A touristy weekend

You may be pleased to know that I finally did something touristy this weekend…and even took pictures. So, I will try to make my entries less wordy and more visual (here's your cue to sigh with relief). 

…But first let me bore you with a generous amount of writing.

On Friday night I went to another music venue called Koko. This time however, a sequence of bizarre events did not follow. I went with my flatmates Rachel and David, and we decided to show up at the venue a little early so that we could buy tickets, assuming that if the venue’s site states the time “9:30”, that the show would start at...9:30. We arrived unfashionably early at the hour of 9 to find that the doors were locked. I peered in the window to find a few men standing inside and staring back at us, watching the show we were apparently putting on as we helplessly struggled to pry the door open with our fingers. Finally, after several minutes, one of them decided that it would be a good idea to provide us with some information. The guy directed us to the box office at the side of the building to get tickets. Walking around the corner, we found a small, inconspicuous window barricaded by 5 large dumpsters. We stood for a moment, pondering the dumpsters’ anomalous placement directly in front of the “box office.” Perhaps we were the first to have given thought to how these dumpsters might make the window inaccessible. We returned to the main door where another man instructed us to stand in a queue until the doors opened at 9:30. After scoping the premises and realizing that there was nobody around who intended to enter the building, we did as we were told and formed a queue. All three of us. We waited in our "line" for perhaps 15 minutes until a few more people showed up. Evidently, these people did not recognize our line formation, and like us 15 minutes prior, assumed that they could enter the building with ease. We watched their thought process transition from realization to acceptance, until they finally coped with the fact that the doors remained locked after a second, third, and even fourth violent pull. It was then that I understood why the guys inside were slow to help us earlier - petty human struggle can be amusing. Exasperated, they turned to us for help. We proudly informed them that we were “queueing” until the doors opened.

As a side note, in case you are unaware, the British love to queue and take it very seriously. Whether you are waiting for a bus or standing on an escalator, there is always a queue. If you do not recognize or respect this queue, and contribute to disorder by standing somewhere in the middle of the line, you will surely be put in your place and left feeling ashamed of your inattention to methodical aggregates of people. I learned this the hard way and ever since, I make sure to stand directly behind any single person...just to be safe. This once became uncomfortable however, when my person of choice turned around, wondered why I was perfectly aligned with him, and then slowly inched away. Better to be a creep than to disobey the unwritten rule of queuing.

Now back to Friday night. When we finally entered the venue at 9:30 sharp, I was surprised to see how cool the place was. The inside of the venue looked like an old, Victorian era theatre and was multi-tiered with balconies overlooking the stage. Above us, a humungous disco ball slowly rotated and provided the room with some sparkle. 

We sat down and ordered drinks, and then waited…. As the second hour approached, we were sure there was an impending power outage or gas leak - maybe these misfortunes weren’t so uncommon at British music venues, I thought. After another hour, the opening band took the stage, and we pushed our way to the front of the crowd. The band was called “The Lost Generation." Like their name, their music was not very original - I could not distinguish one song from another, and was convinced that the entire set was just one very long song. The headlining band, the New Politics, put on a pretty good show and the lead singer showed off his ability to break dance and climb things. We had a good time and I was thankful that Koko fulfilled my intent to see live music that night, unlike The Good Ship a few days earlier.

On Saturday, I met up with my dad’s cousin Shadi, who moved to London from Lebanon and has settled here for the past 7 years. I was pleasantly surprised to find out only a week ago that I had family here. The last time I saw Shadi was when I was 5 years old, so this made for an interesting experience when we had to meet up with each other at a train station. Fortunately we found each other, though I stared at and approached a few too many people in the process. We went back to his apartment (which I was happy to find out was in the center of “little Beirut.” Win!) where I met his family. We all went out to lunch at a very, very good Thai restaurant. The food was delicious, and I was grateful that I did not have to subject my taste buds to another one of my home-cooking creations. After lunch, they showed me around different parts of London, and our day ended with a very nice desert and coffee.

Later that evening, I met up with a group of Skiddies (or “people who attend Skidmore College” for those unfamiliar with the term). We scoped out some clubs and bars in another area of London, but with little avail. Most of the places were packed as per usual. You see, most of the bars here are so densely populated that suffocating, profusely sweating, and making physical contact with 6 people all at the same time are part of the experience. We gave up and returned to one of the dorms, where we listened to music and talked for a while.

On Sunday, I met up with a couple of other Skiddies, Valerie and Tiffany, and we planned a day to the Tower of London. But first, we sat down for an English Breakfast at a nearby café. Feel free to salivate at the sight of this picture. These were probably the best sausages I have ever had.

We crossed the London bridge on our way, which was a pretty anti-climactic experience considering that it is the subject of an acclaimed nursery rhyme. It looked like any other bridge and I was in no way concerned that it was at risk of falling down.

I guess I was mislead to believe that this, more aesthetically pleasing attraction, was the London Bridge. But I was corrected and learned that it is called the Tower Bridge. It does not have a popular children's rhyme devoted to its name, so that's my excuse for not knowing it. 

    

We spent most of the day at the Tower of London, and started off with a walking a tour lead by a costumed tour guide or “Beefeater.” He was an awesome story-teller and was very involved in his role. 

This green area was the former moat. The level of the moat was lower than the ground of the Thames, and consequently, all of the trash from the river flowed in and accumulated around the towers -  making it arguably the most effective moat in history.

After the tour, we walked into the different towers to see the Crown Jewels and other things like artillery, armor, thrones, and torture tools like the one below, which stretched the victim's arms and legs in opposite directions. ...Not a fan.

Here are a couple of the guards who are not allowed to move. What a job. The bottom picture shows the living quarters for the Beefeaters and their families, and even the queen if she chooses to visit.

This is where the private executions took place. There was a separate location for public executions, but this area was specially reserved to behead those who were related to the royal family or close friends with the king (what an incredible honor). Anne Boleyn was one of those people.

Here are some more pictures of the towers. It was a gorgeous place and I would very much like to live there.

This is another beefeater. He was enjoyable to look at and I liked his cape, so I was happy to immortalize this moment with a photograph.

One fateful night in Kilburn...

      This entry is a little off topic from what I intended to write about on here - i.e. cliché accounts of my visits to the Tower of London and Westminster Abbey, accompanied by pictures of me smiling in front of various statues and monuments…and a telephone booth. Really, nothing says “Hey, I’m in London” like a picture inside a red telephone booth. But last night was one of those awesome, adventuresome, and out-of-the-blue nights that I must write down in words, if only for my own enjoyment in the future. While I found the events of last night to be absurd and hilarious, those who read might be just slightly amused, or not amused at all. If this is the case, then I guess you had to be there.

      The night started off as I was sitting at the kitchen table with my flatmates Rachel and Max, when Rachel mentioned that she was going to see a show in Kilburn at 8, with The Dead Poets, The Walkers, and Cas Christensen playing.  She explained that they are all relatively unknown bands, but that she looked into them online and liked what she heard. I was up for going since I definitely wanted to see some live music while I was here in London. After all, some great music has come out of this place. I was initially planning on doing the usual, going to a pub (yes, "the usual," because I am of the legal drinking age here. And yes, I feel very mature). In retrospect, I'm glad I made the decision to stray away from this typical routine, because the experiences to follow were far more interesting and blog-worthy than anything I would have encountered at a local bar.

      Rachel and I set off, hoping that we would get there without getting lost, but knowing this was a very likely possibility considering our histories traveling (or my history, at least. See previous post. Oh and I forgot to mention that last week, I took the wrong train to get to my first crew practice, and after miles of frustration, I hitched a ride with a stranger...but nevermind that.) So actually, I should note that Rachel is completely responsible for getting us there. I just followed and nodded, afraid that any of my suggestions would lead us to the other side of London. We finally arrived in Kilburn, and stepped outside to find a dead-beat neighborhood, in every sense of the phrase. Luckily, The Good Ship music venue was just a couple of blocks away. Excited for the show and relieved that we had made it there with relative ease, we were ready to enter. But, a guy lingering in front of the entrance was our only obstacle. Casually smoking a cigarette, he asked us what we were going inside for. After stating the obvious, that we had come to see the show that night, he apathetically responded “Oh, that’s been cancelled. We had a power outage, and a gas leak...eaihiahurf” The last part was unclear. Again, I’m still getting used to deciphering the accents around here. Anyhow, this news was upsetting and inconvenient, as we had spent good money and time to get to where we were. As we glanced behind us at the abandoned neighborhood with dark alleyways radiating from the central road and an occasional fruit stand lining the sidewalk, we realized there was little hope that we would find a decent alternative. Rachel stepped in and asked the guy if there was another venue in the area where live music was playing, to which he responded, “Well, there’s two places - there’s the North London Tavern, but it’s a little posh, unless you’re into that, and it costs 5 pounds to get in. There’s another place called the [something that begins with the letter P]. It has free entry but it’s a bit of a hike down the street.” With a mutual understanding that free is always better, Rachel and I headed down the street, not aware of the long and unrewarding trek ahead of us. We did not seek clarification on what the name of the place was, but agreed that we heard the letter “P” in there somewhere. Close to an hour later (or what seemed like an hour after passing several kabob shops and tumbleweeds) we had not passed a single bar, or even a sign with a word starting with “P.” As we walked further down the ominous road, we noticed that people in the cars driving by were staring at us and smirking as if to say “you don’t belong around these parts of town.” I took this as a sign that our journey was ill-fated as long as we continued down the quiet road. So, after another block, we decided it was time to turn around, suck it up, and settle for “posh,” even if only to make the most of our travel to this particularly lively section of London. We stepped into the first and only bar we encountered on the way back, which was called the “Crown.” Staring at the sign, we reasoned that maybe the guy back at The Good Ship really said the "the Crown," and not some word that began with "P"...the phoeneme in "Crown" almost sounds like a "P" sound, right? Perhaps we were just reaching a point of insanity. The bar seemed to be a popular after-work destination for middle-aged men, and was probably not the hip music venue we were looking for. We asked the bartender for directions to “Power” or “Powell” or “Pumba”…and started making up words with "P" that we might have heard the guy back on the stoop say. The bartender, understandably, had no idea what we were talking about. And really, I wasn’t surprised that he could not be more helpful in directing us to a music venue, considering the local retail and restaurants - had we been looking for kabobs or a hookah bar however, we would have been in luck.

      We continued back towards the North London Tavern, hoping that it would be worth our while. We asked the bartender inside where the music was - he directed us upstairs and explained, “It’s an open mic night, there’s poetry and music. It’s quite nice actually, I’ve been up there a few times.” So not exactly what we were looking for, but we decided to check it out. We walked up the creaky stairs and turned the corner to find a dimly lit room behind a curtain. Peaking in and straining to listen, we heard a woman softly speaking - most likely reciting a poem. The first word we could make out was “intercourse,” and after quietly laughing to ourselves, we turned around and headed back down the stairs. We were hoping to hear music, and we weren’t convinced that the poetry we had just sampled was worth our precious 5 pounds.

      Instead, we sat at the bar and ordered a drink. As Rachel and I started talking, we noticed a man in our periphery looking over at us and slowly approaching. “How…how was your Christmas and New Years?” I wasn’t sure I heard him correctly, as these holidays had long passed, and quite frankly I was over the whole routine of telling people what I did during my vacation. “What?” I responded. It turned out I had heard him correctly the first time. “It was good," I replied "I was just at home with family.” He continued to pester us with small talk, as Rachel and I exchanged confused looks and tried to convey our disinterest with succinct replies. We also just couldn’t understand what he was saying. We weren’t sure why he was having so much difficulty producing sentences, but Rachel and I later consulted and determined that he was either aphasic or drunk. He started to move his arms in a large circular motion, causing him to loose balance and nearly fall over, while telling us a story that contained the key words “New Years” and “Regent’s park”.  So, taking all symptoms into account, he was either aphasic with impaired proprioception and spatial orientation, or he was just shit-faced.

The bartender looked over at us, and seemed to empathize with our current situation. I didn’t want to offend the man, as he seemed genuinely interested in our holiday traditions, so I desperately searched my mind for a decent excuse. Then I remembered, Oh yeah! The open mic night! I turned to Rachel and said “Oh, you know what? We should check out the open mic night upstairs.” She nodded and we headed upstairs, excusing ourselves from the bar. We decided to give the open mic night a second chance, considering the debacle that awaited us in the bar. The room behind the curtain was very cozy, and looked like an old living room with an assortment of comfortable leather chairs and couches, and a fire place with candles lit on the mantle. There were about 20 people in the room, who appeared to be regulars at this weekly event. The people ranged in age from 19 (me) to around 70, but the greater portion of the audience were older. A bald man with a curly French moustache stood at the front, reciting a poem. His job seemed to be introducing the different acts, but he conveniently used their set up times to squeeze in a few of his own brilliant verses, including one wherein he compared song titles to car brands - a truly thought-provoking poem that was reminiscent of the works of William Blake and D.H.Lawrence. Finally, he introduced the first music act during our short stay. A 50-something man played a lively tune on the guitar and sang about “linens, tea kettles, and lettuce,” occasionally interrupting the chorus with harmonious moans that sounded like bag-pipes. Honestly, it was pretty enjoyable.

      After some more poetry, a quiet man with a guitar took the floor and told us about how he visited a garden over the summer, where he saw the most beautiful roses. These roses, he explained, became the inspiration for his songwriting. He played a calming fingerpicking tune on the guitar and sang about his sorrow over leaving those roses behind that day, never to see them again.

      Rachel and I really began to enjoy ourselves, as we heard a variety of poetry and music acts. I felt like we got a nice inside-look at the lives of these Londoners, who attended these open mic nights regularly to let loose and listen to fellow Londoners share what inspired them the previous week. 

      The open mic had ended and we slyly exited the bar, so as to avoid any possible contact with the man who graced us with his presence earlier that night.

      Little did we know that the absolute culmination of our strange, but surprisingly enjoyable night, lay ahead on the journey back to our apartment. We got on the tube, and of course, missed our stop. That’s more like it, I thought, there has to be at least one screw up whenever I travel. So we got off the tube and waited for the train to go back the opposite way. The train we boarded was completely empty. We began to brainstorm various movie plots in which people were isolated in trains and an unfortunate turn of events ensued…it was then that the train inexplicably stopped. For those few seconds we were sure we were doomed...until the train started back up again. Finally, we arrived at the stop we should have been at 10 minutes sooner. We boarded the next train, again, very unsure of our decision. We were right to get on, but the train ended before our destination. We got off, but as we saw more people getting on the train, we thought that maybe the train would go all the way to where we needed to go. Rachel and I were discussing this matter while I was still standing in the train and she was outside on the platform. At the very last minute, I jumped out of the train as the doors were closing. We noticed the train heading back to where we had started, so we were proud of ourselves for making the right decision. We must have appeared very confused, since a kind man asked us where we needed to go, and directed us to the next train. We entered the next platform, still with a bewildered look upon our faces, when we heard another man ask “Do you know where you're trying to go?” At that point I was certain that English people were the nicest, most helpful human beings on the face of the earth. I don’t think a single person in the United States has ever shown concern for my very obvious misplacement and wandering. We turned around to find a good-looking guy leaning against the wall, with a guitar by his side. We both responded “yes” but continued to make conversation by describing how difficult our tube ride had been already. He smiled, probably thinking we were idiots, and asked where we were coming from. “We're coming from Kilburn” Rachel responded. 

“Oh, really? I just came from there! What were you doing there?” 

“Well, we went there to see a show at The Good Ship, but there was a power outage or something…” 

“Oh man, I was going there too, but I heard the same thing. Who were you going to see?” 

Rachel responded, “Cas Christensen” 

“No way…that’s my name. My name is Cas.” 

I was sure he was kidding at first, as it had been hours since the show was initially scheduled, and the chances are so ridiculously small that we would be taking the same tube at the exact same time (mind you, the tube comes every 5 minutes) as the musician we had come to see. But no, it was definitely him, which I was only convinced of when he handed us a card with his name and website on it. We all boarded the train, and he told us where he would be playing next. I was still shocked at the coincidence -  had we taken the right trains on the way back, we wouldn’t even have met the guy. Or, if he hadn’t offered his help for directions, we would not have known who he was…Basically, it was way too coincidental for me to handle at the time. 

Looking back, I am glad that the show we went to see was cancelled. While our night had not gone as planned, we had such a crazy and interesting night anyways. And even if all we got out of it was confirmation that there are some very strange people in London, at least it was worth a good story. 

The start of life in London

Hello Hello

So I have been wanting to start a blog from the moment I stepped off the plane, but somewhere in between falling asleep at the airport, getting lost every time I step outside of my apartment, and now, (still getting lost, but becoming more comfortable with the idea) I completely forgot to stop and record my life experiences in this wonderful city.

The point of this blog is really so that my friends and family can see what I’m up to, and I can be spared of repeating myself 10+ times. It would also be cool to be able to look back at this for reminiscing purposes - just to remember what an epic time I had during my youth, before I got stuck working in a cubicle for 40 hours a week (who knows what I’ll be doing, I don’t).

So, here I am, in London! I arrived a little over a week ago, on the morning of January 5^th. Travelling by myself was very intimidating, and I honestly had worries that I would board the wrong plane and arrive in the Nigerian airport or some other place to which I had not intended to go. But all is good, and I got here pretty smoothly.

My first day here was pretty uneventful - I guzzled 2 liters of water and then passed out for the following, more or less, twenty hours. I had orientation on the 6th and 7th, which consisted of various lectures about how to study successfully here at UCL and what to do for fun in the area. They also seemed to enjoy reminding us that they are ranked the 4th best university in the world, but more importantly, that Oxford is ranked a mere 6th. At least we know we are in good hands. There are a couple hundred study abroad students from several different countries, but of course, the overwhelming majority are from the US.

My room has a sink - unusual, but very convenient.

 I have a prime view of a building with multi-colored panels. It lays in nice contrast with the grey sky, and always brightens my morning when I open the curtains. 

I am living in one of UCL’s apartment buildings. I have a single room but I share a flat with three other students, who all go to school in the US. Unfortunately, I have to cook for myself while I’m here, but luckily I have super nice flatmates who happen to be good at cooking and sometimes generously offer to feed me. Otherwise, my cooking endeavors are usually pathetic, but I do make a mean plate of pasta. There are also a TON of good restaurants where I can blow my money. I love Indian food and there are probably 100 Indian restaurants within a half mile of my apartment. One person who lectured us at the orientation even jokingly said that the national dish here is curry. She might have been serious though.

Strangely enough, being in this great cosmopolitan place, I have found myself clinging to any sign of US culture that I encounter. When I pass a Subway or a Starbucks (which are actually pretty abundant here) I am comforted by a sense of familiarity. On streets or in classes I tune in to the sound of an American accent, again because it's familiar. Being in a new country and not knowing anyone at first was a little frightening, so I clung to these commonalities with the U.S. to ease my transition.

That’s how I felt for the first few days anyways. Now, I have met more people and am finally feeling like a true Brit (not really, but I like to think I look like one when I'm walking along the streets…this simply means wearing more black, and not walking around with a map in front of my face).

I have been having an unusually hard time understanding people in markets and other places. Everyone I meet seems to have a slightly different accent, but they all share the tendency to talk very quickly. So after asking for a third repetition, I just go with what I think they might have said and hope that my response somewhat relates to the comment or question directed at me. It usually doesn't.

In turn, I have become much more self-conscious about how I sound. Suddenly, I am the person who people recognize as foreign when I start talking. Sometimes I find myself wanting to attempt a British accent just so I blend in a little more....but drawing from past attempts, my interpretation of a British accent in fact sounds in no way British. Other times though, my “accent” is a nice conversation starter when people proceed to ask where I’m from and what I’m here for.

      
          So far, I have not seen any of the main, touristy sites. But really I just find enjoyment in exploring various streets in the city. I have visited Camden market, which is a great, vibrant place on the weekends where hundreds of vendors of food, clothing, jewelry, and other such things gather. I initially went that way on a hunt for rainboots (which are very necessary here, you know, considering it rains everyday) but was pleasantly surprised to discover the farmers market and the multiple cheap Indian food stands, as well as the numerous booths selling cheap vintage-y clothing. Needless to say, I spent half of my Saturday there.

           Let me just forewarn you, in case you don’t know me well, that a large part of my life is devoted to seeking out good food, especially since I am incapable (to the point of handicapped) when it comes to making it myself.
           That said, Saturday was also the day of my grand schawarma hunt. I love Arabic food, and when I woke up on Saturday I had an unrelenting desire for schawarma. I was still very unfamiliar with the roads and still without a map, so I essentially followed my instincts to get there - a very poor decision that resulted in 3 miles of aimless wandering and…no schawarma. I called it a day because it was getting dark, and well, raining (but there’s really no surprise there). So, on Sunday I woke up with a mission, not ready to give up just yet on my plans for finding a good schawarma wrap. The day turned out to be beautiful (NO rain whatsoever) so I looked up where I was going, wrote down directions, and walked for about an hour to get to the place. It was closed. BUT, it turns out that I arrived in a place people call “little beirut,” aka the mecca of arabic food and everything that I ever hoped would exist near my home in the states. So I simply walked into the adjacent store to get my long awaited chicken schwarma wrap. The place smelled delicious and I wanted to order everything on the menu, but refrained. From there, I walked to the lovely Regent's park and sat on a bench to enjoy my sandwich. It was the perfect way to end the afternoon.

My classes started on the 10^th, and while I was very excited about my class selections, it finally dawned on me that I was here to study and that everyday would not be spent seeking out good restaurants and site seeing. I’m taking a good variety of neuroscience-related courses which all pique my interest, especially one called the neurobiology of neurodegenerative diseases. It is also very refreshing to hear a professor lecture with a British accent. So all in all, my short time here so far has been a success and I am very eager to see how the next 6 months will go. I am determined to make the most of my time here, and take advantage of as many cultural opportunities as I can (which is embodied in an 8-page Word document entitled “Bucket List - the London edition”).

So I will keep all those who read updated! Hopefully in the upcoming weeks I will have more interesting stories to tell than my lame schwarma anecdote, so please don’t judge me too harshly just yet.

Over and out.