Put on Your Lederhosen, It’s Time to Boogie

An absolutely massive bouncer towers above me, staring down at my friend Thamana and I with a furrowed brow and stony eyes. He has the Mr. T stance of folded arms, bulging with muscles and big, trunk-like legs.

 “Excuse me, sir. Are there any tickets left for Noah and the Whale?”

“Well…you’re a little late fer tha’, darlin’...they’ve only got ‘bout 15 minutes left 'fore they’re over. So how’s bout this: you two fancy jes’ gettin’ in fer free? Yer not gonna see much o’ anything, really.”

 In my heightened state of elation, I practically hug Mr. T as he stamps my hand, then we run in urgency into the main room of Koko’s and lo! Noah and the Whale are right in front of us! The place is teeming with people, and we weave through the crowd to a place where we can see over the hundreds of heads of people who seem to be infinitely taller than us. Mr. T couldn’t have been more wrong in his estimate of how long they’d be playing; we ended up catching a good 45 minutes of encore after encore. If I could make a comparison, they sound like Band of Horses meets Modest Mouse, but with a violinist. And stylistically, they give off a roughened vibe of an early London punk band, but with the charm of being young, bearded and English, clad in cardigans and oxford-cloth shirts. Summation: Totally Rad.

Koko’s reminds me a lot of the Orpheum in Boston, but prettier. It’s built like and old-fashioned opera house with levels and levels of ornately decorated balconies stretching up into the vaulted ceiling. All the walls are red and gold and fashioned with meticulous detail that gives the whole place a romanticized, dreamed-up feel. Then behind all this grandeur, as part of the main floor, is a tucked-away but very large, modernly designed bar with all the bells and whistles: chic leather couches and seating, steel flooring, a gigantic glass wall back-lit in deep red lighting, and drinks a-plenty.

The space between Noah and the Whale finishing and a DJ playing some super awesome and not-so-super awesome indie/electro remixes involved landing a prime spot at above mentioned bar to get a pint of cider. It wasn’t prime that I paid an equivalent of $7 for the bloody thing, HOWEVER! Bacchus must have been shining the light of his holy Grecian disco ball upon me, because hark! What did I find on the counter in front of me? An untouched rum and coke! (Side note: I am in no way endorsing drinking anonymous drinks at bars, but I saw this one get made. And by the time I got served, no one was coming back to claim that bad boy, so it was finders-keepers as far as I’m concerned.)

Drinks in hand, much dancing ensues. A few stand-out moments: disco-fied versions of songs by Prince, The Strokes, White Stripes and Postal Service, narrowly dodging a few dodgy fellows, and dancing like it was 2099: meaning, I did the robot. For about an entire song. I even got a little applause from our fellow boogyin’ friends. I realized also the wonderful thing about crowded clubs is when you want to disappear into the crowd to shimmy and squeeze your way away from unwanted male attention, it’s very easy to do so and just keep on your merry way of dancing till the end of time.

After Le Discotheque section of the night finishes, Band of Skulls takes the stage and plays some hyper-cool rock music, but this bit is a bit of a blur, so I unfortunately am unable elaborate any details about what they sounded like. Also unfortunate is that Tham and I get separated somehow in the middle of their set, so I ditch my dancing to try and re-locate her. After wandering around for an indiscernible amount of time, I realize I’d missed the last tube and am faced with the looming prospect of taking the Night Bus back home. In a flash of responsibility, I think, I decide to put a cap on my fun-having and get on with getting back to Ermine Rd.  I’d been having a wonderful time, and part of me wishes I hadn’t left at such an early hour of 1:30. I finally find Tham, who had found her cousin, so knowing she was not alone I head on my way.

I initially feared the unknown of the Night Bus, having never taken it before, imagining being stranded in Camden for the night. Armed with my A-Z map of the city, I was fully prepared to walk home if necessary, or do anything other than pay for a cab fare. The Night Bus, however, ended up being a breeze. And no creepy people tried to converse with me, either. I sat alone on the upper deck, listening to Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan, watching the lights of the city and the yellow brick and light colored stone buildings race by. London is so beautiful and full of life at night, and I really got quite the tour as I traveled southwards from Camden through to the centre, through Leicester Square to Trafalgar Square, across the Thames on Waterloo Bridge, and further south past London Bridge. Getting off at the bottom of my hill about an hour later, who do I run into but my cross country coach! He very nicely offers to walk with me home, we chat for a bit, but it’s really short so I say I’m fine on my own and we part ways.

It is worth me mentioning that I joined the cross country club. It’s fucking awesome. Organized sports here are a lot different than at schools in the US. It’s run entirely by students, and open to people of all ability levels. It’s pretty much entirely based on self-motivation and putting in individually what you would like to get out of it. There are some guys and girls who are internationally ranked, some who are really good, others who do it just to keep in shape. And the coach is more of a trainer who runs with us and trains us, but we are the ones who push ourselves and set our own pace. I love the freedom and choice we’re allowed, which is a far, far cry from the rigid, overbearing structure of my experience with college sports back home, imbued with a bit too much unhealthy competition, as far as I’m concerned.

Anyway, we have a meet in 3 weeks at the beautiful Hampstead Heath! Whoo! And after our first practice, we all went to a pub to refuel on chips and beer! And I kept up with the boys at practice! Yes! Go Kings College!

Other things worth noting as of late: I had such a nice day with my friend Veronica strolling through Hyde Park yesterday. We found a bench and she played some Bob Dylan songs and some of her own on guitar, while I people watched and took pictures. She’s a complete doll, and an excellent musician, and it was so nice to spend part of the day feeding ducks and searching for good trees to climb and watch the world go by.

Daily Slanderous Rants: I have come to detest these stupid, stupid leg coverings called “Jeggings," the jean-legging hybrid. I give them a big fat YUCK. They’re all a-boom over here, and I don’t know if the trend has hit the States yet, but seriously, they are hideous. And have a horrid name... jeggings. Ew. And don’t look good, on anyone, period. I am a very large fan of the jean. And a large fan of the legging when I’m not in the mood for proper pants. But united as one, they are a disgrace to both of these, and to the marvelous fabric that is Spandex. However, in defiance of this new trend, I have taken to calling my leggings and tights lederhosen, a tribute to the classic idea of a cottony and stretchy and nice looking leg-covering.

Schoolbooks: Spending 300 dollars on obscure literary texts is a real buzzkill. Oh, academia.

 Anyway, my kettle is boiling, so I have a cup of tea to make to shake off my slog of a hangover.

XOXO

So, life in London is continuing as usual. I still haven't completely unpacked (typical), school has yet to start (atypical), and I've started to make some lovely new friends!

I never thought I'd say this: but I'm actually really, really looking forward to the start of classes, which is the day after tomorrow. I think this is due slightly to the fact that I only have classes on Wednesdays and Thursdays (SCORE) so this means that I don't think I'll be falling into a pattern of monotonous lecture, seminar, homework routine to which I have been so unfortunately accustomed for the majority of my semi-adult life. I have trips semi-planned to Morocco, France, Norway, Denmark, Scotland, Germany...er, the list goes on. However, it's incredibly nice to completely create my own responsibilities and answer only to myself. I have, however, begun to answer to the calls of my consumerist ways and have amassed many new, beautiful, totally (un)necessary additions to my wardrobe. At the unfortunate expense of my ever-diminishing bank account. Fuck the exchange rate. Fuck the fucking economy. Fuck fiscal responsibility, dammit! Anyway, excuse my less-than lady-like thoughts on that whole ordeal.

On a more positive note, here are some more of the many things I love about England:

-Vacuuming. Yes. Really. When you clean with something as adorable as Henry, how could  you not? Every time I'm hooverin' around a dusty corner, no matter what my mood, loyal  little Henry is right on my heels, smiling away, inhaling all the dirt off the floor through his gargantuan stretchy nose. His schnozz has a fiendish habit for dust and floor debris  analogous to  that of a coke fiend, except instead of having a clenched jaw and crazy eyes, his expression is just marvelously innocent and charming.

-Laundry. Those who know me know about my wildly passionate love for the intoxicating, warm and wafting odours that are emitted from clothes drying out of the dryer vent,

especially when it's the smell of Bounce dryer sheets. My love for this smell is borderline obsessive, and here there exists the even MORE magical Fairy laundry soap. It is even  fresher, crispier, cleaner, happier and more addictive to my helpless nostrils than  Bounce. After washing my clothes in it, my nose is suctioned to their fabrics much like  Henry's is to the carpet while I'm vacuuming with him.

-Tea. Tea and McVities. Tea and toast. 

-Tesco's Vodka. As cheap as Cossack, or Dubra, or Liquor Locker, or Ruble, or any other plastic-handled, super high class (I kid) drink of choice for college students, except it tastes almost like nothing! And is about 50% less caustic and toxic tasting than its American counterparts! Huzzah!

-Camden. It's a big, terrifying, wonderful party. All the time, 24 hours a day. And the music! The music! I'll be seeing  Noah and the Whale and Bat for Lashes within the next week...then Girls, the Flaming Lips and Cymbals Eat Guitars at the end of October/early November. Huzzah!  My cousin Paul is playing in  Dresden on the 10th. So I'm SO there, too. He's super cool, super talented, super awesome. Check him out here. Also on the note of my super awesome and talented kin, Paul's sister, my cousin Sarah, was just played on the BBC1, which is fantastic! She's amazing, soulfully singing and playing piano, check her out here, too!

-Greenwich Park, right near where I live.

It's gorgeous.

Oh, yeah...

Did I mention that London Fashion Week is taking place literally RIGHT next to the main campus buildings of my college??!?!?!? 

Or before class, this is where I'll be drinking my morning coffee?

The Embankment Gardens are one of my favorite places here. 

Also a favorite: sausage rolls, (in my opinion) an English delicacy of sausage inside a flaky pastry. So bad for the arteries. I ate a particularly delicious one today that I got from a farmer's market down the road from my house. Other food products that I've been feasting upon: all this dairy: homemade cheeses, butter, yogurt, clotted cream....My diet hasn't been the most health conscious, but when in England....

Please note: the tags I labeled this post with. An odd couple....made me giggle a bit. 

Les jours premiers

            After much anticipation, a lovely summer in Gloucester, and some very skillful packing, I have finally embarked upon a true, long-winded and glorious adventure living in my home away from home, England, for the next half a year. It seems like the journey to get here has taken about nine months to make, really, after continually feeling nomadic and desirous to escape my normal, learned surroundings and wander out into the bigness of the rest of the world after being tangled up in New England for a tad too long.  Hence, this first entry about my first full day being here is going to be equally as long-winded and attempt at being glorious in its own small, blog-contained way.

On the contrary, the actual flight itself here was incredibly quick, amounting only to around six and a half hours, excluding a relaxing layover in the middle where I ate a ridiculously good croissant and some really creamy, wonderful yogurt in Iceland. I feel inclined to add that while in the Reykjavik airport, I decided to listen to Sigur Ros, reminded of them by being, for however briefly, in their country of origin. Their music made sense in a very place-oriented way as I looked out over rolling green grasslands, dotted with purple and yellow flowers over blue-tinged grass, and in the distance, ICE. And mountains. With ice caps. I think it was a glacier.

Anyway, I flew Icelandair, as I have done a few other times in past years, and each year without fail, ALL of the cabin crew first addresses me in Icelandic when initiating a conversation. A language, I might add, that is very beautiful, and one I would like to someday learn. (One word I find particularly amusing in my infantile stages of self-schooling, and am attempting to incorporate into my daily vernacular as a really cool, abbreviated version of our verbose, much less aurally pleasing English “blueberry jam”: blaberjum. It’s actually Icelandic for “blueberry,” and I am probably mistakenly pronouncing it as “BLABBER-jum.” Also, I don’t find myself talking about blueberry jam/blaberjum very often, so I resorted to buying some at Sainsbury’s today and enthusiastically announcing my purchase to my family, then going to describe how excited I was for tomorrow’s breakfast of toast laden with delicious English butter, and…. blaberjum (!) ).  Back from that long side-note, I am (rather vainly) flattered to be mistaken as a native Icelander, a land to me of pristine natural beauty and a rich Nordic heritage. Settled by the Vikings over one thousand years ago, it’s remote geographical location has actually lead for the language to be preserved in a state almost identical to what it was at that time.  Me being me, all interested in language and other such sundry pastimes, became rather jumpity and excited upon learning this from my seat-mate on the plane to Reykjavik; thus solidifying my decision to one day learn the Icelandic language.  (A very quick questioning of the possible inbreeding that most probably has occurred over the last thousand years of isolation also popped into my head, but no matter.)

So I ecstatically arrived at Heathrow, however my mood turning quickly as I waited in a stupidly long line at Passport Control, horribly cursing the British Embassy for taking so long to issue me my British passport that is presently en-route to my parents’ house, and was herded, cattle-style, by a wartish, pruny old hag behind me with a grating Midwest accent and bad perfume down the long line to the Customs officials who stood guard at the Pearly Gates of My Magnificent Entrance Into the United Kingdom. Then a nice stop in Uxbridge and a rush-hour ride through the Paddington, the West End, Hyde Park, zipped by Buckingham Palace, down the Embankment, over Lambeth Bridge, and finally home.  My wonderful cousins, Paul and Sarah and I stayed up late into the night talking and catching up and laughing a lot, eating really good vegetable pasta and drinking really good red wine.  After not having slept for well over 24 hours attempting to avoid jetlag, I finally passed out after finishing just over the first half of Kerouac’s Big Sur.

I awoke in the morning rather late, sublimely happy and a bit groggy, after having some sort of bizarre dream about biking and slugs, showered, had some toast with delicious English butter and blaberjamun. Then, Sarah and I ventured off to Brick Lane, which is a really interesting and funky part of East London in search of some fun, a possible Indian meal, and the promise of rummaging through the vintage market that comes through there on the weekends. Brick Lane itself is part amazing Indian restaurants, part hipster bars, part underground music clubs, and part outdoor markets.  I would liken this area in today’s London to be something of what SoHo was to the city in the 1960s, or Camden during the 70s though the height of the punk scene: a formerly industrial, formerly forgotten and overlooked neighborhood that was once considered a “lower-class” area, but has since been re-discovered, in a way, by a lot of younger people… musicians, artists, students, entrepreneurs, thus creating a different outlet for social and economic growth, and a different forum for the primary types of businesses located there. This pattern seems to erupt into an eclectic, interesting neighborhood, where the presence of people of the so-called subculture of the time catalyze a transformation in the ever-changing environment of a city like London, one that is already so full of influences from all types of culture—from myriad global ethnicities, a thriving artistic and musical scene, and the richness that comes from the melding of people from all different walks of life in a contained, yet amorphous and abstract “place.” Under all this, though, is this pervasive sense of transience, that one day, at some time, a new “place” will usurp this one in popularity, notoriety or

 infamy, and its heyday will pass on, and the energy of the “scene” that goes along with it will instead become part of the living history of a place that is continued always by the evolution of society. 

Ruminations aside, I thrifted myself some very, very cool coats, shirts, a skirt, hand-knit sweater, and a pair of shoes, had a great cheap pint of cider at an outdoor pub while doing some intense people watching with Sarah. ALSO! We saw Pete Doherty, Kate Moss's ex, member of The Babyshambles, infamous for public dabbling in hard drugs...He was looking through some old military jackets at the same stall of the market we were in. I saw a bit too much of him...as in his bum crack when he bent over to pick up a hat...(!) 

While there, I also spotted and took note of many, many bikers weaving through foot, car and moped traffic, thanks to my newly-garnered eye for bipedal locomotion so taught to me by the ever-knowledgeable Luke H. Berry. Some were stylish, sporting suits and ties or heels

and purses, respectively, on various frames, old and new. Many a bright and bold fixed gear looking sleek and simple. The prevalence of which I think was definitely due to a warehouse sized fixed-gear bike shop located on a parallel street. I arrived back home after a joyous ride in the efficient, bright, clean and wonderful London underground and now am tired, happy and very much in love with London. 

from Yellow Afternoon

Everything comes to him
From the middle of his field. The odor
Of earth penetrates more deeply than any word.
There he touches his being. There as he is
He is. The thought that he had found all this
Among men, in a woman - she had caught his breath-
But he came back as one comes back from the sun
To lie on one's bed in the dark, close to a face
Without eyes or mouth, that looks at one and
speaks.

-Wallace Stevens

Summer Adventures

Summer is my favorite time of year.
Sunshine, beach days, sailing, festivals, crickets, locusts, friends, green grass, green trees, blue ocean, yellow days, great escapes, memories, music, watermelons, games, exploring, dresses, bare feet, bonfires. Oh, glorious, joyous, days!
Feels like being a little kid again.

To My Dearest Toad...

I address this to you with the greatest fondness and tenderest of thoughts. Presently, as you slumber in your room, I sit beneath a momentous drapery of blankets, huddling for warmth in my lonely cold chamber, wishing so ardently that it could be you to warm me with your tinkling laughter, your radiant smile, your funny croaking noises. Alas! Perhaps the good morrow shall bring such treasured gifts.
May your lilypad be forever floating, and may delicious butterflies and moths forever circle around your head, my dear Toad. Life with you is simply marvelous.



Humbly yours,
Frog