This Ain't the Same Jolly Old England

Aaaaaaaand I'm back. Not for long, though I'll touch on that later. For now, I'd like to review my recently concluded trip to the Queen's land, London, England. For those of you back in the US, you'll know that England is the land of bad weather and bad food.

But that, interestingly, is untrue. Indeed, my long weekend in England was a stereotype busting one. After a neat trip on the Eurostar on Thursday evening, I awoke in England on Friday to a bright, seventy degrees fahrenheit London. Needless to say: mind was blown.

My ever gracious host and (fraternity) brother Daniel Sonabend and I set out to see the British Museum, which is as representative of the British empire as it is completely unrepresentative of Britain. By this, I mean that the museum is essentially an enormous temple to the various priceless artifacts that the British stole from other cultures and display as a part of their heritage. It certainly sets the looting bar high.

Following that, we headed to a pub for lunch and a bit of cider. This would be one of the few actual British meals I had during the week, and though it was delicious, it probably doesn't hold its own against the rest of the weekend.

Deciding not to waste the rare weather, we then headed to Hyde Park for a stroll, an ice cream and a look at Princess Diana's memorial fountain, which was more like a mix between a wading pool and a lazy river. After that, we headed up Primrose Hill in Regent's Park for a spectacular view of the city. Panoramic views are a particular pleasure of mine, and this one didn't let down.

Since it was Friday night, and Daniel's family is Jewish, we sat down after that for the traditional Shabbat dinner, something I had strangely never experienced before. The food was delicious, and the company was made even more delightful by the presence of a Canadian couple, friends of the Sonabends, who, despite being 50 and 70 something, regaled us with their pot smoking, hard drinking adventure tales. The university age kids at the bar afterwards seemed tame by comparison. (Though that was partially my fault; the heavy touring rendered me sleepy and unable to function).

The next day started at what was probably my favorite part of London: Borough Market. Tucked away under what appeared to be train tracks, the market offered up a wealth of expertly crafted specialty foods, from curries to olive oils to spicy African sauces to sausage. After about an hour and a half of wandering around and trying dozens of free samples, I settled on a lamb burger with blue-veined farmhouse cheddar and grilled onions. Twas delicious.

After that, we headed to the Tate Modern, where the main event was the vast and impressive exposition by the recently imprisoned Chinese artist and dissident, Ai Wei Wei. The exhibit was an enormous field of porcelain sunflower seeds, all hand crafted in a poor Chinese city. The space was all the more poignant watching sympathizers spread flyers urging the Chinese government to "Release Ai Wei Wei."

Following that, we wandered around some of the more famous areas of London, such as Trafalgar Square, stopping in at one point to watch the British Kentucky Derby, the Grand National. I only say it's their Kentucky Derby, though, because it's their most popular race. In reality, it is completely different. About eight times longer, it is filled with treacherous jumps and ditches, sending horses and riders flying to the ground at every turn. This running was a relatively tame one, apparently, as a whopping 19 of the 40 riders actually finished the race. I read somewhere that the lowest total of finishers for a running of the Grand National was 2. I now believe that the Kentucky Derby is for sissies.

Later that night, we met up with Daniel's friend Greg for some good old fashioned Thai food and city wandering. One note, apparently London shuts down half of its underground on weekends, meaning there was like a 20 minute wait just to get into the station. Other than that, though, it was an enjoyable but tiring night.

Sunday brought us to Brick Lane, one of the capitals of hipsterdom in England, a street that used to be characterized by delightful immigrant cultures now characterized by hordes of people in skinny jeans pillaging immigrant cultures. The atmosphere was raucous though, and the streets were filled with the scents of delicious food. We grabbed some of London's best bagels and headed on to Spitalfields, a historic area of London where most of the immigrant waves usually settled. There, we visited a house restored by an eccentric American to look exactly like it would have in 19th century London. And I mean exactly. Like, there were half eaten pastries, and open dishes of makeup. It was eerie, as if you had just stepped in to someone else's life. Utterly compelling, though.

From there, we headed to Hamley's, the British FAO Schwarz, for some well needed playtime. After a stop in a pub, and a gourmet burger joint, we headed to another weekend highlight.

This time, it was the Comedy Store, a comedy club where we saw the Comedy Store Players, Britain's premiere improv group, boasting Mike Myers as a co-founder. It was the best ab workout I've gotten in a while: two straight hours of gut busting humor.

The next day began with a nice walk around Daniel's nice Hampstead area, continued with delicious Portuguese chicken at Nando's, and ended with me on the Eurostar back home, marvelling at an amazing trip.

Chocolat

Peter: Do you know the best night
I've had in the last five years is the night
that Zooey and I split a bottle of wine,
we made a summer salad,
and watched Chocolat together.
Sydney:  You mean Chocolate?
Peter:  Chocolat.
Sydney:  Chocolate with Johnny Depp.
Peter: Chocolat.
Sydney:You're not fucking French, Pete.
It's called Chocolate.
Peter:  Chocolate has got an "E" on it.
Sydney:  That was your favorite night?
Peter:  Yes.
Sydney:  Your best night in five years is
watching Chocolate with Johnny Depp?
You should be ashamed of yourself.
Peter:  The combination of wine
and summer salad and Chocolat, yeah.
Sydney:  You should be embarrassed.

-- I Love You, Man

_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-

As a young male attending college in The United States, I must fit into many of
the stereotypes one would often associate with my demographic.  Thus, I am in a
fraternity. I care about sports more than is sociologically healthy.  I enjoy
movies such as Super Troopers and Knocked Up.  I say "dude" and "sweet" and
"bro" and generally present myself like the red-blooded American twentysomething
I'm supposed to be.

But as a Parisian étudiant and (part-time)tourist, I am inclined to enjoy life in a
much different manner than I do back home.  There are things for me to do here that
are so awesome, but I don't want to react to them like an American.
Example of American reaction to something great:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=70Ak4nW1Rg8

When I eat a macaron that tastes so good that I actually want to spit it out, freeze
it, and eat it like a popsicle, I don't SAY that.  Instead, I say what I say about
countless things here in France, and not really America.  I say that it was
delightful.

Just delightful.

Now before I get mobbed by youngblood Americans opposed to use of this word in
principle, picture yourself in this situation, and tell me how you would describe
it:

It's a Saturday night, and you know later you will probably be going out to the bars
and clubs to get nice and toasted.  But for now, it's seven PM, that awkward time
where you no longer have the patience to do work, you've finished whatever your
activity is for the day, but it's way too early to start drinking, because you
would crash too early.  You're bummed, and resign yourself to a couple of hours
of How I Met Your mother re-runs on the internet.  Then you remember you have
tickets to a performance of Antoni Vivaldi's "Four Seasons" at Saint-Chappelle.
You find yourself in the front row,admiring the stunning 12th century chapel clad
fully in stained glass, and once used by royalty.  The performance is flawless,
with three violins, viola, cello, bass, and harpsichord filling the room with
Vivaldi's light and playful melodies.  The lead violinist is especially impressive,
and as you close your eyes you are immersed completely in the bliss of the moment.

What would you call that?  Huh?  Awesome?  Sweet?

NO

I would call that DELIGHTFUL.  DE-freaking-LIGHTFUL.

And the best part of this, is it's a true story.  That kind of stuff happens to me
ALL THE TIME in Paris.  It's just how it goes.  I could go on for hours about all
of the delightful stuff I've done in Paris.  I've taken a cooking class at the Cordon
Bleu and learned how to make a souffle.  I've spent far too long lingering by a
a particularly proficient street musician while admiring the beautiful views of
Paris from Montmartre.  I've picnicked like a boss in the Jardin des Plantes before
the botanical garden and menagerie. I've walked the Seine and the Canal Saint-Martin
in beautiful weather.  I've eaten foie gras, confit de canard, creme brulee,
frog's leg's and countless other French delicacies (including those mind-blowing
macarons). I've taken in works by Rodin and Monet and Manet and Courbet and Van Gogh
and Picasso and Da Vinci.  I've done all this and more, and it wasn't sweet or cool
or "the tits" or anything like that.

It was delightful, cause that's how Paris rolls. (Actually, not at all.  One of
Paris's great perks is that it has these delightful activities available everywhere,
but people here are not dissimilar to Americans in that they typically enjoy
activities that wouldbe "cool" or "fun."  Despite what I have described, they are
generally not all leisurely strolling around the quais of the Seine discussing the
weather and Sartre.  But for the purposes of this blog, they totally are).

I bring all of this up because yesterday was one of the most delightful days I've
had since I arrived in France.  It began inauspiciously at 8 AM with a scalding hot
shower(apparently if February was "freezing shower month," March was "melt your skin
off shower month.  The trend continues in April.) and then a sweaty metro ride
(apparently if February was "sweaty metro month," March and April are also "sweaty
metro month"). But I arrived at the office of Fat Tire Bike Tours at 9 am, ready
to get some physical exercise for the first time in a while.  Also, it was
seventy-five degrees and sunny. I was a little dubious of the biking, with the
knees and the fact that I hadn't really done any cardio in a while, but soon after
I hopped on my bike, dubbed "Foie McGras," I was hooked.  The breeze in my hair,
the road beneath my wheels, the rubber of the handlebars; it was all beautiful.

After getting to the town of Versailles, we stopped in at the town market to stock
up for our picnic lunch later in the day.  I bought myself a baguette, some jambon
de parme, and a small bit of chevre (goat cheese).  Then it was off to the grounds
of the chateau, where we took in the fields of horse and sheep, rode by Marie
Antoinette's personal peasant village, past the king's summer homes, and down to
the canal.  It was here that we set up shop, feasting on wine and cheese and ham
and strawberries. As I laid myself out on the edge of the canal, I let the sun warm
me up and the breeze keep me cool. It was spectacular.  After lunch, we biked up to
the chateau to explore the opulently decorated rooms and beatiful artifacts of the
former royal family.  Finally, we headed back to Paris, our lungs filled with the
beautiful air of the countryside.

Now, how would you describe that day?

-----------------------------------

Sydney:  And for the record, I saw Chocolat.  It was just delightful.