Paris by flaky pastry

The best way to sum up a weekend trip to Paris: Yum. Thus it seems only natural that this blog post be dedicated to the (many) food photes.

Indulge...as I did.


Fancy bread near the Arch de Triumph


Berthillon Glacier provided the lovely salted caramel and chocolate dish of heaven


Apricot scone hand made with love by Rose Bakery, 30 Rue Debelleyme


The third souffle of the night, appropriately chocolate, at Le Souffle,
36 rue Mont Thabor


Breakfast mochachino


Nutella crepe just before the Musee Rodin (yes I did other things)


Not blowing it out of proportion at all but this was the BEST fallafel ever courtesy L'As du Fallafel

A true delight.

xoxoL

Live from my temporary desk

So I'm working at the Beeb, right? Right.

I came here to write. But I've been working in the specials graphics department researching figures (figahs) and data for graphics that some very talented designers put together.

All the while I'm reading every newspaper and magazine and hitting the streets in search of stories.

So I finally got my break. I pitched a story to the editor, he dug it, and said, oh actually, we were thinking of doing a story about this anyway. So, voila. What happened to Second Life was born.

It went live on Friday and I jet off to the Hague for the weekend. Forget that it happened.

Wednesday. I get an e-mail from an NPR show in New Hampshire - word of mouth. My article caught their eye and would I mind being a guest on the show?

Pardon?

Moi? Little ol' intern moi? I ran it by my editor, he laughed a little to himself and let me have a 'go' at it.

It was set. I was to go on live at 5:15 the following Wednesday.

Monday: radio week. Me and NPR guy have a nice little chat to make sure that I can form a sentence and have something to say.

At the end NPR guy mentions something about the comments - They're quite, well, angry. Have you seen them, he asks? Of course, I laugh.

Monday afternoon I actually get to reading those comments. Heh. My scarf is on too tight. I realize I'm not wearing a scarf. I step away from my computer and go get some tea. Hold the first pep talk with myself.

Tuesday - NPR guy e-mails with a follow up pointing me toward a (few) blog posts that have mini tirades against the 'BBC journalist Lauren Hansen.'

Tuesday night - I start to read one of the blogs NPR guy sent me. Decide to stop. Hold second pep talk with myself.

Tuesday midnight - open my twitter feed to find I have three mentions - a rarity since I have about a dozen followers all of whom are my j-school friends.

I click on the mentions. Read first mention:

@myLaurenHansen must be the most hated intern on Earth!

Turn off computer. Third pep talk.

Sleep (sort of)

Wednesday - day of the radio program.

7:45am Get to work early. I work in an open-layout office which means I sit ON TOP of about three people. Any phone calls I make might as well be whispered into their ears. Miraculously the guy to my right, the closest to me by far, is out! If I speak at a low enough volume I can pretty much go undetected. I'm feeling good. Confident even.

It might just be possible to keep this little radio piece under wraps so that BBC peeps won't begin to wonder why on earth the wee intern is doing a radio interview on the very first story she wrote for the place.

8:30am check e-mail. NPR guy was supposed to send me the questions they will ask. He didn't. But that's ok, I tell myself. He'll do it when they get in to work in a few hours. I mean it's 3am where he is. I ought to let him sleep

9:00am second cup of tea

10:00am I set off on a very quiet adventure to find a special phone line - the kind that makes you sound like you are in studio. I make a few hush-hush inquiries, lets one of my colleagues is a Second-Lifer in disguise.

10:30am third cup of tea

12:00pm the little radio room is set up and a young guy says he would come up and help me set it up! Glorious. Someone who knows what he is doing. I e-mail the phone numbers to the NPR contact.

12:15pm Twiddling thumbs...waiting for the e-mail from NPR contact. Make myself look busy.

2:30pm I've sweated through my clothes and my heart beat is actually visible through my button-down shirt. I have three hours until I go on air. There are only so many tea, pee, water breaks I can take before people are going to get suspicious.

3:00pm My boss moves from his desk on the other side of the room and sits down next to me. I smile. My foot starts to shake uncontrollably. Hey, John. What are you doing way over here (insert nervous laugh). "Dom has to use my computer." Ah that's greeeeeaaaaat I say through gritted teeth.

3:10pm Boss types really softly.
Every noise I emit is amplified. Why is my keyboard so loud? And where they HELL are those questions?

4:00pm Boss can hear by heart beating, I'm pretty sure.

4:30pm the questions arrive! I take some furious notes and read the e-mail 8 more times.

4:50pm phone rings. it's a little early. I fret. Answer it. It's a new NPR guy "Hey Lauren, we're looking forward to having you on, just wanted to get phone line settings (insert techno speak)."

Uh...I don't know those things but this guy is going to come up and help me any minute.

"OK great...but you're going on at 5:15 you know, right?

Right.

"It's live so..."

Got it.

4:55pm frantic phone call to young dude. "Yeah," he says sleepily. "I was coming up in a minute."

4:56pm Pacing back and forth in the tiny 4x4 foot radio room. Check my watch.

4:58pm check my watch. Check my phone.

5:03pm sleepy guy arrives WAY to nonchalantly. He fiddles with some keys and buttons and this big board. I try to bore holes through his head with my eyes.

5:05pm we try the call for the first time. Fail

5:07pm I'm on my mobile with the npr guy who is getting a little concerned.

5:08pm try the call a second time fail. Pass the mobile to nonchalant who has trouble hearing npr guy because we're in a back room with no phone access. He repeats our phone number at a construction-site volume four times.

5:09pm realize I haven't taken a breath. Breath deeply. Wish I had brought my water bottle

5:10pm npr tries to call us. fails. Nonchalant is still on the mobile. I'm wondering when the last time was that I topped up that phone. How much does it cost to chat to New Hampsire for ten minutes?

5:11pm mobile is passed back to me, npr guy says, we're just going to patch you through. We'll do it over the phone.

NO! I mean..uh..no, I'm on my mobile. Call me on my desk phone.

5:12pm Sit at desk. Look around at coworkers getting on with their day. The room is church-quiet and I don't understand why everyone can't go home a little early.

I smile meekly at boss. He pretends not to notice the uncontrollable twitch in my eye.

5:13 phone rings. Clear my throat. Answer. New NPR guys asks if i'm alright. "of course!" i say a little too loudly. He gives me basic directions. I'm going to hear the last program wrap up, he tells me, they'll introduce me. music. host will come on and announce me and we're off. It'll be about 12 minutes, he says.

5:14 Can't feel my hands.

5:16 "We're joined by Lauren Hansen in London. Lauren, thanks for being here."

"Thanks for having me..."

5:17 - 5:26 I black out.

5:27 "Thanks, Lauren."

Thanks for having me.

"Up next, puppies, babies, kittens!"

That last part is no joke. Their next show was about cuteness! Hilarious.

So I survived and though I've been too nervous to listen to the show myself my Dad tells me that I did fine. So there you have it.

Live from my temporary desk. Cool as a cucumber. I was totally made to do this.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Protests, taxidermy and Boy George

Yesterday was a London kind of a day. It was the day when professional life met real world which literally collided with childhood dreams and gussied up with a little London nightlife.

It was just a regular day. Except that I forgot to set my alarm. I awoke on my own, with a little stretch and big yawn and through bleary eyes gazed out of my one window to see...sunlight. Sunlight?!

I get up in the darkness. Horror! But it was 7:05 and I still had 10 minutes to put myself together and get out the door. I took a European shower, which is really just a small incline from my regular bath (yes, this flat has a bath situation, which makes for a soapy, sloppy and, frankly, cold morning).

But I made it to work and no one was harmed in the process.

It was fittin' to be a big day. I was going to be the point person for any graphics that would come up from the UK desk and I had my first byline story due by end-of-day along with the graphic (!). I was doing three things at once and it was glorious. I put that byline at the top of the page, sent it off to my editor and thought, my, it's 3 and I need a sammy.

There's the monstrous mall just a few yards from the BBC building. I'm not going to sugar coat it, this spaceship of a mini-town is growing on me. I might find errand-type excuses to spend my lunch break there and 'happen' across the top shop.

This lunch break, however was meant to be short. Run in, grab a sandwich with as little mayo as Britishly possible (impossible, in the end) and head back to finish up.

Except there was a protest going on outside the BBC Television Center building. I'd get into the deets but the online site has already covered it ever so clearly there seems no need.

But the scene outside the building boiled down to anti-nazi posters and songs sung through a blow horn about fascist pigs (so European!).

Since I work on the 7th floor I really hadn't even realized that this 'event' was not only taking place but growing. It was all relatively harmless. I got my sammy and swept by the high security with my BBC tag dangling from my neck (the excitement!).

That was until 6 when I was trying to leave and the protesters had 'breached' the BBC security and were in the building and being dragged out by hands and feet. This is actually all incredibly exciting. We were watching the downstairs chaos from our upstairs office on the BBC channel that was recording the BBC break-in.

But then security locked us in. They locked all the - oh - 25 exits to the streets. So protesters were being dragged out kicking and screaming and employees are trapped inside? It makes no sense.

They finally opened up one entrance so I jumped on a small bandwagon of fellow workers who were going to find this far corner exit of the building. We were walking through corridors and down stairs and back up elevators I would never have known existed.

When all of a sudden I walk right into non other than BOY GEORGE. He may have tatooed his face and eaten his former self but I would always be able to recognize that pout.

But there was no time to idle in startruck wonderment. My freedom wagon was leaving and I was not going to be stuck in this maze, I had a supper club to get to.

I made it out. Made it home. And made myself up for a night of dinner and chat with strangers. It's a clever little idea that has taken flight in London and other urban areas. Someone who likes to cook makes the meal. Someone who likes to host gets the people. There has to be a nice mix of women and men and you have to send in song requests (to enter, to dine, to dance) and pay 25 pounds for champ, a three course meal and wine. A delight.


I went with my lovely flatmate who introduced me to the whole idea, but we were seated at opposite ends of the table. I was seated next to a Londoner by way of Sweden, an aged rocker turned professor (who was, ironically, going to be at the protest today but couldn't make it), an Aussie and a slightly sauced young mum. It was lovely. There was plenty of conversation and a surprising amount of wine for so little money.

And the set up was perfect. On the top floor of a north London pub was a little private room decorated like Alice in Wonderland meets Anthropologie


- taxidermy heads on the wall, floor-to-ceiling purple wall paper, chandeliers and a fireplace.



There was also a garden terrace accessible by french doors. Adorable! I had slight food envy of the Swedish girl next to me but otherwise it was delicious. A walnut, pear and blue cheese salad for starters. Something called grouse (game bird...a little gamey) for main


and some sort of coconut ice cream with caramelized bananas for pudding.

I got some more London recommendations from the aged rocker and am newly besties with the drunk Swede (that's right I now have THREE phone numbers in my mobile).

All in all felt it was a London kind of a night.
xoxoL

Gettin' around

I like to think myself a bit of an urbanite. With London, Chicago, New York and, of course, Gambier, OH under my belt I'd say I'm seasoned in the ways of getting around a city.

All the city's have their fair share of public transportation woes. Most of which have to do with timeliness, stinkiness, and over crowdedness.

I had heard rumblings that the London tube was not up to snuff (mostly from NYers). It was slow, inconsistent and not easily accessible. But it did have a countdown to net train clock - a major plus.

But after living here for a month I've found the tube to be just fine. It arrives just when the countdown clock says. They seem to come fairly regularly, though close just after midnight (a major no-no) and are generally clean, save for the lack of a/c, but I don't even have to deal with that. And just to tie a bow around the whole experience, I live just one block from the tube stop. it's a breeze!

That is, until, Saturday rolls around.

On the weekends the clean colorful lines of the tube map dissolve into gray-out burdens of construction zones. The Olympics are comin' (in two years)! And they are taking their time to make sure everything is in working order (Chicago, trust me, you were saved).

So that tube stop I mentioned, the one just a block from my flat? Consider it dead on the weekends. That's not to say that I'm trapped up here on the northwest quadrant of the city. It just takes some finagling.

Thank goodness I'm a seasoned urbanite. (gulp)

It's just that this bus system is a little more complicated than I expected. Not to mention I have an inherent mistrust of the bus system (traffic + crazies = no thanks) And there seems to be no one map that contains ALL the many doubledecker options. Which is a little problematic for this city-exploring girl. I'm east, I'm west, I'm all over this city, but, on the weekends, I'm mostly on the top floor of a big red bus.

When friend was visiting I wanted to show off my gettin' around the city skills. In preparation for the weekend transportation chaos I settled on a walkable distance brunch spot. It would have been two stops on the tube but it appeared on my hand-held map (don't want to look like a tourist, now) to be just a 10 minute jaunt.

Ten minutes turned into an hour and a half when we found ourselves at the cross section of four major highways, a Toyota dealership and the 'Staples Center.'

Luckily, Staples Center is JUST where I meant to be. They have a delightful brunch of giant post-its with a side of multi-colored pens. Scrumptious.

SO we hopped on the next bus that came our way, drove right down the sad little path we'd just taken, past the street where I took the wrong turn, and about three blocks south, where we got off. yes, it would have been a ten minute walk.

I just wanted to show visiting friend, not only the glories of the American industry at work abroad, but also the real London. The slightly seedy, great big open stretches of highway and industrial warehouse London.

Thank god it was sunny.

But I think I'm learning.

For instance, I found out there's a shuttle bus that takes the place of the tube. Gee wiz! For some reason I had the skeps about said shuttle but it's actually quite helpful, if painfully long.

And just last weekend on my major trek from the northwest to the southeast (below the Thames (insert dramatic music)) I took a bus to the tube to the overground (which required a whole new ticket). Then heading back I took a boat (!) to the tube to a movie (hey, I was pooped) to another tube to a shuttle. And home sweet home.

Ah, city-living.

But I've still seen loads of London. So the adventures continue, tube or no.

A sampling:

What is that, a cottage behind a wrought iron fence? Soooo English, it's ridiculous.



Some sort of custardy heaven from Lisboa Patisserie (SO much better than the Hummingbird Bakery Cafe cupcakes. I know, because I tried one not long after) at the north end of Portobello Road



Quintessential Notting Hill



Canary Wharf, view from my speedy boat



A view from the National Portrait Gallery Restaurant



Where the ubiquitous telephone booths go to die, Covent Gardens



xoxoL

Theater review: Money

The star of the show Money by the renegade theatre-art group SHUNT is most definitely the set.

The actors, the narrative, the music and even the audience are just the tools by which we can experience every nook and cranny of this futuristic industrial park-cum-theatrical main stage.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Just south of the London Bridge tube station, past a train overpass light art piece,

that turns primary rainbow colors




and down a unnamed corridor is a makeshift concrete backyard.


Complete with festive holiday lights, ping pong tables, garden sculptures, mismatching cafe tables, and port-a-johns.

The entrance, like anything related to SHUNT (their temporary 'home' is located in a old wine cellar below the London Bridge tube station), was not immediately obvious. Nor was the 'theatre' which is what I was mistakenly looking for.

The 'theatre' was a shell of a building - a cavernous, seemingly abandoned commercial space. The outside matched the inside in haphazard decor - cafe tables with random chairs, festive lights, and a paint-splattered concrete floor.

What was impossible to ignore, however, was the imposing three-story industrial box at the center of the empty building. A lump of grimy, rusted, damp steel stairs, pipes, fence and windowless stretches of metal sheets. It seemed squeezed into this space, as though it was the lone tree that urban life grew up around.

The industrial monster ushered a catchy, thumping rhythm from its guttural depths - a constant Booom chica chica booom chica chica - that I found myself tapping along to, rather than the 20s-themed jazz that competed for musical attention from behind the bar.

The longer the gathering crowd waited in the dimly lit space, however, the more the monster building sparked curiosity and, almost, a playfulness in the audience.

Couples strolled hand-in-hand around it as though on a romantic evening walk along the Thames. A group of youngins dared one another to go trapsing down into the darkness toward the back blackness. once there they squeeled in surprise and fear.

As the time neared 7:30 a man in full riot brigade gear came out from behind the monster holding a dozen colorful balloons in his left, gloved hand. He sipped soda (spiked, perhaps) through a straw that squeezed in between his plastic mask and the top of his jacket.


One-by-one people came to ask for his balloons and soon he was left with only one red one. The air was playful and the group of youngins teased the guard until an ear-cracking gong went off from inside the monster and steam began to billow out of the open pipes.

The guard quickly went around to the mingling crowd to collect his balloons, in a bit of a panicked rush it seemed. The audience was left to stare, drinks in hand, open-mouthed, at the monster to see what it would do next.

A dolled-up woman in a fur coat sat on one of the steel staircases. Here short dark hair was slicked back and she lounged on the gritty stairs facing an orange lamp as though it were the brilliant summer sun.

Just below here a Hanibal Lector-looking man wearing tights and leather knee pads folded out from under the second-story stairs and climbed down and around the structure. I thought I saw a few feathers stuck to his bald head, but I couldn't be sure.

Two more guards emerged from the darkness and ushered us up from our seats and pointed at the stairs to the right of the monster. The crowd of 40 or so huddled together by the staircase and without any further directions, stood for a moment, like abandoned children after school.

Soon a few audience members started to climb the stairs and we all followed. Up to the second floor we were guided into a dark room that had television screens on the walls with numbers in the thousands counting down.

There were pieces of paper littered all over the carpeted floor. The walls and ceiling were just puffed up fabric that, as the crowd gather in, I swear, were getting bigger and the room smaller.

The television count down suddenly sped up and the mechanic hum of the machine grew so loud that the audience members began to scream along with it. It was hard to tell what sounds were the machine and what were the audience. The numbers went down to zero and all lights went out.

It was utter darkness but the sound of the monster grew even louder and the beat quickened. My heart jumped into my throat and I deeply regretted not having dragged one of my new flatmates to this thing just so I could grab on to her in comfort.

My head darted left to right searching for something for my eyes to grab hold of, but they never did adjust to the blackness although it seemed as though we were standing in there arm-to-arm for more than five minutes. When the pressure of the noise and the quickening pace of the machine came to a head, all went quiet. The lights went up and revealed an entirely new room: wooden pews and wooden walls without door nobs.

We all looked around as though seeing one another for the first time, the fear on some faces, smiles on others. We were confused and excited and a few of us were sweating through our clothes. The woman with the fur coat had appeared suddenly behind me. She stood completely still until and man with slicked-back hair and a robe came up and started kissing her.

The audience cleared out of the center of the room and filled into the two rows of wooden seats on either side of this make out scene.

And so Money began.

We stayed inside this chameleon set for the duration of the show, moving up the set to look down, and moving down to look up. The floors were ceilings and the ceilings were floors that unveiled scenes within scenes.

It was a spectacle to behold. The actors were funny and confusing, distraught and frustrated, they said little or nothing at all.

The action went from bad to good to better to worse. All along the machine seemed to convulse with the emotion. Sound - loud, arresting noises indicated the faithful, something-is-not-right mood, and when we suddenly once again found ourselves alone, together in the dark it wasn't a surprise.

When the lights went up and it was just the audience members in the wood-paneled room without any doorknobs and no actors to speak of there was an overall sense of, what next.

But I wouldn't want to spoil it.

Despite the broken narrative, the abrupt and confusing plot, this spectacle should be experienced. Plus you get a glass of champaign midway through! Plus all around.

It is up until mid December. Book now and bring a friend it's a bit of a haunted house in the beginning and strangers don't generally take kindly to other strangers grabbing their hand in the darkness.

The crowd mingles amidst fog post show