenges they face while they are going through adolescence. The pictures are symbolic of femininity and facing approaching adulthood in a period of high self-awareness and wavering confidence.
When: Now until 22 Septemer, Monday-Saturday, 10am – 10pm, Sunday 3-9pm
Where: Tricycle Gallery, 269 Kilburn High Road, NW6
Admission: Free
Website: http://www.londonlantern.com/articles/default.asp?snID=&cssType=0&Issue=200708&Area=0&TRCday=0&ID=830

5.) Helmand: The Soldier's Story
Created by soldiers of 16 Air Assault Brigade, Helmand is a story in exhibition form, told by real soldiers who have experienced the war in Afghanistan. Real letters from home are on display alongside uniforms and bedding with mosquito nets. Film recordings of real soldiers, both living and dead, were made during battle and eerily place the viewer in their boots.
When: From 3 August; Daily 10am – 5:30pm
Where: National Army Museum, Royal Hospital Road, SW3
Admission: Free
Website: www.24hourmuseum.org.uk/exh_gfx_en/ART49607.html

Lunchtime Encounters

2007-07-30T15:34:00.000+01:00

Because there is not much else to do on my lunch breaks in Archway, I often scour the local charity shops for new books to add to my growing collection. (A huge pile of to-reads, which I am slowly working through, is stacked neatly on my bottom bookshelf). Here, I buy books I wouldn't normally purchase in Foyles or Borders, books that have potential or promise a bit of browse-worthy amusement.

I picked one up today called 365 Ways to Change the World by Michael Norton for £1. It highlights, in a day-by-day, page-by-page collection, ways to make a difference. Their Web site is just as interesting, offering news and daily suggestions. Norton himself is a vibrant character. He blogs here.

From the book:

June 30. Theme: Love your neighbourhood. One suggestion: 25 Things. “Photograph the 25 things that most please you about your neighbourhood. Then prepare a virtual exhibition. Contact your local newspaper and offer to email your exhibition to anyone interested.”

December 14 suggests a sex strike and goes on to tell about how sex strikes have been used around the world, like in Columbia to protest against drug wars, in Poland to fight for legal abortion and in Amsterdam, Sudan and Turkey for various reasons.

Paging through, there are actually some really cool, human-rights-oriented suggestions I wouldn't have thought of otherwise and other general niceties to make people around you smile.

And so it was a bit ironic what happened next.

Just outside the shop, I was approached by a guy about my age, holding a compass. I avoid people with clipboards and people who look like they will beg for money, but the compass intrigued me. He said, “Excuse me. I was wondering if you could help me.”

When he held up the compass, I was sure he was going to ask for directions. Around these parts, people tend to carry their trusty A-Z instead, so I was intrigued.

He explained then that he was on a sort of mission. His two friends approached. One held a bottle of purplish-blue nail polish. The other held a Mars bar.

The mission? Start with a pen. Exchange pen with random stranger for another random object. Take random object and approach another stranger. Try for another random object. And so on. The purpose? I guess to make people smile and for a bit of amusement.

So this guy wanted to trade his compass for.... anything? I only carry my wallet when I go to lunch, so I didn't think I had anything to give him, though I liked the idea of it. I checked anyway and produced a card good for free flip flops from Victoria's Secret with any Pink purchase. Useless? It is now, since it's only good in America, but his friend snapped it up and gave me the bottle of nail polish.

We all walked away grinning at the ridiculousness of it all. Another random reason I love this city.

Now I'm really curious as to whose nail polish it once was...hmm. And who will end up with my useless card... and for what? Oh, the possibilities...

A Week in New York

2007-07-24T18:45:00.000+01:00

For the first time in my life, I looked at America from a British perspective. I noticed what Americans probably don't usually notice and what I never really did so much growing up.

On the shuttle in Dulles International Airport, Washington D.C., I noticed chatter. Everyone was talking, laughing, making noise, most of them smiling. On public transport in London, people typically don't talk unless they are on the phone, and they generally keep to themselves.

Americans are more outgoing, louder, striking up conversations with strangers, greeting people in shops, smiling as they pass on the street. Londoners live in closer conditions and seem to value the little space and privacy they have. I don't think the English reserve has as much to do with overall friendliness as it does with having more privacy and space in America.

One very obvious difference is obesity and too much skin. Americans are much bigger on average and seem to show more skin than Londoners. It may be because of the larger portions, attitudes toward food, and the weather. I'm not analyzing, just observing.

Tax. Londoners pay more tax, but it's included in the price. In New York, the tax is tacked on as a little surprise at the register. I knew this, obviously, but just how annoying that is became a lot more apparent.

Granted Buffalo and London can not be compared side by side and I'm not in New York City, which could be compared more easily with London, but these are a few differences I never really would have thought twice about before moving to London and coming back with that point of view.

A Portrait of Poverty

2007-07-14T17:16:00.000+01:00

To an artist, homelessness, like war and poverty, is a powerful subject. Every day, we pass people with no where to call home; some of us notice them, others pay no mind. But they are part of our world and their colourful stories are brush strokes on the portrait of our city.

About six years ago, painter Jacqueline K Crofton sat in Camden's soup kitchen eating lunch with a group who shared their experiences. Afterwards, she was able to sketch and photograph some of them and, over the next year, developed a series of large charcoal and oil paintings on flax, which she called Street People. This controversial series is not for everyone.

Many of these people use shelters at night. Others are called “rough sleepers”, the ones you see in doorways and under bridges. You may have wondered how they got there and why they have not been able to escape that life.

In 2004, St. Mungo's conducted a survey on 1,534 people without homes. What they found helped explain the tangled web of problems that sends them to the streets. The most common reason has to do with broken relationships that were destroyed by or spiralled into drug and alcohol abuse, behavioural problems and both physical and mental illness. Their research found 40% of homeless people have a mental health problem and just over 1/3 have issues with substance abuse. 48% have been without permanent housing for two or more years, 17% for more than 10 years.

London offers a number of support groups that help unemployed homeless men and women find jobs. Some sell The Big Issue from which 80p per sale goes into their own pocket. They are often stuck in unemployment because they have no permanent mailing address, poor hygiene, no money for interview clothes and educational problems.

But Jaq's reasoning behind painting this series was not for it to be a social commentary as much as to create a composition of a darker, yet inevitable, reality. The rate of homelessness in London is twice as high as the rest of England and far greater than Government statistics indicate, according to the charity Crisis who estimates approximately 400,000 homeless in Great Britain.

There is a stark contrast in London, even in this borough alone. Here, we have the up-market neighbourhood of Hampstead, and just around the corner, you find Camden soup kitchen.
Street People (below), on display now at Jiq Jaq Gallery in Hampstead, is a powerful collection, in both size and subject matter. http://www.jiqjaq.com/

Beating 7/7 and 9/11

2007-07-07T17:46:00.000+01:00

New York and London both feel like home. I lived in New York most of my life, but having always been in love with London, felt more affected by 7/7 than 9/11.

I was in New York when London was struck by terrorists, 3,000 miles away. I remember refreshing the BBC Web site every few minutes while sitting in my air conditioned cubicle, my fingers shaking on the keyboard. On 9/11, I was in Dr. Lachut's AP Biology class.

Today is 7/7 and recent terrorist attempts in London have people on their toes again. It is no use thinking about “what ifs.” One of the best things happening today is Live Earth. People are stepping up and gathering in the new Wembley Stadium in London and other venues around the world on every continent for a great cause: saving the planet and raising awareness about climate change with 24 hours of music.

In London, Snow Patrol; in New York, Smashing Pumpkins; in Australia, Jack Johnson; in Germany, Snoop Dogg; in Japan, Rihanna; in South Africa, Joss Stone; in Brazil, Macy Gray; in China, Sarah Brightman.

Rock on.

For more on Live Earth, check their site at www.liveearth.org/

Get London Reading

2007-07-06T16:21:00.000+01:00

Giant posters featuring novels and authors are plastered brightly against the grey cement walls of most London underground stations. A few heel clicks away, I usually find a WHSmith. Because the city is so reliant on public transportation, there's a bit of extra time to read. Every morning, well-suited Londoners sit quietly on the tube with their heads down in a book, flipping pages until it seems their 6th sense kicks when they've reached their stop. I know mine always does.

In 2006, the first Get London Reading Challenge was launched by Booktrust in an effort to encourage the city to read more. Browsing earlier, I happened upon their Web site. Here, I learned that Kensal Rise Library, of which I am a member and walk past every morning, was opened in September 1900 by the American author Mark Twain. Other interesting literary information is available on the site for each of London's boroughs.

Maybe even more interesting is that you can look up your borough and it will tell you which books were written in that setting and where your local bookshops can be found. The site lists a number of books based in London, as part of the campaign. And, a random tidbit, speed dating in libraries came about in the 2006 Challenge. Hm.

I dragged my friend Danny to the London Literature Festival 2007 last weekend. (It's still on until 12 July in and around the Southbank Centre near the permanent outdoor book fair and the skateboarders.) Here, we were given free books about London as part of a project to read and pass along. 1,000 books are to be given out.

My book is White Teeth by Zadie Smith and Danny got his hands on The London Pigeon Wars by Patrick Neate. Each book has a special tracking number than can be registered online so its journey can be followed. Granted my to-read pile comes up to my waist, but I'm always happy to add to the collection. I picture myself in the future living in a grand old English house with a rustic library that has a fireplace and shelves extending to the ceiling on every wall. All full. Today, I bought three novels at the Marie Curie charity shop on my lunch break for a grand total of £2.80. Glorious.

10 novels based in London:
Brick Lane by Monica Ali
A best seller that has had resounding praise and also caused a stir in the Bangladeshi community around Brick Lane.

Only in London by Hanan al-Shaykh
She “writes in Arabic and, although her novels were initially banned in many Arab countries for their sexual explicitness, her work has been translated into sixteen languages and is now published around the world.” - Bloomsbury

Down and Out in Paris and London by George Orwell
(Read online here) "A writer who can - and must - be rediscovered in every age" - Irish Times

Mr Phillips by John Lanchester

A Former Deputy Editor of the London Review of Books, "His writing has the clarity and zing of fine cut glass." - USA Today
Notes on a Scandal by Zoe Heller
This author is a London-born, Oxford and Columbia-educated journalist who now lives in New York. Her book was shortlisted for the Booker Prize in 2003.

Londonstani by Gautam Malkani

“Laden with vernacular and violence, Gautam Malkani's debut novel Londonstani follows four South Asian teenage kids in London's rough-and-tumble Hounslow borough.” - NPR (Read an excerpt here.)
London Noir by Cathi Unsworth

"A-Z of everything that's evil but inescapably seductive about the city. Just don't go south after midnight.” - Dazed & Confused
Great Expectations by Charles Dickens
A classic. Download the free ebook here.)
How to Lose Friends and Alienate People by Toby Young
This memoir got many mixed reviews, causing a commotion in both England and America, but I thought it was quite amusing.

A Special Relationship by Douglas Kennedy

“Kennedy really can tell a story... The twists in the plot are perfectly timed to keep the pages turning.” - The Times

Spotted Dick and Toad in the Hole

2007-07-03T14:51:00.000+01:00

London might not be renowned for its decadent cuisine, but I do enjoy browsing the shelves at M&S and Sainsburys on occasion. My top ten favorite items to toss in my shopping trolley/cart? (in no particular order.)

Twiglets – These require an adventurous palate as many people are put off by them at first. They taste like Marmite and look like twigs, or really knobbly pretzels.
Squeezable Laughing Cow Cheese – The ultimate cheesy sandwich spread, not too tangy, but just right.
Maltloaf – One of my all time favorite foods, my brother and I used to fight over this raisin-spotted treat when they were shipped to the States as a gift.
Crumpets – Breakfast every morning, I have become especially fond of the Co-op version. These are like English Muffins, only smoother, doughier and better.
OXO – My dad drinks this stuff, but these little cubes are usually crushed up and mixed with water to make a gravy.
Chocolate Horlicks – Can't fall asleep? This stuff rocks. Just mix the with boiled water and take it to bed with you.
Turkish Delights – Some people say these taste like flowers, and they do sort of, but chocolate-covered flowers. Aha!
Rich Tea biscuits – With all the tea-drinking, these are the perfect complimentary dunking biscuits. They absorb just enough tea if you count to six, and even taste good alone.
Vodka Mudshakes – Chocolate alcohol that floats like an icy heaven down the throat on a hot day (not that we get many of those. Hot days, that is.)
Gu – More chocolate! But not just any chocolate, mind you. This is rich, creamy, thick, melt-in-to-fondue kind of chocolate. Dipping chocolate – whether it's a strawberry or your finger.

And five I miss from home:
Lucky Charms – too much sugar for the English. Apparently.
Mountain Dew Code Red – Erm, I think this was banned for the same reason.
Goldfish – My favorite drunk food. The closest I have found to these are round crackers called Chedders, but they in no way compare to the mini fish shaped cracker bursting with cheesy flavor that is a Goldfish.
Brisk Iced Tea – They have Lipton here, but it's not as sweet as my favorite Brisk. Are you sensing a pattern?
Graham Crackers – I need these for S'mores, which I must teach my British friends to make, but I have found no suitable alternative. Suggestions welcome.

The great thing about London, is that you can find any sort of international restaurants from Moroccan to Brazilian to Singaporean to Jamaican jerk chicken joints. Then there's the ever faithful British foods: fish & chips, steak and kidney pie, toad in the hole, spotted dick....*nods* Oh, and can't forget Nandos (the chicken restaurant with delicious sauces). Yum!

Glossy Recommendations

2007-07-02T12:22:00.000+01:00

Print media, they say, is a dying art.

Not if I have anything to do with it.

I doled out at least £75 (nearly $150) on magazines and newspapers this month. Let’s not even talk about books. This is a bit higher than usual as I am on the prowl for new freelancing outlets, but not too much of an exaggeration from the norm.

My purchases:
The Purple Journal
American Cosmo
British Cosmo
Company
Elle
Seven
The Press Gazette
Smoke
Aesthetica
Amelia’s Magazine
The Big Issue
Glamour
Marie Claire
Marmalade
Mslexia
Scarlet
Adbusters
The Guardian
New Internationalist
Monocle
GQ

My mom also sent me a copy of American Jane and Graffiti was free.

All of these (besides Graffiti and The Big Issue) can be picked up at Borders on Oxford Street.

My name is Stephanie and I have a problem. I am a magazine addict. Clearly. And it’s nearly time for the August issues to hit the stands. Since I arrived in London, I have made a few marvelous discoveries, so I thought I would share 10 of my newfound favorites, in no particular order.

1. Smoke: A London Peculiar
Made up of words and images inspired by the city, it is described on the website as a “love letter to London, to the wet neon flicker of late-night pavements, electric with endless possibility...”. With a punchy personality, Smoke tells quirky tales of every day London life: art, history, comics, poetry… if it has to do with London, you’ll find it here in compact A5 form.
Don’t Miss: A regular article, complete with pictures, featuring “London’s Campest Statues,” captured by readers in all their camp glory. Editor: Matt Haynes
Web: http://www.smokelondon.co.uk/
Cost: £2.50
Published: “Aims to resurface every four months.”

2. Amelia’s Magazine
Run by Amelia and her work experience staff, this mag emerges twice a year from the spare room in her East London home. With detailed design and flashy colours, it exposes unknown bands and features drawings and photographs full of endless detail that could have your eyes rolling over the pages for hours.
Don’t Miss: Easily spotted in the racks, Amelia's Magazine is known for its unique covers. “Encrusted with Swarovski crystals, lazer-cut, made out of furry flock, scratch ‘n’ sniff in different flavours and glow-in-the-dark” varieties have previously sheathed the mag. The current issue is very shiny with yellow flowers.
Editor: Amelia Gregory
Web: http://www.ameliasmagazine.com/
Cost: £10.00
Published: Bi-Annually

3. Graffiti: London’s Art Magazine
A new A5 publication that is slightly more upscale than its name implies, Graffiti is distributed to selected homes in the posher areas of London: Belgravia, Kensington, Chelsea, Holland Park, Notting Hill and Hampstead. Image-packed, it is easy on the eye, providing information on both famous and amateur contemporary artists.
Don’t Miss: Fill in your little black book with loads of upcoming exhibitions and student art shows. There are plenty announced here.
Editor: Peter London
Web: http://www.graffitimagazine.co.uk/
Cost: Free, for now (Call 07795 074843 for a copy.)
Published: Quarterly

4. Marmalade Magazine
With a handmade, scrapbook-y sort of look, Marmalade appeals to its artsy readers, 23% of whom, according to the website, don’t read any other mag. The latest issue is built entirely from MySpace content, meaning the staff must have had a blast in the office last month.
Don’t Miss: The random tidbits of information, like this month’s enlightening fact that Playboy has been available in Braille since 1970.
Editor: Kristy Robinson
Web: http://www.marmalademag.com/
Cost: £4.25
Published: Bi-Monthly

5. Mslexia: For Women Who Write
It claims to be the UK’s bestselling magazine for women writers. The title plays on the word ‘Dyslexia’, a condition in dealing with words that is more prevalent in men. Mslexia refers to the difficulty of female writers to find their place as writers/authors in a world where men still dominate the press.
Don’t Miss: The flow of concrete, practical advice for writers, including the useful and informative 'writer's kit' which can be found on their website at http://www.mslexia.co.uk/writerskit/writerskit.html . The site also has a handy resources page.
Editor: Daneet Steffens
Web: http://www.mslexia.co.uk/
Cost: £5.50
Published: Quarterly

6. Aesthetica: The Cultural Arts Magazine
Sleek and shiny, Aesthetica focuses on contemporary writing, art, music and film. In 2006, Cherie Federico, the founder and editor, won the Young Entrepreneur of the Year by The Press Business Awards. The year before that, her magazine was nominated by BBC Get Writing as one of the top four recommended literary publications in the UK.
Don’t Miss: Like many of these magazines, Aesthetica has all sorts of side projects going on. For something a bit different, check out their creative non- fiction writing project for the elderly community at http://www.aesthetica-online.com/virtualmemorybox.htm online.com/virtualmemorybox.htm. It is meant to be a “virtual time capsule to be captured by other generations.”
Editor: Cherie Federico
Web: http://www.aestheticamagazine.com/
Cost: £4.50
Published: Quarterly

7. The Purple Journal
Expect a thick cultural collage of short stories and some artsy photographs, mainly black and white in this French publication. The summer 2007 issue boasts an impressive lineup of 47 contributors from 40 cities around the world from Berlin to Tokyo to Nashville, Tennessee. Most of the contributors are veteran published authors, photographers, filmmakers and musicians.
Don’t Miss: A cultural education at your fingertips while cozy’d up with this journal and a cup of tea on a lazy Saturday morning.
Editor: Elein Fleiss
Web: http://www.purple.fr/
Cost: £6.50
Published: Quarterly

8. Scarlet: The Magazine That Turns Women On
The “UK’s hottest women’s magazine” is burning up indeed with female-friendly erotica, a look into the complicated male brain, nude models who cover the bare minimum, and a bit of fashion to boot. A step up from the sex-driven Cosmo, this sex-splattered publication has been dubbed controversial by some. Read it in secret or share its powers. I’d choose the latter.
Don’t Miss: Cliterature, the free monthly insert of hot reading material, some pushing the boundaries, others a bit tame. Either way, it’s bound to get the imagination rolling and the rabbits buzzing.
Editor: Sarah Hedley
Web: http://www.scarletmagazine.co.uk/
Cost: £2.95
Published: Monthly

9. The Big Issue
Labeled ‘street trade, not street aid,’ 80p of the cover price goes directly to the homeless vendor who sells the £1.50 issue on the street. Not only is it for a good cause, but the content covers solid issues like the Uganda crises side by side with Hollywood’s latest gossip. It was set up as a business in 1991 to give homeless people a voice and a chance to help themselves by earning a bit of cash.
Don’t Miss: The opportunity to make someone smile when you purchase The Big Issue from them. It is a magazine that feeds the people who sell it and gives you some insight into their experiences at the same time. Editor: John Bird
Web: http://www.bigissue.com/
Cost: £1.50
Published: Weekly

10. Seven: Serious Issues from the Seven Continents
Another brand new magazine with high morals (check their website for more info). It was launched to push the boundaries of journalism, aiming to have a global impact by addressing key issues on every continent. Through culture, music, film, fashion and art, it hopes to expose injustice and crimes against humanity and try to offer solutions instead of just tossing around problems.
Don’t Miss: The cultural education and the chance to keep up with the major issues people are dealing with in other parts of the world. Some of the articles are truly eye-opening.
Editors (for this issue): Siradeth Seng and Lucy Stallworthy
Web: http://www.se7enmagazine.org/
Cost: £3.95
Published: Monthly

The Web may be taking the lead as people are becoming accustomed to receiving content the second it becomes available, but print media is still hanging on. All of these magazines have websites and most of them are used to foster the development of side projects sponsored by the publications and act as a supplement to the real magazine rather than a substitute.

It is my opinion that there will always be a market for print journalism. There is nothing like flipping the pages of a glossy between your fingertips.

Banksy's World

2007-06-29T13:05:00.000+01:00

I am employed by the artist who egged the Turner Prize winning installation, Martin Creed's Lights Going On and Off, in 2001. She was subsequently banned from all Tate museums for life, but her protest struck up the age old debate, “What is art?”

After the results of a new survey were revealed on June 18, it seems young people are expanding their horizons from the traditional view more than ever. 6,000 people aged 18-25 took part in a survey commissioned by Arts Award that begged the question: Who is your art hero?

While the general list brought Leonardo da Vinci to number one, this age group placed him at number four, overtaken by the likes of Walk Disney, Peter Kay, and Banksy.

Banksy?

Yes, the infamous yet mysterious graffiti artist is considered more of a hero than da Vinci. I have to admit, I see the appeal and have made it my personal mission to discover as many hidden Banksy works as I can find.

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As a matter of fact, I discovered a new one right around the corner from where I work in Archway yesterday. It was Charles Manson hitching a ride to 'Anywhere'. I took a picture.

There is endless speculation about his true identity, but the message seems to be more important than the man. Using the world as his canvas, the artist spreads his messages of anti-war, pro-freedom, anti-establishment and anti-capitalism. At least someone is still spreading the spirit of peaceful rebellion and raising a bit of controversy that helps raise the important issues.

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His work is so popular, this April saw a new record sale for his piece 'Space Girl & Bird' commanded £288,000 (about $576,000).

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With an endless array of stunts, you never know where you will spot Banksy's touch. I discovered one in Brick Lane last Sunday, one in Chalk Farm a few days ago. At a muddy Glastonbury festival last weekend, he created a portable toilet version of Stonehenge.

Photo: The Guardian

While his work is found everywhere from New York to Israel to Bristol Zoo where he reportedly left the message, “I want out. This place is too cold. Keeper smells. Boring, boring, boring” in the elephant enclosure, London is still the best place to spot a Banksy.

To read more about Banksy and check out some work by this art hero, visit his website at http://www.banksy.co.uk/ and keep your eyes peeled.

The list of art heroes
(18-25 year olds)/General
1. Walt Disney/Leonardo da Vinci
2. Peter Kay/ Bob Dylan
3. Banksy/ Andy Warhol
4. Leonardo da Vinci/ Walt Disney
5. Bob Marley/ Peter Kay
6. Jane Austin/ Jane Austin
7. Bob Dylan/ Banksy
8. Tim Burton/ Bob Marley
9. Marilyn Monroe/ Nick Park
10. Will Smith/ Picasso

They Put U in Color

2007-06-27T16:55:00.000+01:00

"The Americans are identical to the British in all respects except, of course, language."
Oscar Wilde

Friends spent the night at my house in New York when we were at that age where sleep-overs were cool and involved giving each other total makeovers with our mother's make up collection. My dad would often cook us dinner. He would ask if we wanted 'toasties” and my friend would inevitably turn to me and whisper, “What's a toastie?” In America, they're just called grilled cheese, boring as it may sound.

My dad's British-English was there throughout my childhood whether he was telling me to help my mother with the laundry and put the flannels in the cupboard or use more washing up liquid on the dishes. Friends were fascinated with his accent and called to listen to his voice on the answering machine when they knew we were out.

Then there are the dreaded spelling differences, the u's in colour and neighbour, the double 'l' in travelling, the 's' instead of 'z' in organisation, the added 'ue' at the end of catalogue. It's easy to forget, and a pain for one attempting to transfer journalism training from one country to the next.

This is not intended to come anywhere near being an exhaustive list, but here are some small yet amusing differences I've picked up. If you know any that make you giggle, use it in a sentence in a comment and I'll add it.

England: I'm full up.

America: I'm full.

England: Drive straight on to the next town.

America: Drive straight to the next town.

England: What do you reckon?

America: What do you think?

England: Mind the gap.

America: Watch out for the gap.

England: That's wicked!

America: That's awesome!

England: Throw the rubbish in the skip.

America: Throw the garbage in the dumpster.

England: Where's the toilet?

America: Where's the bathroom?

England: Check out the fit bloke in that shop.

America: Check out the hot guy in that store.

England: Come meet my mates.

America: Come meet my friends.

England: Can we crash at yours?

America: Can we crash at your house?

England: Did you rent that flat?

America: Did you rent that apartment?

England: Take the lift to the 9th floor.

America: Take the elevator to the 8th floor.

England: I'll do the washing up since you did the cooking.

America: I'll do the dishes since you cooked.

England: I lost my mobile.

America: I lost my cell.

England: Look at that tourist's bum bag.
America: Look at that tourist's fanny pack.

England: I need to stop at a cash point.

America: I need to stop at an ATM.

England: I'm going to pick up some lozenges at the chemist.

America: I'm going to pick up some coughdrops at the drugstore.

England: Switch on the tourch; it's dark in here.

America: Turn on the flashlight; it's dark in here.

England: Toss your muddy trainers in the boot.

America: Toss your muddy sneakers in the trunk.

England: He's on the pull.

America: He's picking up girls.

England: Let's go to the cinema and see that new film.

America: Let's go to the theater and see that new movie.

England: I wore my new trousers, knickers and jumper today.

America: I wore my new pants, underwear and sweater today.

Other random things you hear in England but rarely in America: dodgy, fry-up, chips rather than frenchfries and crisps rather than chips, football rather than soccer, innit, chav, proper, shopping trolley, selotape, gaffer tape, pavement, wonky

How to Transport Your Life Across the Atlantic

2007-06-26T15:00:00.000+01:00

Love is blind. Heard that one before? Keep that in mind, because it's the only way you will make it.

My love for London teetered on the borderline of obsession when I made the decision to come back the instant I left after studying here in 2004.

While I finished up my bachelor's degree in New York, I spent many a lazy afternoon in the back of my Integrated Marketing Communications classroom doodling Union Jacks along the top of my notes, red pen in one hand, blue in the other. I only focused when journalism was involved. In my spare time, I buried myself in magazines.

Mark that. University had indeed taught me what I wanted to do with my life: magazine journalism in London. Considering there are thousands of magazines in London, it would be easy, eh? Pah!

Step one: Find a way to get back to London with a working visa
This is when I discovered BUNAC, http://www.bunac.org/. Through this organization, I was able to obtain a blue card, which would let me work legally in the country for up to six months. The cost was only $290. The catch? I had to find my own job and flat. I attempted this from home before I left with no luck.

Step two: Find a job
After a month of staying with family, my funds were quickly diminishing. (Note: the exchange rate was NOT in my favor and Oxford Circus operates like a vacuum on the pockets.) Picky as I was, I had turned down a number of offers in hopes to find some sort of writing position. I had forgotten that I posted my CV on gumtree, www.gumtree.com when I got a call from a London artist who had a gallery full of work and an open position as a marketing executive. She wanted someone who could write. After two interviews and a freelance assignment, I had my first salaried job. And making British pounds.

Step three: Find a flat
This goes hand in hand with step two as I was living in Kent and working in London, dishing out my life in train fares. I saw at least 15 places, all of them either coated with a thick layer of grime, full of flatmates who didn't speak a word of English, or far out of my budget. (One guy even invited me in for tea and a movie, which I politely declined.) Again, gumtree to the rescue. It so happened that a huge double room was available later that week in Kensal Green. I scooped it up for £200 deposit and £360 rent per month. Beautiful.

Step four: Get a National ID Card
More appointments, waiting rooms, copying documents, spilling more information. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

Step five: Open a bank account
This was a long process. I went with the same bank I have in New York and waited ages for an appointment. After photocopying every single document I own, they said I can only draw out £100 per day and it can not be used in shops or online. A month later, they wrote me a letter saying they needed alternative proof of address or they would close my account. Nothing I had was acceptable until I transferred the bills to my name.

Step six: Figure out how to stay in the country past my six month visa
This is where I got lucky. With a British father, it turns out I was entitled to a British passport all along. After being thrown through loops for a month on the phone with embassies, being told I would have to revoke my American citizenship (and later, after a minor crisis, that I wouldn't) having one appointment cancelled because my photos had red eye, retaking pictures, asking my parents to bring all sorts of original documents to the country when they came to visit for a day in April, getting someone to cosign my application,and paying lots of money, I finally got my British passport. That day was glorious.

Step seven: Learn to make quick decisions
Just because I had my passport didn't mean I was completely sure I wanted to stay in the country for ages. Unfortunately, our lease in Kensal Green was expiring and we would have to move out...unless we took over the lease. In about two days time, I decided I would cosign the lease to stay in the country for another year.

Step eight: Transfer bills to your name
Finally, I could prove to my bank I lived where I live and rescue my flailing account. After about four hours on hold with BT and Thames Water, wanting to throw the phone at any unfortunate soul who happened to walk by...

Step nine: Choose new flatmates
Because two flatmates were moving out, we had to fill the empty rooms. Gumtree it was. Within an hour of placing our ad, we had at least 10 people call. That night, we unplugged the phone. The next week, we weeded through names and faces and decided on a young professional Kiwi couple to take one room.

Step ten: Take chances
The night after I arrived in the country, I met my current boyfriend. The boy and I were serious, but only dating for four months. Not usually the time for someone to move in. However, with one empty room begging to be filled immediately and the boy wanting to move out, I accepted his suggestion and he moved in.

I have been in London for five months now. I have two lives. One American passport, one British, a job, a boyfriend, a flat lease in my name, a bank account, a Tesco club card, an Oyster card, a social life, and the slight beginnings of British vocabulary invading my speech. Now, for that whole journalism thing...