Monday, November 23, 2009

Going Dutch



What's the point of living in London if you can't hop, skip and jump your way off the island?

And so I did. Den Haag welcomed me with soaking wet arms.

There was something so alluring about going from one cold and damp climate to another. I could finally answer such gnawing questions as, what are the latest Dutch umbrella crazes? (answer: this guy and this guy)

Besides, my lovely friend was there living in a completely vacant flat that was begging for a midnight dance party.

The Hague so closely resembles an English town - fickle weather, cobblestone streets, brightly-colored doors - except for this pesky other language thing they have (strike). But I quickly caught on to the foreigners' just-getting-by-lingo and blended in with my fellow fair-haired friends.

Friday morning, for example, during the 30 minutes of glorious sunshine, I left Julia's flat for a jog. Just as I was closing her door the neighbor across the street emerged from behind his.

He smiled.

I smiled bigger.

He crouched down to unlock his bike.

I had myself a little stretch.

As he hopped on he yelled out to me - "BALLSY" - in a jovial man-on-bike-without-helmet kind of a way.

So I yelled after him -"Ballsy to you too sir" - in a I-totes-know-what-I'm-talking-about lighthearted manner.

If ballsy is not only what he said but a real Dutch word then I think it's safe to say I'm bilingual.

Just before the sky turned black and unloaded a helluva storm (even London would have been proud) I was able to have a bit of a wander around town.

I bee-lined for the coveted toilet-seat-cover shops (thank GOD they had one)


Couldn't avoid some trinkets.


Felt violated by a shop display


and learned a little bit about Dutch culture:

They live on the edge by carting everything from groceries to children in glorified push carts


Their Christmas is celebrated with symbols of a beared white man in red (OK…I'm there…) and, yes, golliwoggs (alright, you lost me).



My Friday wandering was limited since I couldn't see from under my umbrella.

But Saturday was surprisingly glorious. Julia and I, feeling already too big for our Den Haag britches, hopped a tram and traversed the Dutch countryside (honestly: sheep and windmills) to the even more quaint town of Delft.

We saw a church and said, hey there's a church


why don't we go up it!

and up and up and up and up and up we did.


But at the end there was a pretty kickin' view.




My weekend was polished off with the toasty-caramel-delights of a giant stroopwaffle (get some)


Say what you will about the Dutch (renegade helmet-less carbaholic closeted racists) they sure know how to make a pretty trash can.

May I present the Rubbish Receptacle stencil series:






Stunning.

xoxoL

Sunday, November 22, 2009

Posteos presents: Cambridge

I'd like to present the first viral episode of POSTeos - video postcards - inspired by my sometimes new, sometimes unfamiliar, always entertaining surroundings.

Get into it.

Posteos presents: finding genius in Cambridge from Lauren Hansen on Vimeo.

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

Ode to a Night-in-Heath



I went for a wandering run one Sunday morning. I scribbled vague directions on my hand in the hopes that I’d end up at Hampstead Heath.

Not only did I make it to this hilly pasture but I passed by Keats’ house on the way. After running up and down the Heath I was inspired to make a second trip but two hours later.

It was gray and brisk by the time I ventured out of my flat on onto the rail replacement buses. 3pm felt like 6 but I was already in motion.

I was able to make it to Keats’ residence before it closed and took myself up and around the two-story home. It’s a beautiful, white, stunner with wide windows that face small but manicured lawns to the front back and side.

There’s something oddly Southern about the home, perhaps the plane front (instead of the brick that I see everywhere here) but once inside it’s austere décor and creaky floorboards say English all the way.

It was a less-than stimulating tour since Keats’ play-by-play recorded history in the home is lacking. One suggested bedroom was dedicated entirely to a large poster of the forthcoming movie ‘Bright Star’ opening this month. A few headless mannicans stood next to it sporting the costumes of the movie's Hollywood stars.

Yeah history.



Keats’ room was the most interesting if just for the dedication to his death. A sketch of dead Keats hung to the side of the stiff twin bed. Frightening still, a floating cast of dead Keats slept eerily in a glass case near the fireplace.


Definitely cute, though, right?

However vague, you can't beat the Keats house admission for £5 and a year-long membership (‘we hope you’ll return,’ said the smiling girl at the entrance desk). Done.

I set out for Hampstead Heath, not before grabbing a cup of coffee to warm my chilled bones.

It’s just a hop and a skip from Keats’ pad so it didn’t take long before I was once again standing at the crest of the hill that looks out on Londontown. I could see the weird egg-shaped building (a.k.a the Gherkin) and the tip of the London eye.

The sun was quickly setting and the sky’s pink and purple hues against the dwindling fall foliage were stunning and not easily replicated on camera.


There were a nice group of people joining me on this Sunday sunset – families and multiple couples huddling with cups of coffee and tea against the cold.

It was a beautiful sunset.

Until I realized, shit, that’s the sun setting. Before long those cute hues faded to navy and I was searching in the near-dark for an outlet.

Not wanting to return the way I came (how boring) I decided to just hop on down the other side of the hill. Surely I could hang a left and swing back around to the park’s Southern entrance?

Not as easily done. My left hand turn veered right and before long I was speed walking through thick woods peering into the darkness. I could see the whites of my sneakers and the still-blue of the sky but that was about it.

Being caught in the woods after dark was not exactly my idea of a sightseeing adventure so I picked up the pace to a totally casual woman-in-plane-clothes-jog until I came across a small group (a woman in white pants stuck out like a SOS signal) ambling along.

This bunch of teens/adults/vampires, was a little to languid for my taste. I passed them so the serial killer in the wood could take them first, trampled through some mucky paths and followed the bright light of a street lamp (oh holy street lamp) out of the woods.

I may have exited the park about a mile north of where I came in but I was out and only slightly sweating through my too-few layers.

Nature’s bounty, fear and freedom all before 6pm.

Near-kidnap experience or know, Keats sure knew how to string a few words together. I might just have to see that film anyhow.

Ode to a Nightingale
(stanza III)

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs,
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.

Sunday, November 8, 2009

That guy who didn't bomb Parliament

You just have to appreciate London's thirst for celebration.

Take Guy Fawkes Night, or Bonfire Night. It takes place every year on the 5th November.

Mr. Fawkes was a Roman Catholic who was, to say the least, peeved at the Protestant rule that was the way of the land in London, 1605.

Like a good disgruntled worker he went with rash behavior - blow up Parliament! That'll teach 'em - to solve his woes.

Unfortunately for him, and his rag tag crew who planned the aptly named Gunpowder Plot, things didn't go as planned.

Fawkes failed (caught before the bomb's execution) and so the UK celebrates. In bomb-tastic-style with fireworks!

Brill.

Someone even came up with a little ditty:

Remember
remember
the 5th of November

Sure it's vague but look how well it rhymes! I'm sure it sounds swell when chanted by a mob, should that have been the plan.

I went with my flatmate to Alexandra Palace (also known as Ali Pali - adore) that sits at the top of a hill in North London. Crammed at the top of this hill that overlooks London we caught a pretty loud, bright and sweet show.

Thanks for failing, Mr Fawkes.


Saturday, November 7, 2009

Museum review: Dennis Severs' House


Folgate street is a quiet reprieve from the Liverpool Station chaos of working types and bums. Midway down the cobblestone street you can very often find yourself walking alone.

Like most things in London the buildings and brick homes are old. But behind the black door at 18 Folgate Street you'll find the past recreated right before your eyes. This is Dennis Severs' House a "Still Life Drama" where by entering the door of the house you enter a painting, a recreated life of a 18th Century weavers family, the Jervis's.

Or so told the small man who answered my ring of the doorbell. He squeezed through a crack in the door and stepped onto the second step of the stoop so that he was only a forehead taller than me. He was wearing a neck scarf a leather vest and, dare I say, a satchel (glorified fanny pack). There was something about this fellow's familiarity with his satchel that told me this outfit was not put on for the museum's benefit.

Holding the door behind him, Satchel told me in a whisper that I wasn't to talk while walking through the house. That I wasn't to touch anything and to mind the candles, because they were real, to watch myself on the narrow stairs because it was dark.

I payed my 8pounds and in I went.

Sever painstakingly recreated every room, every nook and cranny to fit a mood of 18th C London. As Satchel told me, it should feel as though some member of the Jervis family has just left, that you are constantly just missing the person behind the action.

Alright...I can play along.

Sure enough, in the first room to the right of the entrance way, I find a dinning room littered with tea cups (half full), a quill pen and paper, a napkin strewn haphazardly and a half-nibbled biscuit. There were (live) birds twittering about in cages hanging near the window. The room was lit mostly by natural light from the windows and a few candles around the table. The ceilings were low and the wood floor, painted a charcoal gray, wained and groaned with each step.

The house was quiet although there were as many as 15 people wandering around at their leisure up and down the four flights of stairs. It was dark, just as Satchel had warned, but quite cozy and smelled of burning wood and must.

So I tried to let my imagination go. From the dining room it looked as though whoever was eating left in a rush. And if I stood still I could hear a recording of voices - two men - mulling over the heat and house repairs. I had to admit that the half eaten biscuit looked delicious and the glob of strawberry jam fantastically real.

Each room revealed a new scene and, sometimes, a new scent. On the second floor a miniature Christmas tree decorated the hallway and gave off the familiar scents of the season - particularly cloves and citrus.

In the bedroom of the lady of the house, the bed was unmade (and incredibly short) and the plush cushions had bum indents. I liked this guy's style. There was lipstick on the rim of a floral tea cup and a bonnet (the same as the one in the painting above the fireplace) hanging on a chair back.

It was fantastic if just for the detail. Sometimes while in one room you could peer into another as though looking at another painting. On the second floor I did just that and was surprised to see a man lounging on a loveseat in the corner and a woman crouched down taking (blast!) photos of something on a dresser. I was immediately peeved for Satchel because of his ardent, though whispered rules: "No Touching" and "No Photography." I gave them the stink-eye from behind the picture frame.

Every so often there was a typed up sign placed among the littered tabletops. I think it was meant to remind you of the house's purpose but I found it arresting and accusatory. It read something like "Don't you GET it yet? Either you see it or you don't"

Hey now. There's no need for this kind of tone, random piece of paper. I like to think I have quite an active imagination and I was quite enjoying myself wandering through these creepy half-lived-in rooms until something like THAT came along and brought me back into the real world. I wondered if the sign knew what it was talking about.

And besides, I felt the house was a little confused itself. While some rooms were dedicated to the recreation of a life of the Jervis's, other rooms were doing something entirely different.

I walked into one dark room at the back to find a mess of overturned chairs and broken glasses. I was told by another aggressive piece of paper in the corner that this scene was to mimic the one in the painting above the lit fireplace. And it was, for sure, nicely done Sever, but what gives? What happened to this family I'm supposed to find?

And then the strangest part was in the attic where the Jervis's, in hard times, took in a family of boarders. Their room was a fantastic replica of what I'd imagine to be poor, sad London. The whole family shares on bed covered in some sort of dirty burlap. They've got a pot over the weakly lit stove where there are some charred green veggies poking out of the top. The room smelled more musty rank than inviting but it was still brilliant.

But turning the corner I found a room in shambles, the after effects of bombs. But the room, according to a piece of paper in the corner, was that of Ebeneizer Scrooge. The paper told me that his shoes were left in the corner and his cane is still leaning against the faded red armchair.

Um. OK.

And closer to the fireplace is a wee baby chair for tiny tim (I didn't know he was meant to be the size of a doll). One of his braces was left on the floor. Strange.

I mean interesting, but stick with the program, house!

I actually went online to check it out again and the site has a more clear understanding of what the house is about: Whether you see it or you don't - the house's ten rooms harbour ten 'spells' that engage the visitor's imagination in moods that dominated the periods between 1724 and 1914. Your senses are your guide.

Well that makes a bit more sense. I blame Satchel for the confusion. I think his neck scarf was on too tight.

Monday, November 2, 2009

Weekend in fancy dress

Lesson 1: Fancy Dress

Let's say you're planning on going to a Halloween party.

Suppose that, in preparation, a Brit asks you if this party is 'fancy dress.'

Be advised that your answer should not allude to the following:

- business casual
- prom
- formal wear in general.

Fancy dress is, in fact, a term for costumes. Those crazy brits.

Thus became my weekend in fancy dress.

Being that it was in fact all hallows eve and being that I was the American in the flat who birthed the holiday, my dear flatmates wanted to make sure that we did Halloween right or, at least, at all.

We were signed up for a 48-hour Halloween party in the East End. 10pounds at the door, 6, if you're in fancy dress.

I couldn't let the brits down so I imported some friends who brought their Halloween A-game. One friend brought a full hot dog suit in her carry on, the other friend donned buns and some Princess Leia boots and called on every foreign friend she knew. Together we brought the party.

The hot dog, Princess Leia and I, Terminator,

entered into a slutty and/or goth-covered London and turned their eyeliner-crusted gaze around to a Halloween with real fancy dress.

The party, as it turned out, was a bit of a rave, not quite fitting a hot dog, Princess Laia and Terminator but we made it work and had us a time.

Not to be outdone, our days were lavishly filled with once-pricey and ridiculous activities that we somehow got for free.

There was the little excursion to the O2 center for some Ice Capades. The hot dog's friend tours with the show and she asked if we'd like to come.

Ice skating? Disney? yes please.

We had no idea what show we had signed ourselves up for until we got off the tube and followed about 100 munchkin-sized princesses to the door.


With our 'Ariel All-Access' pass in hand

we were officially the oldest Disney fans without fancy dress and the youngest childless ladies (though we did try to pass the hot dog off as our adult child) at the Princess Wishes Disney on Ice show.

But, man, we were with the band - the Disney on ice band - and it was killer. That's right, all access meant we got to walk behind the stage and check out all the props and tiny skaters in major makeup and little sweatpants. AND we knew Jasmine.


I mean, there's like 45 three year-olds who were clambering for those Ariel passes, trying to swap me their half-eaten bagel just for a feel. Babies, please. This is my due, just 25 years too late.

And Saturday we went to a rugby game. The hot dog, Princess Leia and I all played rugby in college so watching this dirty, sometimes brutal game was a blast! Not to mention I had some vague idea of what was going on down on the field.



Besides the action and besides the moon walking mascot bear, the best part about the game was that the line for the ladies bathroom was significantly shorter than the men's! I've never seen anything like it. A first.

We rounded off the weekend with many a beer in many a pubs, a few wrong turns down some narrow London streets and a slightly, regrettable walk through Oxford Circus on a Sunday through a swarm of crowds.

It was a delight.