VIDEO: Day Two
Tonight I am sitting in a new spot, at a square little apple-red table in Pattiserie Valerie. In true international London fashion, some French is being spoken at the table next to me, and some Arabic behind me! A giant mocha is comfortably parked to the right of my laptop, and I will probably try and drink it quickly so that I don't spill it! I think I'm going to make it my mission to try mochas everywhere I go, because they truly are a wonderful specimen of drink - coffee and chocolate in a cup; what could be better? So far, Blue State on York Street in New Haven is a very clear winner, for more reasons than one: but primarily, it combines the perfect amount of sweet chocolatey-ness with the bitter twang of coffee. I think that many people would start in the wrong area when trying to judge mochas, and would be tempted to turn first to the effect the chocolate has on the drink. I, however, think that it may be the coffee that it used. Yes, sometimes a mocha can be far too sweet, and that is obviously the chocolate's fault (evidence: a case I studied in the airport), but oftentimes there is just something 'off', and it isn't the chocolate. Anyway, enough about mochas!
Tonight I am sitting in a new spot, at a square little apple-red table in Pattiserie Valerie. In true international London fashion, some French is being spoken at the table next to me, and some Arabic behind me! A giant mocha is comfortably parked to the right of my laptop, and I will probably try and drink it quickly so that I don't spill it! I think I'm going to make it my mission to try mochas everywhere I go, because they truly are a wonderful specimen of drink - coffee and chocolate in a cup; what could be better? So far, Blue State on York Street in New Haven is a very clear winner, for more reasons than one: but primarily, it combines the perfect amount of sweet chocolatey-ness with the bitter twang of coffee. I think that many people would start in the wrong area when trying to judge mochas, and would be tempted to turn first to the effect the chocolate has on the drink. I, however, think that it may be the coffee that it used. Yes, sometimes a mocha can be far too sweet, and that is obviously the chocolate's fault (evidence: a case I studied in the airport), but oftentimes there is just something 'off', and it isn't the chocolate. Anyway, enough about mochas!
Today I woke up before everyone else, at around 7:40. I'd gone to bed rather late, so I'd wanted to try and stay in bed 'til 8, but it didn't work out, and I just couldn't stay in bed with London buzzing around me! So I got up, opened the blind, went through to the kitchen, and made some tea. Isn't it a beautiful thought that no matter where you are in the world, some things, like drinking tea in the morning, are so much a part of you that they will never change. It's comforting to know that there are elements of me which are and will be the same wherever I am. I made breakfast after that, (nothing fancy; just oats and yoghurt and strawberries and bananas), and then went and sat at the window-seat in the lounge. When I say "window-seat", I really mean the pseudo-window-seat beneath the pane of glass which parades as a window. It appears an inviting space to sit, but is in reality too high to easily sit upon, too narrow to fit on, and too hard to be comfortable on! Also, the pane of glass only opens 10cm, which is why I say it is parading as a window, because what true window gives false hope like that? Windows are supposed to be beacons of fresh air and freedom, vessels of scenery and the sweet scents of a city. I am not accustomed to finding a window which gives false hope like the one in the lounge gave to me. I do not appreciate having my hopes dashed to the metaphorical ground - "metaphorical" because the window doesn't open wide enough for my hopes to exit the room and reach the ground outside!
Apparently, the windows are "restricted", (more like stunted, destroyed, annihilated, murdered in their prime,) by the law. The authorities don't want people falling out the window. Okay, they don't want children falling out the window. But honestly, if a child is left unsupervised long enough to climb over the heater (should we not then ban the heating up of heaters because some child might climb on one and get burnt?), onto the very narrow window sill, (should we not require window sills to be more narrow, so that children can't stand on them? or wider so that the child is not tempted to try and stand, and will instead choose to sit?), and open up the incredibly tight, difficult to operate window handle, (there really should be a law demanding that window handles for windows at a certain height are made, as a rule, very-hard-to-open,) and stick their entire body out the two-foot-above-the-window-sill window, then maybe the child needs to learn a lesson.
If every possible hurt is prevented, then how is a child supposed to learn what being hurt means? And what happens when they actually do get hurt? (Shock horror: THIS IS THE REAL WORLD.) Anyway, needless to say, I was rather annoyed that the the window didn't open!
After that, I ventured out onto the street that runs alongside one edge of the flat. It is a strange sort of street, in that it encapsulates the spirit of modern London when observed as a whole, but when looked at on an individual shop or store basis, could be a street in any part of the world. There are more Lebanese food restaurants on this one street than I have ever seen in my life. There are beautiful old red shingle buildings with bright eyes of glass framed with white-wood eyeliner staring out onto the street. Perfect vines of tomatoes, crowned with verdant green stems, sit complacent in their beauty along the side of the road. It's funny because I've seen tomatoes arrayed in similar abundance in Harare, but somehow they don't have the same glamorous pride there. These tomatoes, humble and mild when looked on as a part of a general goods store that also sells bad-quality phone cases, are practically preening themselves in their wooden castles as they gleam in the foggy London sun.
You'll be proud of me: I walked all the way through Marks & Spencer and didn't buy a thing. Not one single thing. A gorgeous white scarf did, however, start a conversation with me. It was positively fluttering towards me, so weighed down was it with winking lacy butterflies who were convinced I was some sort of psychedelic sunflower. I may go back and bring her home, or the butterflies may somehow fly her to me the next time I go in the store. Speaking of sunflowers, I was tempted, VERY SORELY, to buy a beautiful bunch of four of them when I was in there, before I'd seen the butterfly scarf. Maybe the butterflies sensed the sunflowers on my mind...
Next, I went with Daniel - a fellow Yalie doing Yale in London - to a Vodafone store to organize a phone line so that I can use City mapper when I'm actually in the city, (and so that I don't have to sneak into a Starbucks and use their free wifi surreptitiously because I don't actually want to buy anything!) After that we headed home and waited a while for Nermin (the Yale in London person-in-charge) to come and collect us and take us to the Canada Day Party in Trafalgar Square. Whilst we were waiting, I ate a piece of my sunflower-and-chia-seed-with-pumpkin wholewheat bread, replete with salted butter, from Waitrose, and strawberry jam, from the magical bag of my sympathetic, real-life fairy-godmother, Laurie.
We headed onto the tube - and stopped at one point in the Baker Street station, which was, obviously, dressed to the nines in Sherlock Holmes paraphernalia, (if a station can indeed dress up.) Trafalgar Square was ablaze with red and white Canadian ex-pats, and I felt very out of place in my blue-and-purple Africa-print skirt! Daniel, Nermin, and I joined the line to purchase these marvelous little treats called nanaimo bars. They are a fabulous concoction of coconut, biscuit, butter-cream, and chocolate, and they were well worth waiting in line for!
After that, seeing as neither Daniel nor I are remotely connected to Canada in any way, shape, or form, we left Nermin, (who has actually lived there!) and ventured out the rippling mass of maple leaves, up the stairs of the National Gallery. I am not anywhere near knowledgeable enough about art to truly appreciate the magnificence of the works displayed in the gallery, but I do know that the art would not be there if it were not considered exquisite by the people who do know what they're talking about! So we walked through the galleries, admiring everything. I do have to say, though, that some of the pictures are just plain strange, like this one:
An Old Woman ('The Ugly Duchess')about 1513, Quinten Massys |
To be honest, I think I spent more time marveling at the architecture of the galleries than at the works that hung in them! We selected a few famous names that we really did want to see, and we followed the relatively easy-to-follow maps to find them. I feel so privileged to be able to say that I stood within a metre of a real Van Dyck, a Monet, a Van Gogh. Again though, the building itself was art enough for me! There are two little observations I want to note: first, how respectful everyone is! And second, how the wooden floorboards in the direct vicinity of the paintings are a lighter colour than the floorboards outside the roped off area. I thought it was rather poignant that these pictures have been there - stared at, admired, appreciated, and underappreciated - for such a long time that the floorboards now reflect the passing of time. Art is a strange but wonderful phenomenon!
We left the National Gallery and traipsed out onto the front space, and took in the vastness of Trafalgar Square. The Square looked like a screenshot of a National Geographic program about sardines, zoomed in on a shoal passing though the ocean, except the sardines were red and white, and the screen extended as far as the eye could see. We'd spotted Big Ben earlier, and he stuck out his pointy hat again, gesturing to us to come and visit him. So we did. We left the shoal of Canadian sardines and joined the thronging mass of humans who live and breathe and create London. On the way, poor Daniel was forced to stop rather abruptly, and without any notice, as I whipped up my camera and snapped a picture of this guy:
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| This is General Montgomery, after whom our tiny little toy pom is named! The irony is that the general was fierce and terrifying, and Monty, our dog, is not. |
Me and Ben, just chilling on holiday in England.  |
| Welcome to the Abbey! |
Big Ben told us to go across the road and pay homage to the old man Westminster Abbey, which we were all to eager to do. Unfortunately, he had to make do with a smile and a wave. The line to get go and meet him was LONG LONG LONG, and I overheard the guide saying that it was a 40 minute wait. No thank you. Also, it cost 22 pounds: NO THANK YOU.
Instead, we greeted his little sister, who was just as beautiful and much less intimidating! St. Margaret's Church is gorgeous and quaint, as far as imposing medieval churches go. For some reason, I have found that I am most interested in the church monuments in these ancient churches. Wouldn't it be wonderful to look down from Heaven, (assuming someone with a monument in a church would go to Heaven,) and see, even 400 years later, that you are remembered because someone loved you enough to record your life? What was also interesting was how absolutely awefulle the spelling was, even within one text! In one about "Marie", she was married to an "admiryl" and an "admyrale", and she came from both "Englynd" and "Englande". She must have been a fascinating woman!
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| Beautiful St. Margaret |
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| The Samaritan Hospital |
We stopped in at the Pret a Manger below our flat, and I bought an extremely reasonably priced bacon, chicken, lettuce, and tomato sandwich. We went up to the flat and I heated up the sandwich in our enthusiastic, efficient microwave, and then proceeded to eat it. It is very difficult to eat a bacon sandwich in a lady-like manner. That is all.
Daniel hadn't done a grocery shop yet, so we set off at around 4:30 to explore the plethora of grocery stores in the vicinity. First we tried the Sainsbury's, but apparently a Sainsbury's local means a tiny, unworthy-of-the-title-"store" store. So we moved on to Marks & Spencer, which was also not really big enough for our requirements. Thus we ended up back at me old friend Waitrose, who satisfied all our grocery needs. I had to buy a few more things that I'd forgotten yesterday, and some things I hadn't forgotten, and probably don't need, but bought anyway, like mozzarella cherries. Again, I LOVE GROCERY SHOPPING. Also, the extremely pleasant girl at the till didn't get cross with me when I gently released my stash of coins onto the counter, in the hope that she would take pity on me and work out what I could use to pay! I suppose she could have taken anything and I wouldn't have had a clue, but anyway, she was very kind and I am extremely grateful to her! We had a short, sweet conversation and I think I will be seeing her quite a bit during my stay here, so I feel that it is important to start etching out some friendships with the local populace!
Returning victorious, we offloaded our bounty and I started making my supper. It wasn't very exciting, (as I was reminded by my ever-supportive friend,) but it fulfilled my dietary requirements, and tasted pretty good into the bargain!
Then I sat in the lounge and compiled my little video for the day, and then I went to where I was sitting until about an hour ago when I was informed, rather harshly and bluntly if you ask me, by my no-nonsense laptop that "Your battery is at 7%. Plug your laptop in now." So I came back here to the dining room and this is where I am now.
It's late, it's bed-time, and I will sleep very well tonight!
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