Travel is broadening (especially to the waistline)

I've been feeling oddly tired recently, sort of a dull ache in the crooks of my arms and my shoulders. I'm putting it down to toting around a very heavy bag--the bag itself weighs loads, and then I put other things into it, like my camera and a book (in case I am alone and bored) and the new Moleskine I just bought (which I love with a purple passion), so, yes, hea-veeeeeeeee bag. Still doesn't explain why my arms hurt, though.

Anyway, I've been a busy girl this last week. On Thursday, an English friend from Bombay was in London (and consequently got stuck because of the Volcano, which we shall now refer to in capital letters). Me and English friend did a walk through Fleet Street and the inns of court and stopped at Samuel Johnson's house. Which is where I made the discovery that Samuel Johnson and me? Totally BFF. He liked strong, outspoken women, one of his closest friends, in fact, was a former hooker, and he liked women to have opinions. His man-servant (back in the day when slavery still happened) was more like a friend, and when he died, this guy, Francis Barber, inherited most of Johnson's estate. Also, duh, he wrote the dictionary. AND his cat Hodge was such a personality that he has a statue to himself, right outside the house. And he died on December 13th, 1784 which is EXACTLY TO THE DATE 197 years before I was born. Maybe I was him in a past life. Anyway, me and Sammy are kindred spirits and to remind myself of that, I bought a fridge magnet from his house (I have a fairly extensive collection of fridge magnets from all over the world, that I get people to bring back for me) with his most famous quote on it: "When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life, for there is in London all that life has to offer." My sentiments exactly.

We also pottered around Notting Hill and went to the very same travel bookshop that inspired the bookshop in the movie-that-shall-not-be-named. In fact, English friend looked at me outside the bookshop and said, sternly, "DO NOT MENTION THAT MOVIE." Here I was all set to go on about the Julia-Hugh love, but I obeyed and said nothing at all. (Hehehehe.) The bookshop however, was brilliant, one of the best selections I've ever seen and it was really cool that the proprieter had actually read the books on display and was able to recommend them. The only bookshop close to my house in Bombay is Crossword, and there, well, let's just say, they look quite clueless even when you ask them where something is.


JC's mum and I have been bonding, and we often take off and do stuff together while he is at work. Last Friday, we went for the Van Gogh exhibition at the Royal Academy. (Question: I have always pronounced it Van-Go, but people here seem to pronounce it Van-Goff. Which is correct? Readers, I appeal to you.) Brilliant, brilliant stuff though, and I am now totally inspired to do arts-and-culture-y stuff when I get back to Bombay, provided I can drag Ira and BB with me, of course. (You can read about my impressions of the Royal Academy here.) Although, the last two exhibitions we went to were a bit of a bust, one had a couple of drawings of cats and a vaccuum cleaner and a recording of a voice going, "Catastrophic, catatonic" and so on, and the other was photographs of random chairs and things, which were quite pretty but not exactly Van Gogh standards, if you know what I mean. But, free wine, which makes schmoozing in Bombay so much fun.

Ooh, I also checked out the very famous Harrods while I was in London and oh my. Window shopper's paradise. They had this very kitschy memorial with sphinxes and a fountain and things for Diana and Dody, which just added to the palace like feel of the whole place. I hear they're opening a Harrods at the Palladium at Phoenix Mills as well, which, yes, JUST what we need, right? Fuck Harrods, I say, bring back my export surplus guys on Hill Road that they chased away as part of the 'Clean Up Bandra' campaign.

Saturday night, JC had a friend over and we barbecued in the garden. They very thoughtfully brought back some lamb seekh kebabs for me, but as I have said before, it's best to just avoid Indian food while you're in England. I stuck to a bacon cheeseburger and was quite happy with that and my vodka-Cherry Coke, playing random Bollywood songs for two very disinterested Englishmen. But mmmm. Cherry Coke. Number one on my list of things to miss when I return. Ahem. I mean, AFTER my loving fiance, of course. No question!

And this week I have been quiet. Tired-ish, like I said before, but doing stuff around here. Like popping by to the nearest town for coffee and shopping, chattering away to a four-year-old who I SWEAR asks more questions than I do, watching my new TV obsession, Fringe. Stuff like that.

Isn't This A Lovely Day And Other Things About England

After getting over feeling a little unloved (like, seriously, only five comments on my massive epic post of last time? What's the matter with you guys?) I have decided to come back and offer you my observations on England, in a general, kinda-ranty sort of way.

Also, I understand that you're here for the sex and the drinking, and the sex and the drinking, it is happening, but it's just not blog-posty enough for me to write about it. I mean, don't get me wrong, it's still great sex and still great drinking, but there's only so much I can go on about sex with a significant other, before you roll your eyes and say, "Next!" and click on one of the many noteworthy blogs I have linked on my sidebar over there. So, no, this is not a post about either of those subjects.

Where was I? Ah, yes, England Observations. Based on the opinions on someone who has never actually left the comforts of her own birthland. Not Bill Bryson by any means.

1) The English, they love their country. And they love talking about their weather. I don't know why this is such a surprise to me. Surely, everyone loves their own country. But I'm used to people liking (or hating with a purple passion) India, so it comes as a surprise to me that other people in other places like their own place better than anywhere else. Weird, huh? What will these foreigners do next?

2) And, oh my, the weather. The weather is like that eccentric uncle of yours who might come and visit or might send you a mysterious crate containing tiki figures that come alive in the night and take you back to the past. The weather is That Dude. The weather has a personality of its own, and gets a second page newspaper mention every day. And a remark, each time you meet someone new. It's always, "Oooh, nice day for it, isn't it?" or "Aren't we blessed with this remarkable sunshine?" or "Yes, it is the current temperature of Outer Siberia, but, ha-ha, you can never tell with the unpredictable weather!" As soon as the sun shines, even if the temperature is barely hitting 10 degrees celcius, out come the shorts and the tank tops, and you (and by you, I mean me) in your polo neck sweater are all too obviously the foreigner. (And the one who doesn't really "get" Weird Uncle Oswald.)

3) The words, they are foreign. It's supposed to be English, you know, the language you and I both speak, the language I'm typing in, but the other day, I ask for the waste paper basket, you know, a BASKET to put WASTE PAPER in, because I'm totally not a litterer, and I am met with blank looks. Blanker than blank. No one can blank as well as a salesperson in England who doesn't understand what you're saying. Until JC stepped in and asked for the rubbish bin. I see. RUBBISH BIN, you understand, but not waste paper basket? My word was so much more descriptive! Also, sweater = jumper, quilt = duvet, and many other new words that I can't recall right now, but they exist. I just learnt the old words! Why you gotta be changin' things around for?

4) The English, who gave us our railway systems, also have their own railway systems, and like a boy who will not rest till he's fiddled with every bit of the tracks, the engineers here are like that. THEY. WILL. NOT. LEAVE. THE. TRACKS. ALONE. You're like, "What else is there for you to do? It's done! It's perfect! It makes my country look like it's still in the 1950s!" but they're like, "Those words belong in a rubbish bin, love. The tracks! They need fixing!" And then they will twiddle around with the tracks. And make you take either overcrowded buses or trains that dart all over the country before they take you home. And even if you say, in despair, "The tracks look fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine. Really fine. Can we go now?" they will say, "You're just saying that, I'm convinced these tracks make my bum look big."

5) You do not make eye contact unless you know people, and even then, you keep eye contact to a bare minimum. Couple dry humping within your eye range at a railway station? Well, that's your fault for facing in that direction. Turn around, stare at a halpless pigeon for a while. (Although, even the animals get very self concious if you look at them for too long.) People have an unusually loud (and amusing) conversation? Giggling can only be done ON THE INSIDE. Outside, maintain your isn't-this-a-lovely-day face and perhaps say to the person next to you, "Nice day isn't it? We're blessed with this beautiful sunshine."


We're getting to be friends, me and England. I'm beginning to understand its whimsical ways. And I do love this place, I truly do, Uncle Oswald weather, train track fiddling and all.
   

Brighton Rock(s)

Since I have missed a week, I'll be posting backwards, covering this weekend first, and last week in the next post. Phew. Lots to remember. Let's begin by rewinding. This weekend, JC and I set off to Brighton, to check ourselves into a local hotel, and spend Friday and Saturday in general debauchery.

Man, people in England are ORGA-FUCKING-NISED. Every single hotel we looked at was full up, until I checked out Last Minute, which is a very cool website and should totally come to India. On that, I found the Westbourne, which was relatively cheap (77 pounds per night, or Rs 5000) and we booked that and were ready to go.

Okay, the Westbourne? Er, not so much. See, I thought it was going to be a mid-range hotel, considering the prices, and thinking they might be similar to Indian ones. (Yes, I know I'm foolish.) But it turns out it was pretty budget. The room was pretty and all, but the shower refused to be consistant, the minibar was broken, the kettle didn't work and the owners were pretty eh-fuck-off whenever you asked them something. I guess it didn't really matter, considering we were only sleeping there but oh, I do love hotels. And I like my hotel experience to be very nice. You know? Anyway, the first day we checked in, we left immediately afterwards to go for dinner and to a bar with live music to meet some of JC's friends. I had just been in Brighton a couple of days previously (more on that later) and bought myself a GORGEOUS new dress--grey wool, cowl neck. So I put that on with boots and tights and off we went.

First stop, Grubb's burgers, which are DIVINE. No, seriously. I'm a Burger King fan, whenever I'm abroad, but these burgers made every other burger I had eaten so far taste like shit. Brighton is a pretty hippy place, so every menu has a vegetarian option (there's even a shop called Vegetarian Shoes!). I got the Mexican burger, which is basically beef, cheese and a layer of chilli. OH. MY. GOD. Brilliant. It was huge (and I am a small eater) but I couldn't stop eating it. Down to the very last bite.

Then, we strolled down the road to the bar where we were meeting JC's friend. It's called Latest MusicBar (yeah, very original)  and they were having two gigs that night. One on the first floor, which had jazz, and one in the basement, which was a free party (meaning no entrance fee. Most places in England require you to pay at the door, especially if it's live music.) JC and I didn't know where we were going so we paid our 5 pounds (together. So relatively cheap compared to most places) and were duly stamped and went in. I've switched back to my vodka crans, so I was merrily drinking that, when JC's friend, Erik and his colleague, Anne, both walked in and told us, in fact, we were going to the free party in the basement.

That was a gig for Radio Reverb, Brighton's community radio station and there were lots of very, um, whimsical bands. I quite liked the first band that came up, the Bobby McGee's, if I remember correctly, which was one VERY BEARDED man and one girl who looked about 12 years old. They were fun, he played what looked like a banjo, and sang in a thick Scottish accent, she had a beautiful voice and while one of them was singing, the other would stand to the side and blow bubbles. Sweet.

My appreciation of live music was taken further by the introduction of shots I've never had before. Called Tuaca, it's basically an Italian liqeur, which tastes sort of like a sweet whiskey? I'm not sure, but they were LETHAL. We had many rounds of those and by the end of it, I was flying. And sleepy. A sort of combination of both. Anne left early, so it was me and JC and Erik who carried bravely on to our next destination--Erik's house. We stopped at a local convenience store on the way to pick up more booze, which I ordered as the soberest one there. (You can imagine how very drunk the others were!) and then onwards and upwards.

Erik is an artist in his spare time, and he showed us lots of his canvasses, which were abstract-y things, but quite lovely. I think the next several hours were spent in having variations of the same conversation, but Erik and I bonded, and by the end of it, I was pledging queer friendliness and he kept saying that I was lovely. Alcohol: making friends out of strangers.

The next day, oh, my aching head. We were SOOOOOOOOOOO hungover and had missed the free breakfast the hotel offered (cereal and prunes--so maybe it was for the best) and off we set into the bright sunshine to get ourselves something to eat. JC had consumed a tad, the merest smidgen more than I had and so was quite a bit more hungover than me. So he led me on a walk through the streets of Brighton, we stopped to watch some kids on skateboards, who were doing all sorts of death defying tricks and is it too late for me to learn to do that? And finally, as I grew grumpier and grumpier, he led me into Nando's (yay) where I got my extra hot peri-peri chicken and was satisfied.

Then, we had to go get him a Bill Murray t-shirt (we were going to a Bill Murray themed party later that night), but did you know there is no such thing as a Bill Murray t-shirt? Finally, we settled on getting him a Ghostbusters t-shirt, and it would have to do. Me? I was planning on being Andie McDowell from Groundhog Day. What? We both have curly hair!

Then we went back to the hotel to rest (I read, he napped) and only ventured out again around 8.30, when we went to an Indian restaurant we had spotted called Pavel. I was sort of the local attraction there, being the Indian-from-India, especially after I asked for my vindaloo extra hot, chatted with the bartender in Hindi and discussed Bangladesh with the waiter. They liked us so much, they even sent over drinks on the house. I loved them.

It was the house party next, I was quite looking forward to it, because I did want to check out an English house party. It's much the same as an Indian one. Tom's friend had asked us, but by the end of it, we were talking to everyone. The hostess was a punk chick, so most of her friends were too. You know, I've always been a little wary of them, because of the extreme hairdos and the piercings, but they were so sweet and welcoming and chatty. I had a really good time. I changed my "costume" (I was wearing jeans and a sweater) at the last minute and told everyone that I was, in fact, the stewardess from Darjeeling Limited. What? We're both brown!

We left the party a little early because we had to check out the next morning, and we were still feeling a little weak from the night before. This morning, here I am, back at JC's parents' house, about to go downstairs and eat a massive Easter lunch. I love travelling, I do. I could do this for the rest of my life. I might just do that, as a matter of fact.