The Stars Are Underground

Posted by E | Posted in , , , , | Posted on 7:14 PM

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Although the all-too-familiar phrase "I should be asleep" comes to mind, I feel like posting. I always feel delightfully articulate after I've finished an essay. Why not share that with the rest of the world? And by world, I mean the five people that read this blog.

But a readership is a readership, no matter how small.

This upcoming week is both incredibly stressful and incredibly exciting. I am actually going to see Midori, one of the most famous violinists (and that's not saying much), and Yuri Bashmet, one of the most famous violists (and that's saying a lot), this week. All kidding aside, seeing one of these performers would be a huge event in my life, let alone two of them. And the repertoire they'll be performing is in a (terribly inarticulate) word, awesome. Tuesday is Yuri Bashmet performing Grieg's "Holberg Suite," Bach's "Brandenburg Concerto No. 3," and Tchaikowsky's "Serenade for Strings." Wednesday is Midori performing the Mendelssohn violin concerto, followed by a performance of Berlioz's "Symphonie Fantastique" by the famed London Symphony Orchestra.

If you haven't heard any of the aforementioned pieces, please, for the love of all things beautiful, go on youtube and listen to them. There must be at least one piece that intrigues you. (I'd recommend the Berlioz, movement V, for you classical novices, as it is so deliciously evil and demented.)

Meanwhile, I've discovered that there is something inherently (dare I say it again?) awesome about buying completely mundane things in not-so-mundane places. Well, I'm sure London is mundane for some people who live here, but for me, it's still rather exotic. I have collected a small amount of DVDs, books, and, more recently, some clothes. To me, it's the most intriguing form of souvenir. Whenever I wash my new jacket from Marks and Spencer, I will see the "UK" on the tag. Whenever I pick up "Run Fat Boy Run" to pop in to the DVD player, I will see the "15" enclosed in a circle on the cover (indicating age in the UK rating system). Whenever I compare my copy of "Midnight's Children" with someone else's American copy (which is, granted, not something I'm apt to do, really), I will know that mine is from Waterstones in London. The feigned exoticism is the entire reason that I don't absolutely hate "Transformers 2" (which I saw with some Londubs in Dublin this summer). I just dont feel the need to cart around "I Heart London" shirts or iron-cast Eiffel Towers back home with me. The french copies of H2G2 and Guy de Maupassant will work nicely for me.

Speaking of H2G2, I'm overdue for a visit to good old Bop Ad over in Highgate Cemetery.

And speaking of cemeteries (because most real segues are far too overrated), the BAFTAs were tonight! For those of you who are unfamiliar with BAFTA (British Academy of Film and Television Arts), it's Britains version of the Oscars. I don't actually own a television here in the UK, but I did follow a live blog or two and listened a bit to the broadcasted stream on BBC One (my connection was too slow for streamed video). I won't bother you with the results--you can find those yourself!--but I will say that being only 30 minutes away from the likes of Nick Frost, Edgar Wright, Peter Capaldi, Colin Firth, and various other British/Scottish/Irish actors was invigorating. Remember what I said about being an Anglophile? I wasn't lying. It was enough to distract me from my task of writing a 1,200 word essay on Rushdie (an impossible task, by the way).

But that is finished for the night, as am I. Over and out, space cadets.

Back to the Old House

Posted by E | Posted in , , , | Posted on 5:41 PM

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As I sit here at my laptop, watching the minutes that could be spent sleeping click away into the past, the acoustic genius that is The Frames "Seven Day Mile" permeates my blood-brain-barrier like a strong dose of something directly into the blood stream. There have been a few blog entries I've wanted to write, but somehow, through auto-deliberation, I have managed to coerce myself out of attempting them. I think now, feeling slightly sleep-drunk and silly, would be the perfect time to combine the several ideas into one strange bit of babble.

(I am aware that in my half-asleep state, the following will most likely come off as pretentious and somewhat offensive to my fellows, but I hope you can at least consider what I am saying and realize that it is not meant as any direct insult to any one person. I will concede it as an insult as soon as the guilty concede its truth. And yes, this disclaimer is most definitely a way for me to cover my ass--I am American after all.)

This week is reading week for two of my courses. That means that while most of my classes are cancelled so that I can work on my essays, I get to laze around, eating English Breakfast at 10:30 am and watching episodes of absolutely brilliant British television. However, the extra time, while allowing me to be quite lazier than usual, also allows more time for deep introspective thought. And we all know how dangerous introspective thought can be.

I've been feeling many different things since my return from Paris this past Sunday night. These feelings come over me in a heat, and, as a fever, break and drift away into the coolness of the British night. Feelings of home, of hate, and of hypocrisy.

I've begun to discriminate against other Americans. Not all of them, mind you. All of you back home are beautiful--I love you and miss you dearly. Even a few of them here at Middlesex are amazing. However, it is that brand of American that is far too common here that disturbs me. They are like pack animals, grazing upon the culture of a certain European city, only to poop it out in a mutilated form that somehow only Americans can manage. The top layer, the blades of tourist cites and stereotypes, that is their nourishment. They trample from London to Paris, knowing nothing about the culture beforehand and, through their method of pre-selected munching, come out knowing only slightly more. Perhaps this is perpetuated through the likes of British tour guides who cannot even pronounce the names of famous french foods. All I know is that, when traveling by myself, meeting up with various people for moments along the way, I am less loud, less obnoxious, and more open to learning true culture from those who live in it. It's all about context. Although these other young American students, most likely very similar to myself, are exploring a foreign country, they are doing so with herds of other Americans. The scenery changes, but does the context of culture truly change if you surround yourself only with the ideas of your home country?

I had a couple of ideas upon coming here to Europe. These ideas were by no means premeditated, but I'm trying my best to stay true to them regardless. First of all, I want to be myself. I want to be spontaneous, to have a good time. I dont want to be the Elise that people back home, many of which have known me for years, expect me to be. I want to be the Elise that doesn't have to worry about what people will think of her. So far, that has led me to being quite free, happy, and socially healthy. A close friend back home, one of the most astute people I have ever met, was able to perceive this change in me through my silly set of Facebook pictures. Second, I want to meet new people. By new people, I mean people not from the United States. If I had wanted to hang out with Americans and travel with Americans, I could've studied somewhere in America. I am here in Europe, surrounded by different peoples from many different countries and continents--those are the people I want to be friends with. I want there to be a whole slew of friends that I will miss when I return. I want to miss them as much as I miss my people back home right now.

But where does Paris fit into all of this? Ah! Paris, the beautiful city of lights! I've studied French culture for such a long time, in the scale of my short life. The Eiffel Tower was so much larger than I had expected, the Arc du Triomphe so much plainer than I had imagined, the Seine so much dirtier than I could have ever hoped. Seeing the Louvre and Notre Dame in real life for a change was fabulous. Being up on the top of Montparnasse was simultaneously embarrassing and breath-taking. The French were nicer than any stereotype could ever allow them to be and their pastries more delicious than any American or British recreation. That weekend in Paris wasn't about running past the Mona Lisa in order to catch a train to Versailles. It was about eating Chouquettes in a Parisian's flat with a view of the Eiffel Tower and eating steak tartare just to prove that I could be adventurous. Instead of squeezing through crowds to climb the Eiffel Tower, I squeezed through crowded mètro stations and No. 1 trains and missing stops. Getting lost in Montmartre, munching on a sausage and cheese crêpe, looking for a cemetery that I couldn't even get in to. Picking up a copy of "Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy" in french ("Le Guide du Voyageur Galactique") after stumbling accidentally (and completely frustrated) into a mall that exists under the Louvre. Paris on Valentines Day was, apart from the hoards of American couples doing the clichéd-yet-romantic thing, refreshing. There were no pink heart-shaped lights on the Eiffel Tower, no pink croissants. It was merely Paris on a Sunday.

But it was on that Eurostar ride home that I felt it. Night had fallen and we had been soaring through England's countryside for nearly half an hour, but as the train slowed down and I saw the towering glass buildings of London once again, I had that gurgle in my stomach. You know that feeling, I'm sure of it. It's that feeling of "I'm home!" that you get when your plane lands on the tarmac of your home town. It was that same feeling I felt this summer, landing amongst the concrete jungle of Los Angeles after a 10 hour flight from the very city I'm living in right now. But, how can my "home away from home" be a "home sweet home"? I love California dearly, yet I know that when the time comes, I will be torn to bits at having to leave London, my new home. My roots (perhaps egged-on by the rain) are growing deeper than I would have imagined at this point. I want to live here. I want a flat here. I want to curl up in this culture, in this huge city full of unsavory characters and lovely human beings. I thought that the magic of London had dissipated, but perhaps it has merely shown its true form as something more real, more tangible.

Or perhaps it's merely the enlightenment that comes with finally naming a chronic condition. It is true, I am indeed an Anglophile!


Anyway, Anyhow, Anywhere

Posted by E | Posted in , , , | Posted on 6:49 AM

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Philosophy is wonderful, isn't it? Well, it's about high time that I posted something tangible, for those of you who are wondering if all I ever do I sit around and ponder the existence of the Universe.

(I don't, by the way.)

Anyway, this weekend was a very strange one, and a very long one being as it actually began on Wednesday night. As I alluded to in my previous post, my friend Mathias, while attempting to do the lift from "Dirty Dancing" with our friend Mie, fell down and hit his head on the wall. Six minutes later, he woke up to find us staring at him and calling an ambulance. Through someone's terrible advice (I'm not sure who--there were many people in the room), the ambulance was cancelled. Needless to say, ambulance or not, a handful of us were convinced that he was concussed.

Mathias's concussion mildly affected some other events of the weekend, but all in all, things have turned out all right.

Thursday was an attempt at staying out in London late enough to take the first tube on Friday morning. The attempt failed due to misconceptions with closing times, bad bartenders, and an aggravated concussion. I did discover a new drink that I enjoy: Malibu and Coke. I will probably grab one of those next time we go to B@1 for cocktails.

Friday was pretty much uneventful, which was good for all of us. The mid-week partying needed to be offset by a relaxed start to the weekend. However, Erika had gone back to visit family in Sweden that morning, so things seemed slightly quieter. Bored, I picked up a few cheap DVDs at ASDA, leading to my seeing "Hot Fuzz" for the first time. I highly recommend seeing it, by the way. Quite hilarious!

Saturday started at 2p.m. and consisted of sitting on the floor of the kitchen discussing random things with the Gubbay crew. We decided on making "pancakes" for dinner, but I soon realized that "pancakes" referred to what we Americans might consider "crêpes." The plan involved a quasi-casserole with pancakes and leftover pancakes for dessert, to be served with ice cream and jam. Louise and I went to get ingredients while Mie and Mathias were in charge of making the food. Unfortunately, while we were out, Mathias began to feel sick (concussion repercussions) and Mie took him to the hospital to get checked out. This left Louise and me in charge of the deliciosity which was to become "Frenchiladas with Italian Sauce." Essentially, "Frenchiladas" are enchiladas made with crêpes instead of tortillas. The filling is a tomato and corn meat-sauce. All of it is topped with parmesan cheese and thrown into the oven until bubbly. It was done by the time M + M returned, and we all agreed that it was a culinary success!

Sunday was fabulous. Louise took me over to Notting Hill to go shopping at Portobello Road. It was very quiet and less than 50% of the shops were actually open, but it was fantastic none-the-less. We bought scarves, spent way too much at Lush, and bought student-made oil paintings. Mine is an exquisite black and white painting of Paris and la Tour Eiffel. Finally, I have something to put on my drab white walls.

Paris is slowly coming into view in the distance. I leave Friday morning to spend both Camille's birthday and Valentine's day in the city of lights. What an exciting prospect! My best Valentine's day in years, I'm sure of it. Plus, my friend Stephanie, who is currently studying in Pamplona, Spain, just happens to be venturing to Paris during the same weekend! Coincidences make Europe so much more fun.

Also, allow me to take this time to recommend a novel called The Talented Mr. Ripley by Patricia Highsmith. I read it for one of my courses here, but it is an absolute fun read. I will warn you that it starts out a tad slow, but once it picks up speed, it holds you at a steady pace right to the end. Tom Ripley, an American in Europe, provides a unique perspective, especially for another American in Europe. The crimes he commits are so atrocious, yet, because of Ms. Highsmith's writing, you can't help but root for him. It's a fun ride and a moral quandary all in one!

Family Snapshot

Posted by E | Posted in , , , , , | Posted on 6:02 PM

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Family is a strange idea. Your family is your relatives, yes, but it's simply larger than that. I have a Chapman family, a CoPA family, a Londub family, and various friends that I consider closer than a few of my blood relatives. It seems now that I have developed a European family--a Gubbay Hall family to be precise.

The differences between family and friends are both big and small. They can be as obvious as lowering your "personal space" boundaries, or as subtle as noticing that your personal world is just slightly quieter while one part of the family goes home to Sweden for the weekend. You remember how the slamming of a door exactly 7 paces away seemed so comforting, or how a familiar laugh drifting from the kitchen was like the pied piper's pipe, leading you into a land where the cacophony of pots and spoons is merely a folk-tune.

Disappearances can make you feel empty. Concussions can shake the foundations. Entire days spent sitting on the dirty floor of a kitchen talking of philosophy, politics, literature, and gossip can remind you of a family reunion.

These are the relationships I have already formed within a mere month in London. How can I possibly leave this after four more months? Granted, I will be back home with my birth family and my various other families, but all families are important, no matter how far away they may be scattered across the globe.

But let me speak of happier things. Let me spin tales of trains, strange tongues, Italian sun, and Azure coasts. One sentence from my french professor back home has sent me into the world of the Eurail. "I will be in Paris," she said to me as we munched on tartines and fudge, "and suddenly, in just 2 hours on the train, I will be in Salzburg."

Let me assure you--it is that easy. For about $500 (£319), you can travel for 10 days throughout four countries. I can start in Prague, spend a day in Vienna, see Mozart's birthplace in Salzburg, catch a glimpse of a gondola in Venice, feel the breeze off the Ponte Vecchio in Florence, see Rome, Pisa, Nice, Marseille, Lyon, and end in Paris. I can do all of this, and I will. Perhaps $500 sounds pricey, but I would rather come home broke, my brain stuffed with memories, than with some extra funds to splurge on movie tickets and expos. This extravagant spring break is what I've been saving up for. Sorry, Southern California, but seeing a quarter of Europe beats Cabo any day.

That is my Eurail trip. As tantalizing as it sounds, it will not be a social trip. Social is Paris this upcoming weekend. Social is Dublin. Social is Edinburgh. Social is Amsterdam and Bruges. Eurail, that's my solo. And I couldn't be happier, though I'm sure upon reading this, mom and dad will be biting a lip or knocking a knee (or two).

What I'm truly excited about is experiencing the change between countries. Paris, Rome, London--all of these cities stand alone in their reputation. But imagine spending each day in a new Italian city. Image seeing that relationship between Paris and the Côte d'Azure. Imagine seeing how entire nations change before your eyes in a matter of hours. Imagine walking with Mozart's ghost one day and visiting Tom Ripley's floating Venice the next. In a couple of months, I will no longer have to imagine.

I hate to echo my fellow American students (who announce that they have moved on from tourism while buying cheesy jumpers that read "Mind the Gap"), but this place, for me, truly is Narnia. Sure, the snow has all melted and turkish delights aren't nearly as appetizing as they sound, but for me, Europe will never be reality. Home is reality. The land of freezing 60º and shitty public transportation, that's my home, my reality, and I love it. However, I will wait as long as I can to finally step out of the wardrobe back into my own bedroom, perhaps with a sliver or two of proof that Narnia truly does exist.



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