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.
October 23, 2007
October 14, 2007
An Afternoon at Crisis and the Soup Kitchen
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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?
.
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.
.
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.”
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
It was over as soon as it began. I helped clear tables, wash dishes, and reset tables with hymnals next to the napkins.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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?
.
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.
.
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.”
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
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.
.
It was over as soon as it began. I helped clear tables, wash dishes, and reset tables with hymnals next to the napkins.
.
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.
October 08, 2007
Paradise By Way of Kensal Green
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.
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."
“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.
October 03, 2007
Anti Sex Trafficking Exhibition: Journey
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.
.
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.
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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.
.
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.
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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.
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.
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Elena arrived in London Victoria and met a woman who turned out to be the person who she came to fear, who told her she owed her a ridiculous amount of money. She was given clothes to wear – high heels, little tiny dresses and thongs left behind by old workers. The third carriage showed face sized holes where you look in to see your face on a girl's body dressed in these little costumes.
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The next carriage was repulsive. Absolutely hold-your-breathe-repulsive. It was a bedroom scene with a tattered single mattress with the names of a thousand men who wrote “Ben was here. Jason was here. Ryan was here…” In one corner was a garbage pail, overflowing with used condoms and tissues. There were dingy lights. The room stank of stale cum and the rubber of used condoms. A dirty sink in the corner had a constant flow of water from the taps. The wallpaper was peeling. To get to the next carriage, you had to push your way through a flapping group of condoms strung together in long strands.
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The customers were next. There were giant photos of typical men you see on the street: the 22 year old kid playing football in the park, the large-bellied man running a convenience shop on the corner, the family man smiling with his kids. Her first customer was an Indian man who brought with him a carton of juice. He asked for a blowjob. She had never in her life seen a naked man. She had no less than 40 customers a day, 7 days a week. She made about £800-1,000 per day, of which she was allowed £10.
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Coincidently, I’m currently reading September’s issue of the New Internationalist which happens to be all about sex trafficking. 11% of men in the UK buy sex. There are an estimated 80,000 sex workers in Britain.
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Of all places, Elena was first employed for two weeks in a flat in Mayfair, one of the richest areas of London, rather than a seedier area of the city like Soho, where you almost expect that sort of thing.
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The next part of the tour was an art installation of what was no other than a big black hole that seems to draw you inside when you stand in a certain spot. That was to represent the stigma placed on the girls who have been victims of sex traffickers.
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Then we were led outside where we were handed a recorder to listen to, which was the voice of Elena telling her whole story. It was quite long, but very interesting as she added details that weren’t included in the exhibition. She was arrested with 100 other girls one day and locked up in a Charring Cross jail for two days for breaking visa laws. They never once asked if she was okay or how she got there. When she went home, she felt like a different person and couldn’t look her mother in the eye. Her mother was under the impression that she was doing well and would bring back money she saved for her family because her father had passed away and they were having trouble getting by.
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In the last carriage, the British laws of sex trafficking are written on the walls. Then you are led outside to a tent that is set up for questions and are asked to sign a petition.
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This was the last day of the exhibition, but for more information, seehttp://www.helenbamber.org/
October 01, 2007
Design Museum and Tate Modern
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.
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