Am I a Londoner?

I’m not certain the exact moment when it happened, but at some point I think I might have become a Londoner. It isn’t just that I can mentally work out the way to walk or cycle to the various places that I know in London while waiting for the bus. In fact, I probably still know New Bedford and Providence at least as well as London. It isn’t that my brain first goes to words like ‘rubbish’ and ‘whilst’, or that I have to think for a minute to remember that US therapists call ‘zimmer frames’ ‘walkers’, or that I am equally bad at finding grocery items in both countries. It isn’t even that I call there home when I am here, and here home when I’m there. I pause whenever I come to the ‘@’ in typing. The last time I went home, the salad arrived before I remembered it would when we went out to eat. During my Christmas holiday/vacation, I become extremely restless when I can’t work on my personal projects. When step off the pavement/sidewalk, I automatically look over my right shoulder. I suppose it is a sort of critical mass of those things. At some point, there were enough of them together that made me a Londoner.

I recently came to the realisation that after two years (and still counting) of yearning to move back to the US, that I will actually miss this place. I know I won’t miss it as much as I miss my own country. But I will miss it. The food will definitely be one thing I miss. I remember when I said something like this to a friend of ours during a prior visit to the US and she was quite surprised. I am not taking about British cuisine. I am not bashing British cuisine either. The bland factor is something that England and New England have in common. The best thing about living in London is that we have the world at our fingertips. And while that is true of any big city, the flavours of London are quite different from those of the large US cities due to Commonwealth influence. So for example, while home-made hummus still blows away the store bought stuff. The store stuff here almost tastes like hummus and bares no resemblance to the barely edible swill that is passed off as hummus in US stores. And the same can be said of the other cuisines as well. So there is good eating. And there is loads of cask (or real) ale here, which have so much flavour, I am tempted to classify them as food rather than drink.

Although I frequently berate the British tendency to acquiesce, I already miss the standing on the right and walking on the left that carries over from the Tube to shopping malls and other semipublic establishments with escalators when we visit home. We have met some incredible people here… and that has been quite a surprise. The city gives off a lonely, and sort of standoffish air. But let me tell you, it is not short of kind, compassionate, giving people.

I am not sure what other actually things I will miss. But when I thing back to the people I knew back home who had move their from another country, I remember them occasionally talking about feeling like a foreigner in both countries. I have a feeling I may understand on a more personal level when I finally return.

Eu sou português!

When I showed my uncle my shiny new Portuguese national identity card and declared that I was Portuguese, he very dryly replied, “I could’ve told you that without the ID.” Of course, he meant that I am very clearly of Portuguese descent and have been all my life. And in America, we all walk around declaring that we are Portuguese, or Italian, or whatever the nationality… but what most of us mean is Portuguese-American, Italian-American, or an American who has parents or ancestors from another country. Living abroad, I have learned that this is an American construct. Even though all of my ancestry is Portuguese, I cannot declare that I am Portuguese in London. If you are Portuguese in London, it means you are ACTUALLY Portuguese. I even have a friend who declared herself half American (in other words, she has an American parent). And I can assure you that she was not referring to Native American. Perhaps it is because I grew up in a sea of American immigrants, but I found this assertion of being half American because one of your parents is American to be disorienting. In my neighbourhood, most of us dissected our lineages and combined as appropriate. Such an exercise for me was easy because my parents’ families are from the same mid Atlantic island. But for most Americans, this is a more convoluted operation. My best friend is half Irish and half Portuguese. And I don’t remember the various fractions of most of my other friends, but they are various fractions of Portuguese, French, and other various European countries. However, earlier in 2009, my perspective has shifted again. Now I can declare that I am Portuguese in any country, whether in London or in Lisbon: I am Portuguese. I have always been proud of my heritage and I am very excited to be connected to my ancestors in this new way, even if it is just on paper.

Christmas

As I wake up this Christmas, my body is straddled across an ocean. It is a sacred ocean for at one end is the land of my ancestors. And at the other end of it is the land of my birth. And back at the other end, my current home. And there are yet more ends to the ocean because an ocean ends at each of its shores. At one shore, where my eyes currently linger, it is dawn. The growing hopeful light signals a beginning. At another, where my brain lingers, it is midday. And that brain, be sure of itself, has triggered the release of chemicals signalling the height of the day. So there it is, this Christmas, my brain is on one shore, and my eyes on another. I dare not contemplate where and when my feet may be.

Advent (the preparation of Christmas) has always been my favourite time of year. It is about getting ready for something magical. It is like when the pace car pulls into the pits just before the green flag at the Daytona 500. The team has been preparing, pouring all of its energy and enthusiasm and hope into that new beginning. And when that flag drops, I eagerly anticipate that this moment is the first one of the emotional highs and lows as I accompany my driver to victory lane. Or. It is like when the house lights go down just before the conductor plays the overture to Giselle. The company has been preparing, pouring all of its energy and enthusiasm and hope into that new beginning. And when the first note wafts into the audience, I eagerly anticipate that this moment is the first one of the emotional highs and lows as I accompany my favourite dance to scores of curtain calls.

Most races do not end with my driver taking the checkered flag. Most ballets end with only the choreographed curtain calls. And as 2009 comes to a close, every indication so far is that it will fade into lost memories. But this Christmas neither morning nor afternoon, I am bathed in the warmth of family and the wonderful expectation that this year will be THE year that I realise all of the joy that is in the promise of the birth of compassion incarnate: Jesus Christ. Merry Christmas to you, my online family.

My mobile phone

So I got a new mobile phone several months ago. I forget what happened to the old one that made me need a new one. But the new one has a camera in it. I know... to you this is nothing new... but to me, this is my first camera phone. I thought to myself: wow, having a camera in my phone will be great because now I can take pictures when I see stuff. Well, good idea… until I realised that having a camera on my mobile phone does not suddenly make me a person who takes pictures of stuff.

Now that I have a camera phone, there are times that I think: Hey, that might make an interesting picture and I have a camera on my mobile phone… naw, it’s not that interesting… I will wait until it is more interesting… Yes, I am that lazy...

There have, however, also been a few rare occasions that I actually carelessly snapped a shot or two. I say carelessly because it seems that the recent ones are quite blurry, so that is how I know it was careless. For example, here we are in West Hamstead making our house warming tea set in October (Thanks Susanne).

And here’s one from another weekend in October. My beloved & I went to Borough Market. It was a wonderful market (no pictures). They even had mulled apple juice (what Americans call ‘apple cider’, which bares absolutely no resemblance to the English drink of the same name). It was delish and it reminded me of the taste of home. So on the way back we stopped at The George for a pint. The George is my honey’s favourite pub. It is the last galleried coaching inn in London. Apparently, entertainers would perform on the ground and people viewed them from the galleries above. Well, in the spirit of the old galleried inns, a group of morris dancers showed up and gave us all an impromptu performance. Morris dancing is sort a modern incarnation of old folk English folk dance, steeped in tradition, whose origins are lost to history but will stir a frenzied debate amongst the competing dance teams. This is my first morris dance experience. There was lots of beer. And one of the team member came by and chatted with us afterward. He was very friendly and sweet, and patiently explained the ritual to us answering all of our burning morris dance questions. It was a fun experience and my phone sort of captured this moment (they are way in the background...).

The Dark Side

When we first moved here, both of our families were exceedingly nervous about our living in London. Now that our beloved families have adjusted to the idea, I have decided that now is the time to come clean on London. So I present to you: The Ten Plagues of London.

Bedbugs: Shortly after moving into our first flat (Crumpet Corner), we both developed random and irresistible urges to scratch. The worst of it was the constant sudden pulling back of sleeves and trouser legs in the hopes of catching the rascals in the act. We finally called the landlord, who hired a pest control firm. We learned that the cause of our itch was a bedbug infestation just prior to leaving for our evening with Patrick Stewart in MacBeth. Medically speaking, bedbugs are relatively harmless. I have to say that sitting there in the theatre with tingling itches everywhere strengthened by the knowledge of the cause was one of the most interesting sensations of my London adventure. Here I am in the midst of ‘high’ culture, well dressed, seeing a legendary performance trying desperately to hide my identity as a bedbug-invested, dirty, filthy bum. I learned later that the bugs actually do not live on their hosts, but instead live nearby and wait for you to fall asleep to feed on you. Anyway, the treatment worked and we were rid of them in a week.

Rats: In retrospect, knowing what I know now about that landlord, it is a huge red flag that they actually responded so quickly to the bedbug situation. The reason that they did is because they were aware of a man who was living directly above us who was storing rubbish from the street in his flat. They knew that the bedbugs fell off the rats that were traversing our flat on their regular visits our neighbour. However, we were not aware of this titbit (tidbit) at the time. My first rat encounter was when I was cooking dinner and a rat leisurely walked through the flat. I looked right at it and it briefly looked at me, neither concerned nor rushed. I immediately looked over to my beloved, but despite looking in the general direction of where it was, she made no indication that she had seen anything. I was contemplating how I should respond, thinking hopefully that the rat would move and maybe I could address with issue later, when a second rat made an appearance and this one was definitely noticed. The pest control people laid traps and put steel wool in all the holes. Eventually Ratman was evicted, but it was a lengthy process

Flood: His flat was cleaned and the rats disappeared. Next up, water dripping from the middle of our ceiling onto our bed. It turns out that one of the builders (construction workers) accidentally left something running while fixing up Ratman’s flat and the result was rain inside the flat. Lucky for us, he had remembered and come back to shut it off earlier that evening so the trickle of drips soon stopped on its own due to lack of supply.

Siren: The next plague was the opposite to and simultaneous potential cause of deafness. We had a string of fire alarms go off for many nights. That first night I and several other tenants where standing around the fire alarm box desperately trying to shut it off (after of course checking and finding no actual fire). Luckily, it was so loud that it also woke someone living several hundred feet away who knew how to shut the thing off. Now for the next several weeks when it randomly went off, at least we knew how to shut it off. We never did find out what was wrong with it, but the landlord eventually repaired (or more likely disconnected) the fire alarm and it was no longer a problem.

Cold: At our second flat (Patchwork John’s… after the ‘maintenance’ man), there was the dance between the intermittent boiler, the tenants, and the landlord. We solved the heating problem by buying an electric heater, but you never knew when getting into the shower whether it would be scolding hot or freezing cold. The last straw was when my honey had to go to an appointment without showering.

Siren Sings Again: But before that we had the return of the siren song. However, in the spirit of upgrade, it was not deafeningly loud… and we knew the cause. In the basement flat, the smoke detector was in the kitchen. So if they made a roast, fire alarm; if they baked biscuits, fire alarm; if they made toast… well, you get the idea. Luckily, the flat was empty for the first eight months living there.

Flood 2: The sequel was water again coming through the middle of the ceiling, but this time onto the table via the electric light fixture in the ceiling. Again, it’s better than the bed. And the Patchwork John response was certainly entertaining: because we lived in the eaves, we would have to expect rain to come in if it rains hard. What is it with London and indoor rain? PJ further explained that we could ‘dry out’ the wet spot on the ceiling but turning on the overhead light. Mind you that this is the same light I had to remove the light bulb out of because it filled with water. When we brought up our concern about the water/electric cocktail, PJ explained nonchalantly that he has been doing this for years…

Flood 3: The indoor rain theme proves it has staying power as the third flat (Old Street) developed a leak and more indoor rain. This time, is was not the centre of the ceiling, but near a wall, and the landlord actually fixed it two weeks later.

Crazy: I won’t recount the Saga of Old Street. But I can say this: While I found the smell, bedbugs, and rats from our upstairs neighbour at Crumpet Corner absolutely disgusting, at least I understood where he was coming from. He was collecting garbage and living with rodents. I don't like it and I know I don't like it. Immediately This couple at Old Street was just completely deceptive and controlling and I am so glad to be away from them. I will try to summarise (this is him speaking): you have to watch TV in your closet of a room even when I am not home, but I can watch DVDs in the large common space whenever I like… you can use the kitchen whenever you want unless I decide to sleep in it, in which case you have to go without eating and not wake me up… I can slam doors all morning every day and wake up the entire flat, but if you slip once in the evening I will yell at you to be quiet; and finally… if you rearrange any of the furniture in the living room, I will throw it out… I wasn't going to wait around for the next over the top unpredictable act. Can I just say: cuckoo cuckoo! It can't even think about it...

Mould: The new place (Happy Flat… yeah I am that optimistic...) as you saw in the recent photos is lovely, as is our flatmate: who we rescued from Old Street (or perhaps she rescued us). And again, it is a significant upgrade because the water did not appear at the centre of the ceiling in any of the multiple rooms. This time, the water ran down between the interior and exterior wall. It is a quite posh (luxurious) ‘deluge’ because there is no actually water inside: rain or otherwise. The only evidence of torrent this time is mould. It is just a patch and when we contacted the landlord, she was here in person the very next day with a builder. Now that IS an upgrade. She didn’t even try to blame us or deny it. If fact, she thanked us for notifying her! She talked to several of the other tenants and found out that there is even more mould growing in the flat above us AND the one above that one. So there is an investigation going on to find out where the water is coming from. I have to say that despite the appearance of an imperfection in our otherwise lovely flat I am encouraged by the swiftness and logic of the response.

So there it is… you are now caught up with all the stuff we didn’t tell you about London for fear of causing undue stress…

Image Credits: Header, Footer

My New Neighbourhood

I am still getting to know my new area. Being in central London oddly enough means in some ways that there are less conveniences. For example, we have always lived within reasonable walking distance of what is referred to onLondon maps as a ‘superstore’. Which for those of you reading this back in the States would just be a grocery store. I think the ‘super’ refers to the size. I think that we, are I at least, have become accustomed to quite large grocery stores in the States. In London anyway, it seems that the typical store of the not-super variety is more like what I called back home: a convenience store. So I suppose I need to restate my second sentence: Being in central London oddly enough means in some ways that there are more conveniences. Hmm… That is not odd at all, really. How about: Being in central London, as one might, expect means that there are more conveniences, but definitely less supers. Well, on further consideration, I think I will abandon that sentence altogether. The reader will kindly skip ahead to the second paragraph. No, really, there is no need to read this bit. I have already committed to movingon to the next paragraph. If you keep reading this one, there will not be any new content. I am simply nattering on with empty words devoid of any content in an effort to provide something for you to skip to make up for your having read the first half of this paragraph which clearly would have benefited from an editor. Therein lies the whole problem with blogging in general, who is editing all this drivel. No one, that’s who! I mean, any idiot with access to a computer is free to put any meaningless dregs out and claim to be writing. Open internet access is clearly the end of meaningful writing for Western civilisation.

Although there is not a large grocery store nearby, there are lots of interesting shops. I think my favourite so far is the Jamaican Best Taste Take Away (pictured above before they got their sign). I’ve had their Jerk Chicken with is awesome. It is spicy to die for! I also had their Spicy Chicken which was not as spicy as hoped but their Rice & Beans are great. I also had Guinness punch from there for the first, and

hopefully last time. It’s two great tastes that don’t go great together. I would describe it as a Guinness Chai. It is made of Guinness Stout (Foreign Extra version), condensed milk, nutriment, vanilla, nutmeg, and cinnamon. When it first hits your mouth, it has the feeling of milk. Then you get that familiar Guinness flavour. And then it finishes with the taste of chai. I am certain that if I were raised with these flavours

mixed together, I would love this drink. But I found it was just too much going on. I just can’t bring myself to drink it again.

Anyway, the place where I usually buy my fruits and vegetables is a Turkish place recommended by a good friend of our flatmate. It was a good recommendation. Then there is the entrance to the train station I use to go to work in winter. It gets too dark too early and I am no longer

cycling to work because I am not cycling in London in the dark. So I am off the cycle until at least March. There is also a shot of the station platforms, the local post office I will use when strike is over, the local chemist (pharmacy), a shot of the canal which I am looking forward to walking along, and a really interesting looking pub a bit further down the street which I hope to visit soon. At night it glows green!

Not to worry Mr. Will, I am planning a photomontage of me in front of all my faves!

Photo credits: Best Taste, Yasar, Station, Platforms, Post Office, Chemist, Canal, Pub

New Flat

We finally have enough time for me to blog a bit about our new place!

The front of the building:

The building front door:

The flat door:

The entry way... two large cupboards (closets) and our bedroom on the left, loo on the right, and flatmate room door straight ahead:

Entrance to bedroom... that's my beloved's desk under the window:

Our bedroom from the back corner...

bed...

Inside...

Loo... look, a tub!

and a towel warmer...

Hallway in front of bedroom...

Living room (beloved is skyping her mum)...

Ugly Betty on TV... and drying laundry...

Kitchen....

More kitchen...

Garden (patio)....

Cycle shed....

Our room from outside...

More garden...

Washing machine in kitchen...

Dishwasher too...