London Luton: A special kind of Hell

It's one am.  Truthfully, I should have not taken a bus to this hellhole of an airport until 3, but I just wanted the ride here to be easy on the underground, not have to change city buses three times in order to get on the shuttle bus to finally take me to the airport.  So I've got 3 hours to kill until I can check in to EasyJet at 4 and my plane doesn't depart until 6:05.  Joy.  So you're my captive audience.  Held hostage by yours truly for a good, old-fashioned, whiny ass, headachey, bleary-eyed complain-a-thon.  That's right, a real bitchfest.

First off, the lighting is more awesome than a women's dressing room when you're trying on bathing suits (male-identified readers, either remember or imagine, whatever suits your personal gender situation more.)  I mean, it is deathly bright like flash photography in here.  Now, you'd think they's at least have the decency to have it be quiet, or if they're going to have piped in music, have it be something with know lyrics so you can sort of tune it out. But no, they've got this awful new country/rock thing happening, and while it's not loud, it definitely ain't quiet.  I consider digging around for my ipod, but what I really want is QUIET, as in NO MUSIC!  So I guess I'll just soak up this rich cultural experience of sitting in a glaringly bright airport food court and drinking coffee at 1 am.  Of course, I can't even send this until tomorrow when I'm actually in East Berlin at Bridge's place in Kreuzburg because there's no damn internet here.  I am reading a really good book at the moment.  (Thank Darwin.)  It's called "The Help" by Kathryn Stockett.  I highly suggest it.  I'm either going to lie on the damn floor and sleep or read it when I'm down kvetching here.  But honestly, I feel this is necessary.

All of you who thought it was so exciting that I was going off on this amazing adventure, boy, don't you wish you were here experiencing this?  Truly, all these folks with their sleeping bags out and bags and luggage carts around them, it's like a refugee camp in here!  I'm really sorry if that's culturally insensitive, especially for all of you in the bay area, but hyperbole makes for better writing.  If you were hear, you'd feel the same way.  I guarantee it.  Or maybe not.  Maybe you've done this before and are all zen about it.  But I bet you didn't have the piped in music.  That's the real kicker, I tell you.

Everyone here just looks sort of gray-faced and miserable.  I'm sure I do, too.  I mean, after all, we're carting our luggage around with us every time we have to use the loo or whatever and none of the Luton Airport employees are shining balls of light, let me tell you.  EasyJet, you are a miserable piece of shit airline at a miserable, fecal-faced airport.  So why am I flying you?  Because you are cheaper than dirt.  Oh, what I would do to be on a train to the Berlin Hauptbahnhoff right now.  But a train from London to Berlin is too pricey for the likes of this seriously disgruntled clown, as is a reasonable airline.  Us budget travelers, this is what we get.  Flourescent lights, piped-in shitty top 40/new country, and not so much as questionable carpeting to sleep on with our luggage stacked around us like shopping carts, like a homeless encampment or a shanty town.  And guess what someone just turned the volume up.

Soon, Berlin. Soon.

Busking on the Southbank, London

I'm not going to lie to y'all.  London is a fast, difficult city.  Folks don't run for the train here, but folks will run straight into you if you stop moving at the wrong time.  It's just, well, populated! Though I do enjoy the booming metropolis of a big city, I do tend to get a bit overwhelmed.  Now that I have a phone, it will be easier to make plans with- wait, I don't know anyone here!  Oh, hold on a second.  I do know one person, a puppeteer and lighting/set designer named Max that I have worked with in the States.  I email her my number on Sunday night and sure enough, there is a text message waiting for me on my tiny, utilitarian Nokia phone the next morning when I get up.  It's Max.  She lives near the norh London forest and I should go see her.  Okay!  So I hop on the District line from Plaistow station in order to transfer to the Northern line at Euston Station (or something like that) but when I get to the station, the Northern Line isn't stopping there because of planned construction work, so I go up out of the station and walk a block to Euston Square, where I can board the Northern line to Highgate.

I'd just like to take a moment and say that crossing the street here is dangerous and confusing.  Everyone drives like their pants are on fire AND they drive on the opposite side of the road, so if you live in a country (like the US) where you are used to looking left and then right before crossing the street, you're going to want to rethink that instinct or else you just might die.  Ah, adventure.  Enough said.

At Highgate I come out of the station and seriously, my father, the late great Dr. Eric Westheimer must have been having a good laugh, because right in front of me is a store front that says "Neutering your cat prevents felne AIDS!"  And this is true.  If you neuter an FIV+ kitty, they can't pass it on.  There's another veterinary hospital on the corner that boasts "Puppy Parties," whatever that is, and also "Seperate Feline Waiting Room," which I'm sure all the cats appreciate.  I have a few laughs with the ghost of my father and then Max meets me at the Station. 

We take a long walk through this amazing, medieval forest.  It is as old as the redwoods of Northern California, but the history here is different.  you can feel it.  these woods were host to knights in shining armor, robin hood and his theives, royal fox hunts.  Camelot, King Arthur, all that stuff that Disney has commodified?  It happened here, where I am standing.   I look up at the dappled sunlight coming through the branches and for just a moment, I am transported to another time, a time where I might be a poor peasant woman, a farmer's wife,  a witch making magic potions to fend off the black death.  (I have an entirely new appreciation for Monty Python, let me tell you.)  I saw a mound of earth that was 6,000 years old!  The ancient feel of the place makes me breathless.

 

     

We stop at Max's new home in Muswell Hill, an amazingly ritzy neighborhood where she somehow found an affordable (and giant) room and then wander.  There is an Irish pub in a building that was probably once a cathedral.  I experience Pimm's and Lemonade for the first (but hopefully not the last) time.  Yum!  And then we wander a bit more.  We come upon a street called Avenue Mews.  A mews is what they used to call the alleys off the main rode where folks would tie their horses up when they went to the shop, pub, etc.  There's all kind of great art work on the buildings.  Best of all, Avenue Mews is completely devoid of people at 18:00 on a Sunday evening.

It's dark by the time I head back to the station, so I don't get to check out Queen's would, where evidently there are 100 different kinds of spider!  I will have to have a romp around there when I come back in November.  It will be cold, but a little chill has never stopped me from enjoying the outdoors.  On the way back to Highgate Station, I find two 10 pound notes on the sidewalk!  Thank you, universe

Yesterday, I decide it is time to work, so I take my chicken handbag full of balloons and go to the Southbank of the Thames River.  One is permitted to busk without a permit here.  I set myself a lofty goal of 15 pounds and a time limit of two hours.  Busking is HARD WORK!  I really don't enjoy it one bit.  For me, it is mostly standing around with a ridiculous balloon hat on my head, trying to catch the eyes of children and their parents.  I take donations, never set a price.  I worked for two hours yesterday in the raging wind and made £17!  Alright!  The Southbank of the Thames river is near the Westminster Underground.  The Houses of Parlaiment, Big Ben and London Eye are all there.  Though I am really not into all the touristy crap, I've got to say, all of these landmarks are quite breathtaking.  I briefly consider a ride on the London Eye and then look at the queue.  It is reminiscent of the line at customs to get into this country.  No thanks.  I walk on.

                                                            London Eye and Big Ben

Houses of Parlaiment

I have been VERY good about being thrifty in this expensive town, but I have also just worked my little tail off twisting balloons in the blustering wind for two hours, and let me tell you, wind is not a balloon sculptors best friend.  In fact, it's right up there with pins and needles.  Plus, I saw a girl at the Plaistow station the other day with the best backpack I have ever seen in my life, a black cat who's eyes are speakers, so you can plug your ipod in and have music.  It runs on 3 AA batteries.  She said she got it at Camden Market.  I don't need a lot of things.  But I NEED this backpack.  I have earned the right to go shopping.

I must digress for a moment and say that the visibility of disabled people here trumps even Berkeley, CA.  Everything is blunt, out in the open.  People talk about issues, don't try to shove them under the rug.  It's refreshing.  Also, I don't know if you can get it in the States, but there is a four part documentary show called "Katie: My Beautiful Friends" about facial disfigurement.  It is hosted by Katie Piper, a model who survived an acid attack.  I wish I had had resources like this when I was young.  This woman is beautiful, incredible, and definitely not a victim.  Really, this show is worth a watch.
When I get off the train at Camden Town this time, I know what to expect and where to avoid.  I also have a goal: find that backpack!  I make a beeline for the market place and see many interesting this, including a new kind of spa treatment, (I shit you not) the fish pedicure:
http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2011/may/01/fish-pedicure-health-animal-welfare

This is fucking ridiculous!  It's supposed to feel really great, which is why it's so trendy, I suppose.  But, um, weird.  I find several similar backpacks to the one I am looking for, but no kitty.  I leave the indoor market place and check out the outdoor Inverness market.  No dice.  I decide to brave the outdoor market across the street where I got trapped the first day with all the Indian and Pakistani sellers who are like sharks.  "Ma'am, this dress perfect for you!  Buy this!  You need jacket?  Will be cold soon!  Buy this!  I give you special price!"  Uch.  But know I am looking for something specific.  One thing and one thing only.  I see some really unique dresses and sweaters that I almost consider.  But no!  Stay focused!  Kitty backpack.  I find it!  It's £25.  I haggle, offer £20.  The Turkish shop keeper says £23.  Sold!  I am hungry and the only groceries I have at Angela's are eggs, cheese and carrots, plus it is too early to go back to the outskirts of everything.  I decide to relax and wander.  At a horrible tourist shop, I buy a pair of egg cups that say "I heart London."  I came to London with the thought of getting egg cup, because ever since I dated this Brit, I've developed an affinity for soft-boiled eggs.  I justify my purchase with the decision that I will soft-boil an egg for breakfast tomorrow.
I wander some more, down the canal, around a large, cobblestone market called "The Stables," where I find a tiny, independent book store with a paper back copy of James Herriot's "If Only They Could Talk."  I've already decided that, even if it leaves me without a pence to my name, I am going to the Yorkshire Dales when I return in November.  Everyone else in my family went to Italy and lit a candle at some cathedral for my dad.  My connection with my father was different.  Zappa, Van Gough, Fellini, animals.  He read me each and every one of James Herriot's books when I was a child.  So that will be my special pilgrimage.
LED shirts, especially one's that react to sound, seem big here.  The rave scene is still happening, and there are a plethora of blacklight shops.  I see this girl done up in an amazing, candy style.  She is ready to roll and dance all night.  I ask her if I can photograph her and she agrees.  Her name is Rosie and as you can see from the photo, she looks perfect. 

On my way back to the Underground to come home, I come upon a circus shop.  They have clubs, diablos, hula hoops, stilts.  I briefly consider surprising Eve with a brand new set of clubs upon her arrival in Berlin, but realize I can't afford them.
I get back to Angela's around 8 and decide to stay home.  It's been a lot of energy output.  I'm having a mellow day today as well. Tonight I don the behemoth  backpack again catch a bus from Gloucester, (which is near Baker Street Underground Station) and get to Luton airport around 1 am where I check in and then sleep at the gate until my plane to Berlin boards at 5:40.  I land in Germany at 8:55, buy a German sim card for my phone, and make my way to Bridge Markland's flat in Kreuzburg (http://www.bridge-markland.de/) where I'll sublet a room until November 15th.  I start gigging (in a circus tent!) on the 17th! This is what I'm here for!  Hope they laugh!

Camden Market

Getting There Is The Hardest Part

After having my flight canceled and spending the night in a posh hotel which I was too tired to appreciate, I arrived at the Montreal airport at 6:30 am.  Air Canada had given us meal vouchers for the hotel, however I had already eaten an overpriced soup and sandwich at the airport.  I ordered a Stella and a chocolate ice cream at the hotel restaurant, only to find out that the voucher would not cover the beer.  The waiter was handsome, apologetic, and called me "Love."  I paid for the beer and tipped him.  At midnight, after showering to get rid of what I call travel sweat, which is the kind of muggy perspiration that comes with a combination of luggage and processed air.  Tossing and turning, I couldn't sleep.  What if I couldn't get ahold of Angela's roommate to let her know that I would be showing up at night instead of during the day?  Who was going to let me in and show me where to sleep?  I hadn't made any arrangements for a hostel and had no plan B.  I checked my email in the morning and Symmone had replied, telling me that should would be at work and to stop off there on my way to the house.
The upside of having the flight cancelled the night before was that the flight they put us on at 9 am was nearly empty, and even though I was in coach I could stretch out as if I were in first class because of the vacant seat next to me.  I was careful not to sleep on the plane too much, wanting to be tired when I arrived because it would be night time.  This is a great way to beat jet lag!  The flight went by quickly, of course getting through customs took two hours.

It is extraordinarily weird to be in another country where everyone is expected to speak English.  I am not sure if I like it.  True, I don't speak any other languages yet, but there is something about being an alien and not speaking the language that makes me feel good, like I don't even have to try to fit in anywhere.  I feel like it is so easy to communicate with people here that part of me does not even want to try.  Of course, I'll be in Germany soon, and that will have it's own set of challenges.

After finally making it through customs, I yanked my 42 pound beastpack off of the luggage carousel and made my way to the London tube.  I am very happy to say that I did not get lost!  The London Underground is amazing.  It's fast and it goes everywhere.  I boarded the Picadilly Line at Heathrow Terminal 3.  On the train was an adorable black girl (she must have been about 5) with her mom and dad.  She was excited, greeting everyone on the train.  "Come aboard!  Come aboard!"  She sang joyfully.  Tranfering at Holborn station to the Central Line, I rode 5 stops in a train car full of drunk party people, the women all dolled up in heels and the men in button down shirts and sportcoats.  I tried my best not to offend anyway with my huge pack.  An Indian man attempted to help me.  I politely refused.  "Do you know where you are going?"
"Liverpool Station to pick up a key.  Then to where I'm staying."
"Where are you staying?" 
I smiled.  "I'm not going to tell you that!"
"Oh no, I am just being friendly."  He laughed.  "I am gay.  My partner is standing in back of you.  Where are you from?"
"San Francisco," I said, letting my guard down a little.
"We were just there in June and July."
"Did you have fun at Pride?"
"It was a great time, but I did not expect California to be so cold in the Summer.  Oh, this is your stop."

By the time I got to Liverpool Street, it was 23:45.  Pulling myself and my luggage up the stairwell and through a cobblestone street of drunk men in there 20s and 30s, I made my way to the Andaza, a 5-star Hyatt hotel with high ceilings and glittering chandeliers.  Ever walked into a ritzy hotel looking like a sweaty backpacker from hell?  My advice is don't.  It's just, well, awkward.  "I'm looking for Symonne."
"Oh, she's in back,"  one of the receptionists said.  "One second."
I have never been so glad to see a stranger as I was to see this tall, bespectacled blonde.  Symonne gave me the key, printed my a google map, and told me to get on the Hammersmith & City train, riding it to Plainstow.  From there, it would be a 15 minute walk.  Again strapping my behemouth pack to myself, I again descended into the station.  The walk was short and quiet.  I reached 30 West Road E15 3PY without a hitch.  The house looked a bit like what I picture the Dursleys (reference: Harry Potter) living in, a white house with a deadbolt lock up high on the left hand side and a nob right in the middle.  By the time I reached the place, it was around 1.  I went to bed by 2.  No jet lag today! 

I woke at 10 and took to long getting ready to leave the house.  My first day in London and Angela had left me a list of places I might enjoy visiting.  What to do?  I decided to take the tube to Camden Marketplace, which is like a giant flea market/tourist trap.  Camden  reminded me of Haight Street, except instead of their legacy being the Grateful Dead, it's the Sex Pistols.  Guys with multi-colored liberty spikes and leather jackets held big signs, "Piercings and Tattoos." There were a million t-shirt, shoe and head shops on Chalk Farm Road, and inside the marketplace, Indian and Pakistani men tried to sell me dresses.  London is an incredibly diverse city.  I'm in a largely Turkish neighborhood, but there are also Indians, all variety of Asians, and many black people.  I have not seen anyone from Central or South America yet, but I am sure they are here as well.  This place is a real cultural hub.  One thing though:  The white people here are WHITE!  Really White!  Like, Patricia Routlaedge white!  Old pasty biddies who love the queen and the royal wedding white!  Bizarre.  I got some overpriced fish and chips and sat next to a table of what looked like the cast of Father Ted.  (The show is Irish, and yes, I know that the Irish have been oppressed by the English, but on my barometer of "whiteness," the two are equal.  Maybe I'm not being culturally sensitive.  I would say I'm sorry, but well, I'm not.  My people are Jews.  The Irish don't have nothin' on us!)

I did discover what I think might be my new favorite soft food.  Mushy peas!  They are, you guessed it, mushed up peas with some sort of lemon and tarragon(?) spicing.  Delicious. 
I met a few tourists from Atlanta and we took pictures for each other in front of Camden's Lock, another tourist attraction.  And then I escaped touristland.  I walked along the Jubilee Greenway, which runs next to the Regent's canal, a human-made waterway that runs through London.  It's beautiful except for the fact that it's filled with trash.  Many people moor their houseboats along the greenway, where locals jog, ride their bikes, and walk their dogs.  I walked a good mile and a half, meeting along the way an old Englishman named Dave who was fishing.  I actually saw him catch a perch, but he threw it back because it was too small.  I walked all the way to Islington, where, among other things, I saw a sign for the Lewis Caroll Children's Library.  Is this creepy to anyone?  Yes, he wrote for children, but he was also a pedophile.

Hopping on a double decker bus without knowing where it was going, I ended up at King's Cross where I finally bought a pay-as-you-go nokia phone and vodaphone sim card.  Now it's a little after 18:00 and I wonder what I'll go this evening.  What does one do at night in London when not carrying around a 42 pound backpack.  We will see.
Tomorrow it's either Covent Garden to see the professional Buskers or twisting balloons on the South Bank of the Thames, the only place in London you don't need a permit to busk.  I'm going to need to do some of that before I go, because this city is EXPENSIVE.