I guess vending machine hot chocolate tastes the same everywhere." I thought to myself as I sipped the more-water-than-chocolate concoction to keep myself warm in the freezing Brussels train station. It was almost 3:30 A.M.. I had probably been there for five hours, with another three hours to go before my train ride to Cologne. Everything had not gone to plan where I would have have made enough friends at a bar or club and raging it up. Unfortunately I overestimated how my body would feel after a few weeks of less than my typical amount of sleep. Perhaps I should have seen it coming after I knocked over the wine glass I drank from at this bar in London train station while I was waiting for the Eurostar. Perhaps it was an omen; but then again I do have a tendency to find meaning in things that are meaningless.
During my Odyssey of staying awake and waiting, one of the things that struck me were the bums in the train station. I gather that they all were homeless, disoriented junkies who went to this station at night to seek shelter (since what else is there to do on a weekday in Brussels?!?). It was interesting because each bum was quite unique in their own way. There was an old one who had long white hair and a white beard while if he ever got into an argument with one of the younger guys, he'd always have an answer which would either shut him up or get the young bum more upset. There was the duo of middle-aged bums who would look for discarded train tickets to give reason for why they were there if the security guards questioned them for being there. And then, there was the young guy.
Now this guy came towards the end of the night. He was wearing a white buttoned down shirt with some t-shirts layered below the buttoned down shirt; with a penguin-tailed suit coat with matching black trousers and shiny black leather shoes. He looked like a handsome French guy who knew how to pick up girls from the bars or clubs in no time. That's where I figured he came from, a night out, and he was taking a train early, just I was, and headed towards another town. He was carrying around a big, dirty and a pink roller suitcase. But, he was CRAZY--probably crazy enough to have picked up a girl from a club that night, gone back to her place and stole her suitcase.
At first I thought he was just drunk and high from a night out clubbing because he was constantly giggling to himself and saying things in French. At one point, a bunch of gorgeous blonds where walking across the station to which he start calling out to them "I don't like pussy! But I love pussycat! Pussy! Pussy! Pussycat! Pussy! Pussy! Pussycat!" And he just kept repeating these words out loud while the girls did a fantastic job of ignoring him. By the time they left, he said something in French to which i just shrugged and laughed at how crazy this guy was. It soon turned into a conversation between us--and by conversation I mean him saying stuff in French and me chuckling and responding "Dude, i have no idea what the hell your saying!" He maniacally laughed in response. In broken English, we shared what we were doing, to which I told him I'm traveling and he that he was staying/living in Brussels. At this point I still had on how before my train would leave, but I was beginning to shake uncontrollably from how long (eight hours) I had been in this cold, night temperature. So I got up with my stuff and decided to get my blood going again by walking around the train station. I said goodbye to the fella to which he declared that we were friends ("tu est mon amis...ma cherie...same thing!)--we shook hands.
As I was walking around, the station was back to its busy self with which I had arrived to it in thirteen earlier. I saw security officers forcefully detain and throw bums out of the station. When I returned to the area where I waited for 8 hours, the maniac was gone.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Random musings.
A projection of his hopes and fears that caused his tears and jeers. Whether or not they knew it, she was playing tricks on the mind all the time. For those who under her spell, knew quite well where it would take them. Though it doesn't matter what she knows or where to go; "whatever shows"--as they say while the man sitting his seat watches the play and doesn't want to stay knew along the way that the actors on the stage were simply an illusion.
__________________
The moon looked the same as they got on the train. There was nowhere to go and no one to blame. It just happens. It just happens, he thought as he looked out the window and up in the sky. He tilted his head and looked in his eye--though he didn't know why. He'd be lying naked in bed. Seeing with his naked eye, a naked moon up in the sky.
__________________
A hustle and a bustle in a town so loud. Get lost on the beach, where the rocks stand proud. You felt it coming, creeping. Though you looked, it had come. Be one in a town so loud and proud.
__________________
The moon looked the same as they got on the train. There was nowhere to go and no one to blame. It just happens. It just happens, he thought as he looked out the window and up in the sky. He tilted his head and looked in his eye--though he didn't know why. He'd be lying naked in bed. Seeing with his naked eye, a naked moon up in the sky.
__________________
A hustle and a bustle in a town so loud. Get lost on the beach, where the rocks stand proud. You felt it coming, creeping. Though you looked, it had come. Be one in a town so loud and proud.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
The Red Lion
I have recently discovered that the study in study abroad actually means something! As a result I have led a semi-miserable and stressful existence at least 3 days a week for a good 2 or 3 weeks straight consisting of reading a few whole books (Virginia Woolfs’ “To The Lighthouse” and Emily Bronte’s “Wuthering Heights”) and projects and presentations (Powerpoint presentation on “The Jeremy Kyle Show”—which is a brilliant show that will make you realize in great relief that white trash with ridiculous problems don’t solely exist on the western side of the great Atlantic pond!). Now that the long week is over, I decided that I had to go out and do something with my night. Have a few drinks; socialize with my wonderful local London friends (whom I love to brag about to my fellow American classmates—no wonder they may or may not hate me ;) ).
But tonight, all of these fellows were busy doing their own thing. Under a mild state of panic, I went online to find any open mic show that would be going on for the evening. I found one called “The Red Lion” over in Isleworth, which is far out in South West London (as I soon found out later, Zone 4—the furthest out I’d had been since arriving a little over a month ago). It took me about an hour to get there, and by that point, I was in the London equivalent of the eastern most part of Queens that nearly borders with the houses that are bunched together that almost looks like the opening credits of that British sitcom that’s on PBS every now and then that my mother, aunt and grandmother watch quite often (I forget it’s name).
Anyways, as I got off my bus I walked down Linkfield Road and was quite sure that I was in the wrong part of town as there was nothing but houses lined up. There couldn’t possibly be a pub in sight here. However, once that thought came along I passed a big red Public House that looked so out of place and that in a different life, time and place it must have been a saloon from the Wild West—I had reached The Red Lion.
As I was told later by the guy who ran this open mic/jam session, The Red Lion is a dying breed of pub—a neighborhood pub. The type of place where back in the day, before television or radio, the neighborhood would go to this sort of establishment and socialize. The entertainment every night would be like an open mic and neighbors would come on stage and play a standard either on a stringed instrument or piano—hence why the pub is surrounded by rows of houses. No wonder older folks tend to romanticize the past—I quite like the idea myself.
As I sat in the main room of the pub with tables and chairs, eating my cheese and tomato sandwich with a delicious pint of a local dark stout drink (none of that generic Guinness shite!) the crowd made me a bit sad as to how most of the men sitting and talking were older, bald gentlemen who were probably divorced left to hang out in this old fashioned Public House (don’t you love assuming the worst about other people just by looking at them?). There were only two women I saw in the main room, one was an older lady who served me my sandwich and looked as though she were the house/pub mother—since this place seriously looked like the type of establishment that was owned by a family who lived on the top floor which none of the customers can access. The other was a cute blonde who was sitting by herself with a guitar beside her, writing something down on a notepad. An older man, with grey hair and a dark blue business jacket approached her and chatted her up. I decided to go use the bathroom.
After relieving myself, I socialized with a few other older fellows who were regular performers at The Red Lion and talked about music and other random things. Soon the open mic got well under way and I was called up by the guys running the show, Paul and Simon (I’m sure you can connect the funny coincidence of that….). As I learned later both of the guys are old, seasoned session musicians. It certainly showed when I did an impromptu performance of Bob Dylan’s “One More Cup of Coffee” and Neil Young’s “Cortez the Killer” and they played along astonishingly. Simon was able to fill the blank spots in between the verses of both songs with incredible blues guitar parts with his distinctive Fender Stratocaster that had chips of wood showing, indicating its age and giving the guitar even more character. Paul played a mean bass as he was going all over the fret board. We all followed the groove astonishingly well.
I truly regret that I didn’t bring my camera to record it because it felt amazing to perform with these amazing musicians—as the people watching seemed quite impressed by it and asked whether I had played with Paul and Simon before.
When I returned to my seat, people were offering to buy me drinks to which I declined in a secretly defensive manner—as I felt (probably wrongly so) that I’d be obligated towards them later. Though this reminds of when I was at The Market Trader pub, having a few drinks with my friend Spud and he explained that when people in England offer to buy you a drink they’re not doing it because they expect anything in return but just because they want to. So perhaps I should be less defensive and relax in those situations.
Anyways, after I sat down a strange guy who was sitting in front of me turned around and complemented me on my set and performance. He was wearing a gortex jacket with gym pants on and had a heavy stubble that was beyond even a 12 O’Clock shadow. He told me that he was from Sheffield and had done some work and busking up there but had just recently moved back to London because of the economic climate. He got up to get a drink from the bar and offered to me one—I declined.
For the next 45 minutes or so, quite a few of the guys whom I had met earlier got on stage and played a variety of R&B and Blues stuff. Eventually though I needed to get a breath of fresh air, so I walked outside to the Pub’s backyard. There I met up with the blonde from earlier who complemented me on my set (as well as my VINTAGE red corduroy pants!) and had a nice chat where she recommended I go to an open mic by where she lived that was further out west in Zone 5.
The 12 O’Clock shadow guy from Sheffield soon came out to smoke a cigarette and was more or less listening in on our conversation. The blonde commented on how cold it was outside and went back indoors and left the Pub.
The guy immediately commented on how cute the blonde was, to which I quietly agreed and nervously chuckled, nodding my head. He soon started talking about how the trend today is that English girls go for way older men and said how he is 40 years old and he has a girlfriend that is 22. He advised that when I go to a bar and am talking to a young lady, I should pretend I’m in my mid-30’s. The more the man rambled, the more creepy he appeared, yet I found him fascinating at the same time—in a dark way, of course. He told me about odd instances from his love life how a few years ago when he was training to be a teacher in Sheffield he had had a relationship with an 18 year old student and got fired as a result. He went back to the 22 year old girl, and went on how she has been married to some bloke since she was 18 and is unhappy. So at the moment he is trying to get her out of that situation. He soon went back to the idea of me pretending to be older and said “You’re like 29, right?” to which I chuckled and responded “Nope, just 20.”
Soon thereafter, Paul came out to have a smoke as well and commented on how much he enjoyed playing the Dylan and Young tracks with me. I complemented his and Simon’s playing. He went to tell me about he had played with country and blues bands in the States back when he was my age and had played and lived in Nashville, Memphis and New Orleans. He commented how disorienting it was to have these young kids come in playing these songs by Neil Young and Bob Dylan, artists that he grew up listening to and didn’t know them!
It was a nice chat though. Half way through it, the Creeper from Sheffield went back inside and left. After the chat, I went back inside and saw that it was a little past midnight and saw that the pub was dead. So I decided to leave. Perhaps I’ll go back.
Fortunately, a Night Bus was operating that took me all the way back to Trafalger Square. Since the bus schedule said it would take about an hour for the bus to get there, I decided to go to the top of the elevated bus and get a fantastic view of the streets I was passing by. While I walked up the stairs to the top of the bus there were a group of rowdy hoodlums making loud noises and cursing. I was alright though, I sat in the front and put my iPod on full volume.
But tonight, all of these fellows were busy doing their own thing. Under a mild state of panic, I went online to find any open mic show that would be going on for the evening. I found one called “The Red Lion” over in Isleworth, which is far out in South West London (as I soon found out later, Zone 4—the furthest out I’d had been since arriving a little over a month ago). It took me about an hour to get there, and by that point, I was in the London equivalent of the eastern most part of Queens that nearly borders with the houses that are bunched together that almost looks like the opening credits of that British sitcom that’s on PBS every now and then that my mother, aunt and grandmother watch quite often (I forget it’s name).
Anyways, as I got off my bus I walked down Linkfield Road and was quite sure that I was in the wrong part of town as there was nothing but houses lined up. There couldn’t possibly be a pub in sight here. However, once that thought came along I passed a big red Public House that looked so out of place and that in a different life, time and place it must have been a saloon from the Wild West—I had reached The Red Lion.
As I was told later by the guy who ran this open mic/jam session, The Red Lion is a dying breed of pub—a neighborhood pub. The type of place where back in the day, before television or radio, the neighborhood would go to this sort of establishment and socialize. The entertainment every night would be like an open mic and neighbors would come on stage and play a standard either on a stringed instrument or piano—hence why the pub is surrounded by rows of houses. No wonder older folks tend to romanticize the past—I quite like the idea myself.
As I sat in the main room of the pub with tables and chairs, eating my cheese and tomato sandwich with a delicious pint of a local dark stout drink (none of that generic Guinness shite!) the crowd made me a bit sad as to how most of the men sitting and talking were older, bald gentlemen who were probably divorced left to hang out in this old fashioned Public House (don’t you love assuming the worst about other people just by looking at them?). There were only two women I saw in the main room, one was an older lady who served me my sandwich and looked as though she were the house/pub mother—since this place seriously looked like the type of establishment that was owned by a family who lived on the top floor which none of the customers can access. The other was a cute blonde who was sitting by herself with a guitar beside her, writing something down on a notepad. An older man, with grey hair and a dark blue business jacket approached her and chatted her up. I decided to go use the bathroom.
After relieving myself, I socialized with a few other older fellows who were regular performers at The Red Lion and talked about music and other random things. Soon the open mic got well under way and I was called up by the guys running the show, Paul and Simon (I’m sure you can connect the funny coincidence of that….). As I learned later both of the guys are old, seasoned session musicians. It certainly showed when I did an impromptu performance of Bob Dylan’s “One More Cup of Coffee” and Neil Young’s “Cortez the Killer” and they played along astonishingly. Simon was able to fill the blank spots in between the verses of both songs with incredible blues guitar parts with his distinctive Fender Stratocaster that had chips of wood showing, indicating its age and giving the guitar even more character. Paul played a mean bass as he was going all over the fret board. We all followed the groove astonishingly well.
I truly regret that I didn’t bring my camera to record it because it felt amazing to perform with these amazing musicians—as the people watching seemed quite impressed by it and asked whether I had played with Paul and Simon before.
When I returned to my seat, people were offering to buy me drinks to which I declined in a secretly defensive manner—as I felt (probably wrongly so) that I’d be obligated towards them later. Though this reminds of when I was at The Market Trader pub, having a few drinks with my friend Spud and he explained that when people in England offer to buy you a drink they’re not doing it because they expect anything in return but just because they want to. So perhaps I should be less defensive and relax in those situations.
Anyways, after I sat down a strange guy who was sitting in front of me turned around and complemented me on my set and performance. He was wearing a gortex jacket with gym pants on and had a heavy stubble that was beyond even a 12 O’Clock shadow. He told me that he was from Sheffield and had done some work and busking up there but had just recently moved back to London because of the economic climate. He got up to get a drink from the bar and offered to me one—I declined.
For the next 45 minutes or so, quite a few of the guys whom I had met earlier got on stage and played a variety of R&B and Blues stuff. Eventually though I needed to get a breath of fresh air, so I walked outside to the Pub’s backyard. There I met up with the blonde from earlier who complemented me on my set (as well as my VINTAGE red corduroy pants!) and had a nice chat where she recommended I go to an open mic by where she lived that was further out west in Zone 5.
The 12 O’Clock shadow guy from Sheffield soon came out to smoke a cigarette and was more or less listening in on our conversation. The blonde commented on how cold it was outside and went back indoors and left the Pub.
The guy immediately commented on how cute the blonde was, to which I quietly agreed and nervously chuckled, nodding my head. He soon started talking about how the trend today is that English girls go for way older men and said how he is 40 years old and he has a girlfriend that is 22. He advised that when I go to a bar and am talking to a young lady, I should pretend I’m in my mid-30’s. The more the man rambled, the more creepy he appeared, yet I found him fascinating at the same time—in a dark way, of course. He told me about odd instances from his love life how a few years ago when he was training to be a teacher in Sheffield he had had a relationship with an 18 year old student and got fired as a result. He went back to the 22 year old girl, and went on how she has been married to some bloke since she was 18 and is unhappy. So at the moment he is trying to get her out of that situation. He soon went back to the idea of me pretending to be older and said “You’re like 29, right?” to which I chuckled and responded “Nope, just 20.”
Soon thereafter, Paul came out to have a smoke as well and commented on how much he enjoyed playing the Dylan and Young tracks with me. I complemented his and Simon’s playing. He went to tell me about he had played with country and blues bands in the States back when he was my age and had played and lived in Nashville, Memphis and New Orleans. He commented how disorienting it was to have these young kids come in playing these songs by Neil Young and Bob Dylan, artists that he grew up listening to and didn’t know them!
It was a nice chat though. Half way through it, the Creeper from Sheffield went back inside and left. After the chat, I went back inside and saw that it was a little past midnight and saw that the pub was dead. So I decided to leave. Perhaps I’ll go back.
Fortunately, a Night Bus was operating that took me all the way back to Trafalger Square. Since the bus schedule said it would take about an hour for the bus to get there, I decided to go to the top of the elevated bus and get a fantastic view of the streets I was passing by. While I walked up the stairs to the top of the bus there were a group of rowdy hoodlums making loud noises and cursing. I was alright though, I sat in the front and put my iPod on full volume.
Interesting Facts and Thoughts on the USA from a UK perspective
Yesterday, my "Freud, Fiction and the Uncanny" Classmates and I were supposed to have read Emily Bronte's "Wuthering Heights" and discuss it. However, my Professor got sidetracked and we ended up talking about the differences between British and American schools. This was due to a student protest being held right around the corner from the building we were in.
Apparently they were protesting a rise in their tuition fee from something around 3,000 Pounds to something that may have been a little bigger (3,250?--Just a random guess). But either way, us American/Syracuse students were shocked at how much of a big deal these students were making when we (or our parents...) we're paying anywhere between $30,000 to $40,000 for a years worth of schoolin'. This led into our Professor talking about the change in education costs in the U.K. (University used be paid for by the government; in fact if one weren't so well off the Government would actually pay for that person to go to school. However, the classes were more polytechnic and were more of a "trade school" situation where students didn't take "impractical" courses like History or Literature studies but more of a job training thing for after they graduate and enter the selected industry. I kind of understand the British perspective Roger Waters was coming from when he wrote the song "Welcome to the Machine"). I think my Professor concluded that topic by saying something along the lines of "the most valuable things you'll learn will be outside of the classroom"--which I can sure relate to. See ma' and pa', sounds like we're getting our money-money's worth!
There was more to it, but I forgot it. The Professor tried to veer the conversation back to "Wuthering Heights" but to not much avail; as a bunch of girls in the class were asking more and more questions which led to a discussion of how a lot of London houses and flats didn't have indoor bathrooms until the mid-to-late 1980's. This was due to the fact that a lot of the standing housing in London was just so old that it was too expensive for households to install and redo the plumbing for a toilet and that it was just cheaper and easier to just have a toilet "outhouse" in the backyard.
So you baby-boomers out there certainly had it better than these Europeans for living accommodations in the latter half of the 20th Century.
It makes me think about people back home in the states who go on how the United States is the greatest country in the world; in terms of infrastructure, technology, etc.(or at least used to say that, especially under the delusional mindset that were a little present earlier in the decade). When I think about that, it certainly seems like that people who say that are still living in the late 50's and early 60's who say that.
Somehow this conversation led to the most striking bit where my teacher said how a class system is much more in the consciousness of Europeans and Brits than in America. As (they get the impression, at least) Americans like to think that there is no such thing as a class system in the United States. He further added that there was a study done that said that 90% of Americans identify themselves as "middle class." This was followed by the point that if everyone thinks they're middle-class then nobody would revolt--they'd only ask for a pay raise.
Ah! The evil, ingenuity of American Capitalism!
P.S. All this talk reminded me of a fact JW pointed out to me regarding the U.S.A and the UN; which was the fact that the U.S. doesn't even pay it's UN membership fee. Isn't that hillarious? We are such a$$holes!
Apparently they were protesting a rise in their tuition fee from something around 3,000 Pounds to something that may have been a little bigger (3,250?--Just a random guess). But either way, us American/Syracuse students were shocked at how much of a big deal these students were making when we (or our parents...) we're paying anywhere between $30,000 to $40,000 for a years worth of schoolin'. This led into our Professor talking about the change in education costs in the U.K. (University used be paid for by the government; in fact if one weren't so well off the Government would actually pay for that person to go to school. However, the classes were more polytechnic and were more of a "trade school" situation where students didn't take "impractical" courses like History or Literature studies but more of a job training thing for after they graduate and enter the selected industry. I kind of understand the British perspective Roger Waters was coming from when he wrote the song "Welcome to the Machine"). I think my Professor concluded that topic by saying something along the lines of "the most valuable things you'll learn will be outside of the classroom"--which I can sure relate to. See ma' and pa', sounds like we're getting our money-money's worth!
There was more to it, but I forgot it. The Professor tried to veer the conversation back to "Wuthering Heights" but to not much avail; as a bunch of girls in the class were asking more and more questions which led to a discussion of how a lot of London houses and flats didn't have indoor bathrooms until the mid-to-late 1980's. This was due to the fact that a lot of the standing housing in London was just so old that it was too expensive for households to install and redo the plumbing for a toilet and that it was just cheaper and easier to just have a toilet "outhouse" in the backyard.
So you baby-boomers out there certainly had it better than these Europeans for living accommodations in the latter half of the 20th Century.
It makes me think about people back home in the states who go on how the United States is the greatest country in the world; in terms of infrastructure, technology, etc.(or at least used to say that, especially under the delusional mindset that were a little present earlier in the decade). When I think about that, it certainly seems like that people who say that are still living in the late 50's and early 60's who say that.
Somehow this conversation led to the most striking bit where my teacher said how a class system is much more in the consciousness of Europeans and Brits than in America. As (they get the impression, at least) Americans like to think that there is no such thing as a class system in the United States. He further added that there was a study done that said that 90% of Americans identify themselves as "middle class." This was followed by the point that if everyone thinks they're middle-class then nobody would revolt--they'd only ask for a pay raise.
Ah! The evil, ingenuity of American Capitalism!
P.S. All this talk reminded me of a fact JW pointed out to me regarding the U.S.A and the UN; which was the fact that the U.S. doesn't even pay it's UN membership fee. Isn't that hillarious? We are such a$$holes!
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Blue in Green & Grey in London
Life's good.
After another pseudo-weekend from Wednesday to Friday of clubs and hangings with my friends, I am left to finally getting on my Professors good sides as I buckle down for the rest of the proper-weekend and get to work on tons of reading and homework. I hate it. Though if I immerse myself in the readings and thought process, I'm sure I'll get into it.
I just finished my Mid-day breakfast consisting of scrambled eggs, buttered toast, two tomato halves and a cup of tea w/milk. Now I am taking a break from homework and listening to some Bill Evans. Here's something for you music lovers to sink your teeth into: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iW1QoGCrcEM
* * *
I'm thinking of going to Liverpool next Thursday for a few days. Go on a Beatles pilgrimage.
And then the week after that, go to Paris. My friend JW told me that he can hook me up with a friend of his who lives there and can let me sleep on the floor or couch--it should be nice.
Cheers!
After another pseudo-weekend from Wednesday to Friday of clubs and hangings with my friends, I am left to finally getting on my Professors good sides as I buckle down for the rest of the proper-weekend and get to work on tons of reading and homework. I hate it. Though if I immerse myself in the readings and thought process, I'm sure I'll get into it.
I just finished my Mid-day breakfast consisting of scrambled eggs, buttered toast, two tomato halves and a cup of tea w/milk. Now I am taking a break from homework and listening to some Bill Evans. Here's something for you music lovers to sink your teeth into: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iW1QoGCrcEM
* * *
I'm thinking of going to Liverpool next Thursday for a few days. Go on a Beatles pilgrimage.
And then the week after that, go to Paris. My friend JW told me that he can hook me up with a friend of his who lives there and can let me sleep on the floor or couch--it should be nice.
Cheers!
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Lazing on a Slumdog Sunday Afternoon
“Lazing on a Sunday Afternoon” as the short song that Freddie Mercury sang went.
I just saw in the BBC Entertainment News section that Danny Boyle, Director of “Slumdog Millionaire”, was named the Best Director by the Directors Guild of America; which makes him a strong contender in the Oscar race. Although I am not that big of a fan of the Oscars as I used to (I’ve aged cynically), the thought that occurs to me how great it would be if “Slumdog Millionaire”, a film directed by a Brit that is starring a mostly Indian cast, actually won the Oscar—either for Best Picture or Best Director. It certainly would herald in the cultural and political significance of this upcoming era it seems we are about to enter; where we have a multi-ethnic President and it is very possible to have a film starring most foreigners of a very different ethnicity and skin tone can win this American award. It all makes me both proud and excited about the times that we are living in—as well as the vast potential of goodness and open-mindedness it possesses.
All this talk of “Slumdog Millionaire” makes me want to see it again. Perhaps I’ll go to a later showing this evening and invite my quiet Asian flat mate who doesn’t seem to go out much—I’m sure she’ll be pleasant company.
In the mean time, this all reminds me of an incident that happened to me last Friday when I was at a friend’s house party/get-together which started out as a jam session around the neighborhood of Spitalfields—Simon Fox is the name of host; lovely fellow. One instance which puts him in a near and dear place in my heart was when I was at one of his house parties and someone asked me who I'm friends with here--to which Foxxy responded for me "Charlie is a friend... of the world." Awwww shucks!
I’ve had a lot of interesting conversations with him which have spanned as to how once, unbeknownst to him, he offended an Arab man by putting his feet up on a footstool; thus displaying the bottoms of his shoes. The Arab in response stood up and started yelling at Foxxy (as his friends call him). I guess even English people are just as capable to unknowingly offend other cultures as Americans (though based on the past 6-7 years, I think flashing a shoe-bottom is a little offensive than invading countries….).
Anyways! I lost my train of thought. Oh right! I was going to talk about Indians (actual Indians, not the American ones whose land we raped and stole from them).
So, this jam-session at Simon Fox’s house turned into a bit of a party. There were two Indian girls--one of whom is not worth mentioning; except behind her back I called her a “party’s equivalent to the recent economic downturn.” A lot of my fellow ‘mates’ thought this was funny.
The other Indian girl struck me. As she reminded me of a girl whom I once fell head-over-heels a few years back when I was a freshman in college. Fortunately, this didn’t evoke any instant/bad/crazy emotional response but we got on talking about music. She told me about how she used to play classical piano and talked about Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata suite. When I hummed the cliché slow piano melody out loud, she immediately went off on talking about how nobody knows the third movement of the piece where it’s incredibly fast paced and full of piano arpeggios. I asked her to hum it, to which she said that there’s no way she could do it.
We then got around to the question of how I knew these people. Nonchalantly, I immediately told her that a week earlier I met this guy named “J.W.” at this pub ‘The Market Trader” just around the corner from the flat and through him I met everyone else there that night. She immediately looked away and uncomfortable. I knew what she was going to say next:
“J.W. is my ex-boyfriend.”
* * *
Now, I would consider J.W. my first real friend that I more or less have made so far across the pond, here in England.
On my second night out in London, when I was avidly going to different open mic events at different pubs in London; I was walking towards this pub called “The Market Trader” near Liverpool Street Station. As I reached the entrance, I noticed a bunch of younger (though I found out they were actually a few years older than me) looking chaps talking, smoking cigarettes and holding pints and half-pints in their hands. I noticed one fellow had a pin with the Obama ’08 campaign insignia on his jacket. I idly passed them by and entered the pub to inquire about the open mic.
After the man who ran the open mic told me that I get free drinks from the bar for performing, I immediately went to the bar to try the vast array of English brews that were probably all delicious compared to the generic stuff you’ll find back in the States.
The bar was crowded, so it was quite difficult to get the bar tenders attention. As I was squeezing my way to the front of the bar I noticed that this fellow with the Obama pin from earlier and his friend. As I was waiting, I made some sort of comment which I don’t remember but it certainly sparked a conversation which led to him making a very dry comment referring to a controversial British comedian, Russel Brand, without mentioning his name. I got the joke and chuckled, while his face remained stoic. The bartender finally came to the two of them and gave them both respectively their drinks. They walked back outside to where they were before, when I first entered. I got a pint of ESB ale.
As I couldn’t find any other potential social openings in this crowded pub, I went outside with my pint. This fellow with the Obama pin was talking to a black girl. I soon entered the conversation and properly introduced myself to them as the fellow introduced himself as “J.W.” and the black girl said her name was “Rebecca.” I forgot it immediately, but when she later wrote her name and e-mail on a sheet of paper for me later—I put more effort in memorizing it.
This J.W. fellow explained the pin by saying that he worked for the Obama campaign last year for 6 months in Colorado. We later spoke of politics and history and tried to convince him that Jimmy Carter wasn’t a “shite-President”—as he put it. He concluded his argument by talking about how contradictory his character of “peace-figure” was by selling to arms to Indonesia—or some other South Eastern Asian country. I didn’t know how to counter that since I had never heard about it and in some ways it seemed plausible given the influence of our nation’s Military Industrial Complex on policy. It was quite a mental and intellectual exercise to argue with a Graduate Student who is working on his Master’s degree on International Policy and Foreign Relations. I wondered how my brother’s Tommy, Paul (and maybe even Danny) would have dealt with this considering that they know more about America’s dark underbelly than I do.
Either way, through these two; I met their friends. A dozen or so people who were with them that night as they all gathered to see their friend, Jordan, perform at the open mic that night and later went back to Foxxy’s flat and hung out till near dawn.
* * *
Anyways, regarding J.W. and this Indian girl: when she told me that they used to go out I assumed that J.W. was the heartbreaker here since based on my previous meetings with him I could not see him as the overly emotional type who gets his heart broken. However, my presumptions were proved wrong when I brought this up to him that I met her about a half-week later when I met up with him at this bar located in an abandoned part of the London Bridge train station.
He told me that a few years back they had been going out and that at one point she went back to her homeland in India. While there I believe she cheated on him and dumped J.W. In response, he decided to travel to that part of Asia and go where she was in order to win her back—however, it didn’t quite work out as well as he had hoped.
I do believe there are more details to that story. However, I can’t quite remember them. Either way I think that is more or less the gist.
To quell any fears or ideas, nothing happened as the conversation died out and I talked to other people at the party. I had the slight suspicion that she may have been coming onto me while talking, however she didn't bother saying 'Bye' when she left.
....
Anyways! Slumdog Millionaire anyone!?
I just saw in the BBC Entertainment News section that Danny Boyle, Director of “Slumdog Millionaire”, was named the Best Director by the Directors Guild of America; which makes him a strong contender in the Oscar race. Although I am not that big of a fan of the Oscars as I used to (I’ve aged cynically), the thought that occurs to me how great it would be if “Slumdog Millionaire”, a film directed by a Brit that is starring a mostly Indian cast, actually won the Oscar—either for Best Picture or Best Director. It certainly would herald in the cultural and political significance of this upcoming era it seems we are about to enter; where we have a multi-ethnic President and it is very possible to have a film starring most foreigners of a very different ethnicity and skin tone can win this American award. It all makes me both proud and excited about the times that we are living in—as well as the vast potential of goodness and open-mindedness it possesses.
All this talk of “Slumdog Millionaire” makes me want to see it again. Perhaps I’ll go to a later showing this evening and invite my quiet Asian flat mate who doesn’t seem to go out much—I’m sure she’ll be pleasant company.
In the mean time, this all reminds me of an incident that happened to me last Friday when I was at a friend’s house party/get-together which started out as a jam session around the neighborhood of Spitalfields—Simon Fox is the name of host; lovely fellow. One instance which puts him in a near and dear place in my heart was when I was at one of his house parties and someone asked me who I'm friends with here--to which Foxxy responded for me "Charlie is a friend... of the world." Awwww shucks!
I’ve had a lot of interesting conversations with him which have spanned as to how once, unbeknownst to him, he offended an Arab man by putting his feet up on a footstool; thus displaying the bottoms of his shoes. The Arab in response stood up and started yelling at Foxxy (as his friends call him). I guess even English people are just as capable to unknowingly offend other cultures as Americans (though based on the past 6-7 years, I think flashing a shoe-bottom is a little offensive than invading countries….).
Anyways! I lost my train of thought. Oh right! I was going to talk about Indians (actual Indians, not the American ones whose land we raped and stole from them).
So, this jam-session at Simon Fox’s house turned into a bit of a party. There were two Indian girls--one of whom is not worth mentioning; except behind her back I called her a “party’s equivalent to the recent economic downturn.” A lot of my fellow ‘mates’ thought this was funny.
The other Indian girl struck me. As she reminded me of a girl whom I once fell head-over-heels a few years back when I was a freshman in college. Fortunately, this didn’t evoke any instant/bad/crazy emotional response but we got on talking about music. She told me about how she used to play classical piano and talked about Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata suite. When I hummed the cliché slow piano melody out loud, she immediately went off on talking about how nobody knows the third movement of the piece where it’s incredibly fast paced and full of piano arpeggios. I asked her to hum it, to which she said that there’s no way she could do it.
We then got around to the question of how I knew these people. Nonchalantly, I immediately told her that a week earlier I met this guy named “J.W.” at this pub ‘The Market Trader” just around the corner from the flat and through him I met everyone else there that night. She immediately looked away and uncomfortable. I knew what she was going to say next:
“J.W. is my ex-boyfriend.”
* * *
Now, I would consider J.W. my first real friend that I more or less have made so far across the pond, here in England.
On my second night out in London, when I was avidly going to different open mic events at different pubs in London; I was walking towards this pub called “The Market Trader” near Liverpool Street Station. As I reached the entrance, I noticed a bunch of younger (though I found out they were actually a few years older than me) looking chaps talking, smoking cigarettes and holding pints and half-pints in their hands. I noticed one fellow had a pin with the Obama ’08 campaign insignia on his jacket. I idly passed them by and entered the pub to inquire about the open mic.
After the man who ran the open mic told me that I get free drinks from the bar for performing, I immediately went to the bar to try the vast array of English brews that were probably all delicious compared to the generic stuff you’ll find back in the States.
The bar was crowded, so it was quite difficult to get the bar tenders attention. As I was squeezing my way to the front of the bar I noticed that this fellow with the Obama pin from earlier and his friend. As I was waiting, I made some sort of comment which I don’t remember but it certainly sparked a conversation which led to him making a very dry comment referring to a controversial British comedian, Russel Brand, without mentioning his name. I got the joke and chuckled, while his face remained stoic. The bartender finally came to the two of them and gave them both respectively their drinks. They walked back outside to where they were before, when I first entered. I got a pint of ESB ale.
As I couldn’t find any other potential social openings in this crowded pub, I went outside with my pint. This fellow with the Obama pin was talking to a black girl. I soon entered the conversation and properly introduced myself to them as the fellow introduced himself as “J.W.” and the black girl said her name was “Rebecca.” I forgot it immediately, but when she later wrote her name and e-mail on a sheet of paper for me later—I put more effort in memorizing it.
This J.W. fellow explained the pin by saying that he worked for the Obama campaign last year for 6 months in Colorado. We later spoke of politics and history and tried to convince him that Jimmy Carter wasn’t a “shite-President”—as he put it. He concluded his argument by talking about how contradictory his character of “peace-figure” was by selling to arms to Indonesia—or some other South Eastern Asian country. I didn’t know how to counter that since I had never heard about it and in some ways it seemed plausible given the influence of our nation’s Military Industrial Complex on policy. It was quite a mental and intellectual exercise to argue with a Graduate Student who is working on his Master’s degree on International Policy and Foreign Relations. I wondered how my brother’s Tommy, Paul (and maybe even Danny) would have dealt with this considering that they know more about America’s dark underbelly than I do.
Either way, through these two; I met their friends. A dozen or so people who were with them that night as they all gathered to see their friend, Jordan, perform at the open mic that night and later went back to Foxxy’s flat and hung out till near dawn.
* * *
Anyways, regarding J.W. and this Indian girl: when she told me that they used to go out I assumed that J.W. was the heartbreaker here since based on my previous meetings with him I could not see him as the overly emotional type who gets his heart broken. However, my presumptions were proved wrong when I brought this up to him that I met her about a half-week later when I met up with him at this bar located in an abandoned part of the London Bridge train station.
He told me that a few years back they had been going out and that at one point she went back to her homeland in India. While there I believe she cheated on him and dumped J.W. In response, he decided to travel to that part of Asia and go where she was in order to win her back—however, it didn’t quite work out as well as he had hoped.
I do believe there are more details to that story. However, I can’t quite remember them. Either way I think that is more or less the gist.
To quell any fears or ideas, nothing happened as the conversation died out and I talked to other people at the party. I had the slight suspicion that she may have been coming onto me while talking, however she didn't bother saying 'Bye' when she left.
....
Anyways! Slumdog Millionaire anyone!?
Friday, January 16, 2009
01/14/09 - - Day Two
Apparently the big, front page news on the tabloids today, and even on page 5 in the “National” section of The Guardian, is that Prince Charles addressed a fellow member of the Cirencester Polo Club who is from Punjab as ‘Sooty.’ This also follows up racist remarks Prince Harry made about three years ago.
In the reader response section of the article a woman commented that “If Diana had lived, Prince Harry might have been a very different and better – person.”
I find all this pretty interesting as I’m reading the local papers and trying to get an idea of who the local public icons and “celebrities” that are always under some sort of scrutiny. I figure it’ll help me carry on a conversation when I talk to the locals at a pub.
I never thought it about before but I feel that the Royal Family are probably a bunch of jerks in person and I wouldn’t get along with them—at least Charles and Harry. They seem to be the American equivalent of Paris Hilton and Britney Spears (respectively). It may be a good idea to keep such blunt thoughts to myself until I get a better idea of how other Brits feel this topic.
Any thoughts?
* *
Today’s newly learned British term:
When you want to order a regular cup of coffee at Starbucks (perhaps it applies to other places as well), ask for a “Tall Drip.” Somehow, for no logical reason at all I think it might be a good idea to make sure I don’t rub my nose at the same time as I asking for a Tall Drip.
In the reader response section of the article a woman commented that “If Diana had lived, Prince Harry might have been a very different and better – person.”
I find all this pretty interesting as I’m reading the local papers and trying to get an idea of who the local public icons and “celebrities” that are always under some sort of scrutiny. I figure it’ll help me carry on a conversation when I talk to the locals at a pub.
I never thought it about before but I feel that the Royal Family are probably a bunch of jerks in person and I wouldn’t get along with them—at least Charles and Harry. They seem to be the American equivalent of Paris Hilton and Britney Spears (respectively). It may be a good idea to keep such blunt thoughts to myself until I get a better idea of how other Brits feel this topic.
Any thoughts?
* *
Today’s newly learned British term:
When you want to order a regular cup of coffee at Starbucks (perhaps it applies to other places as well), ask for a “Tall Drip.” Somehow, for no logical reason at all I think it might be a good idea to make sure I don’t rub my nose at the same time as I asking for a Tall Drip.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
01/13/08 -- Arrival
A PROLOGUE
Lights. Lights are what I saw as I was being driven over the
Perhaps it was the Gin & Tonic thinking for me, but as I was glancing at the glaring lights, for the first time I thought about how many people, how many lives were represented in each one of those lights that emanated from each apartment? Two? Three? Is it a family of six? Or maybe it’s one lonely individual.
It’s probably useless to seriously wonder; as Carl Sagan would say (besides “Billions and Billions!”…. Wait, that was just Johnny Carson….) that would be like trying to count all the stars in the universe—you would have to count every grain of sand on every beach on Earth. I guess it would be rather time consuming.
This thought of the lights came back to me again as I was flying away from JFK.
I’m now passing over
Despite all of this mindless yabbering that isn’t going anywhere, this diverse bunch of fellow travelers who all speak different languages and have funny accents are all going somewhere. As I sit in my seat in the beginning of this flight, I overhear conversations of where some of these people are from and where they have been in the world. Because of these past experiences, these fellow travelers whom I have only just begun to join the ranks of probably don’t think much of this trans-Atlantic flight.
When you grow up you eventually start to realize that you are never as smart and experienced as you think you are. I suppose that this is my way of know more about those shining lights that cover the continent of
* *
The moment I arrive in
It’d be interesting if Brits laughed at and are as intrigued by American accents as we are by theirs. I’m sure they do. But I bet they do a better job at keeping the joke among themselves—since they are such a polite people.
When I got off the plane in Heathrow, there was this ridiculously long gate that may have been half a mile long because it probably took some where around 10 minutes to get to the main part of Heathrow. As I was walking with my luggage, one of the first things I heard was an older Scottish woman complain to her husband “This is quite a hiii-ke.” I bit my tongue to keep myself from laughing out loud.
The further I went down, the more accents I heard. The tougher it got.
I finally reached customs. This was my ultimate test. A do or die moment. If I laughed in the face of a British Customs Agent, all hell could break loose.
Fortunately, I was able to keep a straight face and have a nice conversation with the Agent…. Hope that wasn’t too anti-climatic for ya’ll.
* *
I just reached the Tube. 17.50 pounds!? That’s nearly $40 for a train ride to get to where I live (or so I thought)! I guess it pays for the service and the train, whose interior looks like a missing set from “back to the future two.” Now that I put it that way, it’s certainly it’s worth the money!
After going through maze, after maze of corridors (I’m catching on quick, eh?) I finally reached the some ticket booths. I paid for the tickets but had no idea where to go. Fortunately, there were two ticket sellers/helpers waiting around, standing with good posture and smiles. Now, let me tell you, as a native New York City Subway rider, I felt right at home when dealing the service personel!
Exhausted—only having run on 4 hours of proper sleep (again!) the night before and 4 hours of resting my eyes on the plane ride, I helplessly approached an older ticket woman, who had a lovely face and lovely whiskers and hair outlying it. I smiled, showed her my $40 train ticket and said “Hi, I’m new here. Could you help me out?” She smiled and gave instructions of where to go. Exasperated yet thankful, I gasped for air as I smiled and said “Thank you!” She told me to go the loov, go down two flights. I didn’t know what a loov was so I took the elevator thus concluding my first encounter with one of these sweet people that I share common blood with.
I thought I had reached my destination at Paddington Station. However this was only the beginning of my troubles. I still had more tickets to buy and transfers to make.
* *
My experience of being totally lost in the London Underground train system was made no easier by the sheer fact that along with my lack of sleep, my memory was shot as well. I would frequently go up to a train worker and ask him (or her!) where I needed to go, to which I would receive clear instructions. No sooner than my walking down the escalator I would totally forget where I’d have to go. By the time I reached the platform, what remained of my common senses told me to only trust older women in receiving directions--like the lovely, furry train attendant from earlier.<3>
This worked. However, I couldn’t help but feel totally embarrassed from my walk of shame with two huge roller suit cases—as well the enormous book bag on my back that I was constantly knocking into from behind. It was an awful way to start a report with the locals, one which only reminds me of how back in NYC there’d be tourists that get in the way of all the locals.
At one point in the Underground, I caught an evil glare from some
I decided to avoid eye contact with that fierce look under the pretense that maybe he wouldn’t see me if I didn’t look right at him. It must have worked because after a few stops I saw him step off the train with a swagger that imitated the likes of Liam Gallagher.
* *
As I write this now, I lay in the bed of my pre-arranged flat lying exhausted as an open orientation is going on. In the state I’m in now, I need to sleep before I socialize.
* *
I woke up in a cold sweat by 3:45 PM
I lied in bed freezing under my covers despite it being the afternoon and warmer outside than when I had arrived. My stomach was twisting and turning. I needed help but I didn’t want to get out of bed. So, I stayed.
Eventually, I gained the strength to get out of bed and take a shower.
Afterwards I got dressed and made up (hair gel and deodorant) and headed to a hotel for the Student Orientation/Dinner.
Although it was labeled as a “Dinner,” I got more irritated by all the presentations from people spanning the guy in charge of the London Office of SU Abroad to a Detective Constable from the London Metropolitan who warned of the prevalence of theft in
Once the speakers finished talking, the food was ready to be eaten. Although the cuisine lived up to the traditional English reputation, it still hit the spot—especially when the last thing I had eaten was a mini-croissant on the flight over at 7:30 AM (it was 6:30 PM at this point when I finally got around to eating).
As soon as I finished eating, I left the hotel where this Orientation was being held. I was way too tired to socialize with any of the other students there. Besides, I have been finding myself more interested in mingling with the
I have always thought that if I lived in 15th to 18th Century, besides being a heretic, I would have been an explorer. Now I am continuing that childhood dream of traveling to strange and exciting places by being here in
See ya in the next one!
* *
POST SCRIPT
I’m lying here in this small flat bedroom that I share with my roommate unable to go to sleep. As far as I know, nothing is bothering me that should be keeping me awake.
This room is small for two people--hell, it’s small for even one person. The closest thing I can compare to this is my brother, Tommy’s bedroom. It is probably half as wide and about 3/4th’s as long. It reminds me of the small youth hostel room that I stayed in the night I arrived in
Now I’m in
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