Brick Lane Beigel Bake: A Proper Bagel in Crumpet Territory

I know what you're thinking. A proper Jewish bakery in London? What? Quizzical faces all around, right? Believe it, folks. Enter Brick Lane Beigel Bake. Turns out, Shoreditch, where the spot is located, used to be a Jewish outpost in London. Who knew? Odd spelling aside (must be a Yiddish UK thing), I had to check it out.

Brick Lane Beigel Bake (don't pretend that isn't really fun to say) is situated in the middle of one of the most vibrant markets in the city, on Sundays at least. That's the day when Petticoat Market, both Old and New Spitalfields, Brick Lane and several other unnamed markets all spring to live within walking distance of each other, featuring plenty of good bargains, unusual finds, copious ethnic street food, and crowds of both artsy tourists and funky locals alike. And yet, in the middle of all this hustle and bustle, the unassuming Bake still has a queue out the door most of the time. It doesn't look like much from the outside, or the inside either for that matter, but something good must be going on to draw that kind of a crowd.

Bagel enthusiast with a healthy appetite and sense of curiosity that I am, I had to taste it for myself. Imagine my delight when I discovered not only is the Bake delicious, but reasonably priced and open 24 hours. Their salt beef is apparently the stuff of legend. I wouldn't know, not being a salt beef fan, but their smoked salmon and cream cheese bagel? To die for, at a bank-breaking pound sixty-five. Lunch for under two quid? Sign me up, mate.

Even after my taste treat rode around in my bag for an hour as I carted it home, this baby was delectable. Everything a bagel should be, in fact: eggshell-hard on the outside, chewy on the inside, with a thick schmear of real, rich cream cheese (none of that low-fat stuff for Brick Lane), and three, count 'em, three long slices of smoked salmon topping it all off. The verdict? This is one sandwich I'm more than happy to queue up for. Especially if I find some loose change in my pocket.

Fernando & Wells: the Perfect Flat White

now isn't that a thing of beauty? 

Sometimes, you just need a cup of coffee. But not just any cup of coffee. A proper, foamy, frothy, full-bodied, ceramic-mugged cup o' glory. Enter the flat white.

The flat white is the Down Under take on a cappucino, still using espresso as its base, but topped with microfoam instead of dry foam. Quick tutorial: microfoam is obtained by heating the milk to a lower temperature (typically 60-70 degrees Celsius), retaining fat and proteins in the milk which contribute to a silkier, sweeter flavor and thicker head than the large-bubbled, often tasteless dry foam often characteristic of a cheap cappu. In recent years, the flat white has gained popularity throughout the UK, and is often served with "latte art" on top, a design painted into the foam. And man, is it tasty.

A multitude of coffee shops (including that dreaded corporate giant, Starsucks) have started carrying the flat white recently, probably in keeping with the rise of sophisticated coffee bars in London. Being the coffee snob that I am, I had to have the best and the brightest, so I headed to Fernandez & Wells' espresso bar, a Soho institution touted as one of London's best cafes.

Now, given that I desperately sought a respite from gale-force winds and driving rain at the moment I found F&W, my perception of its majesty might be somewhat, shall we say, biased. But this place is pretty much all that an espresso bar should be. Menu items are listed in black marker on mirrors behind the bar, and the coffee selections are limited to the categories of beverage they offer (espresso, tea, drip) so customers in the know can request their style to order. An array of both hot and cold artisanal sandwiches and cakes were piled high along the blonde wood bar, accented nicely by a red countertop behind. Seating is provided by a bench across the opposite wall, with several industrial steel-style cafe tables and a few chairs scattered around. This tiny establishment can probably hold twenty people, max. In the rain, push to twenty-five. Humanity, after all.

And the coffee? Delicious. My flat white arrived with a charming swirly-heart on top which I hated to ruin by stirring in a spoonful of raw sugar. Lucky enough to snag a table, I cozied up with a book and my cup and sat happy as a little clam, enjoying my reading with one ear out for the playful banter of the black-and-white clad barristas, new-age folk music and the hum of conversation burbling in the background. Situated down a twee alleyway, this place is for those in the know, and the clientele reflected the funky flavor of Soho residents and frequenters.

All in all? A most excellent way to spend a rainy afternoon in London. My hour or so in Fernando & Wells must have been the most relaxing period of my entire London tenure. That is, until I had to battle the rest of the sodden public for a tube ride home.

A Proper Roast: The Adventure

I confess: I'm having an illicit love affair with Yorkshire pudding. For the uninitiated, Yorkshire pudding isn't a pudding at all, in either the British (dessert catch-all) or American (goopy gelatinous variety) sense. The closest Stateside comparison I can come up with is a popover: light, airy, biscuit-type thing that comes with the almighty Sunday Roast, assuming the roast is worth its salt. And this week, I needed me some Yorkshire pud-lovin'.

the little buggers themselves. Don't they look tasty? 

Thus inspired, I decided to partake in what I consider one of Britain's greatest inventions: the Sunday Roast. Touted as a taste of home for those far afield, an excellent hangover cure and an excuse to lounge all afternoon eating and drinking copious amounts of delectable fare over the Sunday paper, the Roast is a lovely tradition to enjoy, particularly on a cold and blustery Sunday afternoon or evening. Check and check for yesterday's weather, so I grabbed a friend and off we went in search of fabulous feasting.

Alas, not our destination. Better luck next time.

So we went. And we went. And we wandered all around Shoreditch in search of The Carpenter's Arms, an out-of-the-way hidey hole of a pub. My American companion and I are of the same mind: that tucked-away places tend to be of a higher calibre than those on the high street, and we haven't been disproven yet. The side effect, of course, of this mindset is that we spend a lot of time wandering around. But! But! We did find our destination without too much trouble, thanks in large part to my friend's blackberry and its mapping feature. God bless handheld computers. Sadly, our rejoicing was cut short by two thick chalk lines drawn through the roast portion of the chalkboard menu. Foiled, by golly.

But we would not be deterred! After all, this was a quest, and we were hungry. Very hungry. And cold. But not, it turns out, too much of either to wander around Shoreditch for somewhere in the neighborhood of another two hours before reaching our next destination: The Owl and the Pussycat.

Compliments of flickr. Hey, it was nighttime.

With our last ounces of strength and patience, we hoofed it up to the dimly-lit creatively decorated upstairs dining room, fully equipped with rough-hewn wooden tables and rockabilly wait staff and bar that balanced on the edge of funky and frumpy. Was it worth it? Oh, yeah. First, the bread basket. Do you know how rare is to find a bread basket at a London pub, particularly one with chewy granary bread and soft, spreadable butter? This was heaven on a little wooden plate, my friend. A generous pour of red wine (mediocre, but this is Britain, after all) soon arrived for me and a pint of something strong and tasty for my friend, and we were well on our way. Next: the main event. Let me sum it all up by saying I don't remember the last time I ate beef, but if I could have my choice of ways to break my moo-cow fast, this would be it all over again. And again. Our plates (or should I say, platters) arrived heaped with two thick-cut slabs of beef, tender enough to cut with a butter knife and perfectly rosy in the center, a modest pile of roasted root vegetables, duck-fat roasted potatoes and shredded red cabbage in wine, all swimming in dark, rich gravy and topped off with a Yorkshire pudding crown the size of my fist. Success, my friends. Ample success.

see, there they are again. With their buddy Mr. Beef. 

Because you can't have a proper Sunday roast without dessert, we opted to go soup-to-nuts on this one and pile more bounty into our already-bursting tummies. I went for the "lavender burnt cream with wholemeal shortbreads," hoping for something exciting and delicious. As I soon discovered, "burnt cream = creme brulee." Awesome. And it was. Oh, it was. Sweet, flowery, and slightly spicy, the lavender balanced out the creaminess perfectly, all topped off with that burnt sugar I could eat all day.

I'll be honest, the adventure wasn't cheap. I wouldn't be able to afford this sort of thing every week, particularly not on my current student's salary (snicker), but for a special occasion? Definitely worth the trek. And hey, Sunday is a special occasion, right?

The best part? We staggered out of the Owl and Pussycat, our bloated bellies leading the way, and turned left out the door. There, literally two minutes down the street, was our metro stop. The only thing better than cozying up for the evening with a fabulous feast? Toddling home to your bed afterward without wandering two hours to get there. Overall? A well-orchestrated evening, indeed.

Travel: the way I see it

this is London 

I'm afraid I've neglected you a bit, my dear blog followers. Truth be told, I haven't been doing anything particularly blog-worthy, just wandering around this beautiful city and taking it all in while I'm here to do so. As those who know me well have probably noticed, I'm not one for touristy stuff. When I was teaching photography on the Putney student travel group, I tried to instill one lesson in my students: don't take the same photographs as everyone else. Don't just walk blindly around, snapping shots of this monument, that church, the same famous picture of the same famous stuff that thousands of people have seen and photographed thousands of times before. You might as well stay home and buy the coffee table book. Save yourself the money, the foot aches, the jet lag. Why take a photo of a photo? That's empty, meaningless, and worthless. If you spend all your time in a place trying to capture The Sights, you'll miss it entirely.

and this is London 

As far as I'm concerned, if you're going to experience a new city by running around madly trying to get to every tourist attraction, tick all the Must Do's off your list, you're going to be so busy Doing It that you'll forget to appreciate where you are. You'll forget that this place, this new place you're just now discovering, is home to someone. Someone sees these sights everyday. Someone walks past the Eiffel tower on his way to work. Someone else nods hello at Big Ben on the bus every morning. Someone else forgets to look at the pyramids because he's late to pick up his kids from school. What do the locals see in this "new" city? What do they do? What "sights" do they appreciate? When you stop to look at the things the tourists miss, that's where you'll really see a city. That's when you'll really be there.

and this is London, too 

When I travel, I like to find the pulse of a place. The heartbeat. I like to find the local cafes, the out-of-the-way pubs, the little markets where grandmothers do their shopping on a Saturday morning. I like to see the garbage collectors, the men in business suits outside the bank, the kids getting home from school. Sure, I'll take in a museum or an art gallery. I'll snap the requisite photos of the Important Stuff, but I always try to find a new angle, a different approach. There's nothing wrong with appreciating the monuments, museums, or memorials for which a place has become famous. But don't stop there. Don't let that be all you see, all you do.

it's all London, because it's all real

 A photo of Big Ben isn't a memory. But getting lost because you tried to take the train there yourself instead of the guided tour? Eating a kebab from the little stand down the street because it looked good, not the four-star Lonely Planet-recommended chain pub on the High Street?  You'll remember the people you saw on the train ride, the way your heart leapt when you finally, finally reached your destination all of your own volition. You'll remember the way the kebab tasted, and your excitement at discovering this little place, standing in line with the construction workers who eat here every day. The scents. The sounds. The feelings. Those are worth remembering. Those are the reasons to travel. At least, those are mine.

Oxford: the now semi-annual pilgrimage

"I wonder anybody does anything at Oxford but dream and remember, the place is so beautiful. One almost expects the people to sing instead of speaking. It is all. . . like an opera." William Butler Yeats said this about Oxford, and I am inclined to agree. Well, maybe not about the singing part. It was raining pretty hard, and no one except Fred Astaire actually sings in the rain.  Oxford has been my English home-away-from-home since I studied abroad there the summer after my freshman year at St. Bonaventure,  so of course I had to make a trip farther afield to visit the old stomping grounds.

I didn't take this photo, but isn't it cool? 

Getting to Oxford from London is quite easy: just hop the misleadingly-named Oxford Tube bus from Victoria station, settle in for an hour and a half, and it drops you right off at the high street. Simple! No trip to Oxford would be complete without a stop at the Eagle and Child, a delightfully cozy little pub where J.R.R. Tolkien, C.S. Lewis and the rest of "The Inklings" are said to have discussed their writing over a pint back in the day. It was also a favorite hangout of ours when I studied at Somerville, so a visit to Oxford would not have been complete without it. Not to mention, they have a pretty excellent selection of house cask ales and seasonal brews to accompany their rib-warming pies and entrees. Shepherd's pie with a nice pint of bitter on a cold, rainy afternoon? Yes, please!

okay, I didn't take this either. Still, eye candy! 

After lunch, we took a meandering stroll through the winding streets of  the city, taking in the breathtaking architecture of the 38 colleges that make up Oxford University. The soaring towers, flying buttresses (I love that word), ornate scaffolding and grimacing gargoyles all make for some quality oggling, even if it is a bit misty. That's the thing about Oxford: its uneven cobblestone streets, cramped alleyways and hidey-hole pubs are comfortable and welcoming, even amidst all the pomp and circumstance of Trinity College, King's College, the Bodleian Library and other shi-shi institutions. Sure, you can find your share of stuffy-looking professors and snobby students bundled in pretentious college-colors scarves, but the occupants are decidedly more relaxed than Londoners: you won't find the uptight fashionistas in stilettos stumbling along the stones, nor the frenetic atmosphere for which Central London is known. No, the pace of Oxford is slower, more stately, and infinitely more welcoming than the nearby metropolis.

The blackboard lists the cask ales and selections of the season 

My compatriot and travel companion decided Oxford would make a great place for a haircut, so I sat and read British Cosmo in a salon for a bit while she got her locks chopped. We also stopped in a sporting goods store so she could buy a basketball. Not exactly your typical tourist activities, but we're not what you would call typical tourists. Once we got tired of wandering around (and thirsty for another pint), we ducked into Turf Tavern, tucked away down a winding alley under the Bridge of Sighs. They have an excellent selection of house ales, bitters and lagers, so we took the opportunity to sip a nice dark brew and rest our feet for a spell. It was a two-beer kind of day.

Poet Matthew Arnold called Oxford "home of lost causes and forsaken beliefs and unpopular names and impossible loyalties" and I'd have to agree with at least the last. I don't know anyone who's spent any significant amount of time in Oxford and not come away in love with the place. I know I am, and I'm definitely glad I grabbed the chance to go back.

Camden Market: Of the Weird and the Wonderful

forgot my camera, so you'll have to settle for some stock photoage

Hello, my name is Lizz and I am addicted to London's market scene. There, I said it. Two weekends in a row now,  I've spent the majority of at least one day wandering through market stalls, oggling everything from scarves to cakes and back again. In my defense: I didn't intend to market yesterday. I was meeting a friend for dinner in Camden and figured I'd case the joint early, get the lay of the land. Is it my fault if I stumbled into London's largest, most colorful alternative market scene? I'm the victim here.

Anyway. Yesterday, I wandered into Camden Market, a sprawling, largely underground market catering to the punk/goth/alternative scene. In other words: overrun with teenagers in technicolor mohawks,  studded leather, black lace, subversive-themed t-shirts and piercings on their piercings. An interesting crowd, interspersed with foreign tourists staring more intently at Those Punk London Kids than the goods for sale. I think I heard more Italian in Camden Locks than I did in Rome. Regardless, this market was a blast.

What is Camden like? Picture the touristy section (we'll go with Times Square) in New York City. Now picture the street markets in Florence. Now cross your eyes like you're doing one of those Magic Eyes and blend the two together. That's Camden High Street. The place is buzzing with tattoo and piercing shops, lots of those kitschy places selling London-themed tchotches and plenty of fast food. The markets run the length of the street, up and down the lock (which is also very pretty in its own right) and several side streets. Plenty of vintage, plenty of antiques, and more than enough cheap-looking clothes to keep the kiddies happy.

I don't know if I'd buy anything here, mostly because it seems to run in one of three veins: mass-produced in China, cool and unique at the time but totally useless once it gets home, and antique and expensive. But hey, I'm a dedicated window shopper (or is that stall shopper?) so I'm more than happy to poke my way through racks of furs, piles of metal signs probably stolen in the dead of night from some un-CCTVed corner, and trolleys full of Chanel-type scarves for hours on end. Need a break? No worries: plenty of reasonably-priced ethnic food from every corner of the globe hawked by some very vocal standkeepers. Mulled wine and donuts in flavor varieties I never knew existed? Don't mind if I do. It's an addiction. Or a calling. Or both.

To market, to market

Spitalfield market from above. Check out those stands! 

Yesterday, upon the excellent suggestion of my flatmate Mags, I packed up my camera and my sense of adventure and went a-marketing at Spitalfield and Brick Lane markets in London. The two have very distinct, very different styles, and a little something for every taste along the way.

Spitalfied Market reminds me of a craft show: most of the goods are homemade and many err on the expensive side. Looking for a peacock feather collar for your winter coat? How about a hand-spun mohair shawl? A necklace made of old spoons and an antique pocket watch?



Check Spitalfield. The market is mostly indoors, in a cavernous mall-like structure lined with local chain restaurants and buzzing with locals and tourists alike.  There are two sections: the one labeled "Old Spitalfield" proved more my style, as that one mingled craftsy-type stalls with food vendors hawking their wares, many offering samples and free demonstrations to passers-by, in hopes of generating some business for themselves.

a photo of cameras! Look how witty I can be! 

Brick Lane market is mostly vintage clothing, jewelry, bags and scarves, and an absolute treasure trove for those willing to put in a little elbow grease. The sprawling indoor market was absolutely crammed to the gills with every style you could imagine, from hand-tooled leather bags, Russian scarves, jewelry made out of legos and children's toys and the quintessentially British graphic t-shirts. Brick Lane's food area boasted cuisine from a variety of ethnicities to tempt the palate: Mexican, Japanese, Spanish, Thai, Mongolian, French, Ethiopian, you name it. The sights and smells were enticing, but this was a photo mission, not a stuff-my-face mission, so I trolled with my lens, not my stomach  (this time!)

 The street swarmed with artsy-type people of all ages and origins, although the Brick Lane market appeared to cater much more to the younger, London-dwelling set than Spitalfield. I got the sense Brick Lane was the hep spot for those who have mastered the art of London Vintage Couture: spend thousands of pounds looking like you don't really care what you wear, add a generous dose of self-importance, stir in a dash of disdain for anyone whose outfit doesn't look like a hodge podge of decades and influences, and smoke like a chimney while munching a vegan Thai wrap. But I digress.

As you can see, the market scene is a photographer's paradise: the colors, textures, patterns, and quirky still-lifes just waiting to be snapped could easily eat an afternoon. And for the photog who also likes to shop? Stop the presses, and hope I don't have any work to do, because this girl's day is gone. I didn't snag any good deals this time around, but now that I know the ways of the market scene, I know where I'm going for Christmas shopping. Forget Oxford Street, Brick Lane is the place to get good deals on unique finds. After all, for the savvy bargain-hunter, that's what shopping in the city is all about.

they didn't have enough table space, apparently. 

om non nom. Italian tasty treats. 

glasses made of old bottles? How cool is that?

Some seriously awesome purses. My wallet cried a little.

Feasting on London's Finest

This just in! All British food is NOT terrible. I know what you're thinking, and I was skeptical too at first. But trust me on this folks: there is good food to be had in this city, even if much if it is international. You just have to know where to look. Anyone who knows me well knows I LOVE food. I love reading about it, looking at it, shopping for it, cooking it, and most of all, eating it. This week is also the London Food Festival, so the timing was right for me to go nosh on some London goodies. The actual festival takes place in restaurants across the city, the majority of which are out of my price range. So I decided to do it my own way and hit the market for some home-grown goodies instead.

Covent Garden (one view at left) is one of my favorite places to go hang out, mostly because of the variety of good shopping in both the covered stalls and nearby Apple and Jubilee markets as well as the excellent people-watching. There's also a Real Food market outside on select days, showcasing the wares of local farmers, butchers, and general food producers from a surprising variety of nationalities and backgrounds. Buskers and street performers hang around the perimeter and a musician or two can usually be found inside, both of which make for an interesting afternoon.

Today was sunny and summer-warm (I'd say about 70 degrees, maybe warmer in the sun) so I took my time wandering over to Covent Garden. Okay, okay, I got lost. I don't know what it is about markets, but no matter what city I'm in, I tend to lose them. Florence, Rome, Paris, London, it doesn't matter. If there's a market tucked away somewhere, it will take me twice as long to find as any other landmark, guaranteed. Needless to say, once I did find it, I was very glad I did.

Next challenge: what to sample. The Real Food market consists of vendors selling everything from Mediterranean wares like tabbouleh, humus and balaclava, farm-raised lamb and beef, hot sauces and chutneys, all sorts of breads, pastries and tarts, pierogis and Polish sausages, Italian meats and cheeses, Spanish paella and mussel stew, Mexican corn crepes with grilled veggie filling, German bratwurst, local fruits and vegetables, cupcakes, and even one stand selling fresh oysters and champagne. Everything looked delicious, and it took me several passes to figure out my options, never mind what I wanted to try myself. Ever the frugal traveler, my wallet finally won out. Most everything went for between 3 and 6 pounds, which isn't bad considering a meal in that vicinity can easily run a person 10-15. But why pay 3 pounds for a meat pie or bratwurst when I can get a full meal for 5.50? The Polish stand was selling a "lunch box" containing a scoop of grilled spiced potato chunks, a scoop of salad (think coleslaw with some sort of light oil instead of mayo), pickles and a Polish sausage piece or chicken and sausage skewer for 5.50. Sold, to the hungry American!

I wish I had remembered my camera, because this little box was a thing of beauty. Okay, okay, it kind of looked like a cafeteria-style paper box full of junk. But man, was it tasty. The Polish sausage (Kielbasa in my house, thankyouverymuch) was of the smoked variety: juicy enough to squirt at me when poked with my little wooden fork but tender enough to fall apart with some encouragement from the same. The potatoes were nicely spiced, but not spicy enough to take off any taste buds, and the salad and pickles made a nice, fresh compliment to the heartier components.

 Best of all: I got to eat the whole thing sitting with my back against a sun-warmed pillar listening to a busker (who wasn't half bad, actually) playing American classic rock on his guitar as I watched people of all nationalities wander by. I could listen in on accents and languages from all over the world and catch aromas of charcoal and cigarette smoke, the tang of countless different sauces, and the occasional whiff of some man's too-strong cologne drift by as I sat there, soaking up the rare English sun. It was an afternoon of beauty, my friends.

Afterward, I decided to take a little wander and ended up catching the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace entirely by accident, stumbling into an African festival at Trafalgar Square, stopping by my old buddy Big Ben and Westminster Abbey just to say hello, and generally getting my bearings around the city. I promise, next time I WILL bring my camera, because these sights are something else. The sun was setting behind Westminster as I left, blindingly brilliant as I was walking directly into it. I don't know if I'd want to live directly in London for any length of time; too many tourists, and the traffic is hellacious, but it's sure a gorgeous place to walk around for the day. One of these times, I'll snap a few shots and show you, from my own perspective.

Royal Mail: A Royal Pain in the. . .

Found this on a blog about Royal Mail dysfunction. Second that, mate

Our flat comes conveniently equipped with two things: a mail slot for letters, magazines and fliers from takeaway restaurants, and a buzzer for larger packages or things that require a signature to be delivered. My parents sent me a package this past week, which I expected to sign for when it arrived. The Royal Mail service, known for its efficiency but apparently not its initiative, chose not to utilize the buzzer method.

How do I know? I was in my room reading when I heard the mail drop through the slot. I went out to get the mail, and retrieved a form with several check boxes, on which was written an address where I could pick up my package. The check box for "we tried to deliver your package but. . ." was not checked. Twats. Anyway.

The London Transportation Authority has a "Journey Planner" on their website which I had utilized before as a useful tool for figuring out the quickest and most convenient way to get from point A to point B. It told me which bus to take, which stop to get off, and that it would be an approximate 2 minute walk to my destination. No problem, I thought.

So I undertook my first ever bus ride by myself to the nearby town of East Ham. The announcement system on this particular bus ran on a delay, so it rarely announced each stop until miliseconds before, or sometimes slightly after the stop, leading to a pissed off bus driver and lost passengers. Never fear, loyal readers! Some other (less confused) traveler was getting off at my prescribed stop, so I thought I was good to go. And miracle of miracles! A post office sign gleamed just a few steps away from the bus stop. Success.

Or not. I showed my little card to the post office attendant who smiled and politely informed me I wanted the Canning Town post office, not the East Ham one. "Just go down Barking Road," he said. "All the way into Canning Town." Thanks, Journey Planner. Some two-minute walk. It apparently didn't realize WHICH post office I wanted, just that I wanted one. There's British efficiency for you. Just to give you an idea, the East Ham post office was located at 860-something Barking Road. The East Ham post office sat at 22. And these are not New York City blocks, people. Good thing it wasn't raining.

So I walked. And I walked. I passed chip and kebab shops, discount grocery stores, a few funeral parlors, and some curious-looking Middle Eastern men who seemed perturbed that this confused-looking white girl was wandering through their neighborhood. An hour or so later, I finally reached the Canning Town post office to retrieve my package.

Holy giant box, batman. I wish I had taken a picture of this thing before I dismantled it, but this box was not fooling around. It was large. It was unwieldy. And it weighed a TON. Trekking the odyssey back to East Ham was not only unappealing, it was clearly not an option if I and my new friend Mr. Box wanted to arrive in one piece. So it was back to the buses for me.

A quick word to the wise: when reading a bus route, make sure you don't misinterpret the little filled-in line. The white part is already-traveled. The black part is yet-to-travel. If you invert them, you will sit on the bus for one stop (approximately a block) congratulating yourself before the bus driver informs you the route ends there and you have to get off. It's fun, trust me.

I never thought about this before, but this is a wonderful invention

Another word to the wise: don't attempt to haul a bigass box three towns away during school rush hour. That's the magical time when all the schools along the route let out at the same time and hoardes of miniature Britons in uniforms crowd onto the bus. I never thought I'd extol the virtues of private school bus services, but let me tell you, there is nothing more titilating than being crammed (with Mr. Box cutting off your leg circulation) onto a hot, sweaty bus with crowds of screaming schoolchildren and the bus driver standing up and yelling at everyone to make more room at each stop. On the bright side, at least this time I was marginally sure I had boarded the correct bus. Sort of.

Getting off the bus was another challenge, but after an hour and a half of this sardine stuff, I was more than happy to cheerfully to take out a few cranky British mini-blokes to get me and Mr. Box safely on our way. The closest stop to my school was a fifteen-minute walk back to campus, but let me tell you, it felt downright good after cramming in with the kiddies.

Moral of this story? Packages are fun, welcome and appreciated. Royal Mail carriers who refuse to deliver them are not. But hey, at least I figured out the bus system and familiarized myself with the ghetto between East Ham and Canning Town. Live and learn, ladies and gents. Live and learn.

Like a Kid in a Sweet Shop

Holy shoe heaven, batman! Yesterday, I took myself shopping in Central London (strictly a reconnaissance mission) and happened to stumble into Selfridge's on Oxford Street which just opened the world's largest shoe gallery. The gallery boasts over 4,000 pairs of shoes in a twisting, turning labyrinth of a shoe-lover's paradise.

The website boasts a map of the gallery, which includes side "apartments" for all our favorite designers: Gucci, Dior, Christian Louboutin, Prada, Fendi, Jimmy Choo, etc. Each designer was given total creative control over their gallery, which gives each nook it's own unique atmosphere. Those lowly "lower end" designers who just made it to the center gallery are labeled unassumingly with a little placard bearing their name, just in case the iconic designs of Marc by Marc Jacobs (cute flats this season) or Stella McCartney (oh, those over-the-knee boots!) aren't enough. Oh yeah, the gang's all here, and I can barely afford to look at any of them.

As a dedicated shoe afficionado, I could have easily spent a few weeks (and my entire life savings, projected about 50 years and allowing for inflation) in this shoe department. Fortunately for my wallet, unfortunately for my closet, my budget (and lack of credit card) managed to restrain me. Still, for anyone who's interested in a bit of fashionable sight-seeing, or just wants to hold those luscious leopard print Jimmy Choo pumps in their sweaty little hands, Selfridge's is definitely good for a gander.

Shakespeare at Home: A Visit to Stratford-Upon-Avon

"Neither a borrower nor a lender be."
"A rose by any other name would smell as sweet."
"All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players."
"To be or not to be, that is the question."


That's right, folks. William Shakespeare. The man penned a great many phrases which influence our speech even today and his plays have entertained the masses since he caught the acting bug in his hometown of Stratford-Upon-Avon all those years ago. As a self-proclaimed Bardophile, I couldn't pass up the chance to visit the home of Anne Hathaway, his wife, the birthplace of ol' Billy himself, and his gravesite at Holy Trinity Church.

Anne Hathaway's cottage is situated just a few miles outside of Stratford-Upon-Avon on a charming little farm one can easily imagine dating back centuries. The little cottage with its thatched roofs and tudor architecture squats cheerfully amidst bounteous gardens and winding pathways, with orchards and outbuildings cozying up to the perimeter.

This photo, probably taken in the Autumn, does not do the gardens justice. The house itself is quaint inside, furnished as it would have been when Anne and her famous husband were alive (although he never lived there). Fun fact of the day: in Anne's day, farmers would clean their chimneys by typing the legs of two chickens together and lowering them down the chimney. The chickens would flap around to get free, knocking the soot down the chimney where it belongs. Nifty little idea, eh?

After Anne's cottage, we headed into Stratford-Upon-Avon itself, where we glimpsed the outside of Shakespeare's birthplace and the location of his father's glovemaking business. I had been inside on previous trips, and it's also worth a visit, although we didn't have time this go-round. 

 Shakespeare factoid: he left his wife his second-best bed upon his demise. Many people take this as a slight, but it would actually have been a sign of love and devotion. The best bed would have been reserved for guests and company, and the married couple would not have slept in that one. The second-best bed was the intimate, familiar one where the couple would have spent their nights (assuming they were wealthy enough to have more than one bed in the first place). Therefore, Shakespeare leaving his wife the second-best was more familiar, more loving than pushing her off into the best one, like a guest in her own house.

Moving on. We hopped back on the bus after a quick photo-op for Holy Trinity Church, a charming English place of worship dating back to 713. The building itself only (only!) dates to 1210, so it's in its infancy as far as European churches are concerned. Here, Shakespeare was buried in the church because he had bought a share in the property, making him what was known as a "lay rector." That earned him the right to be buried there, not his famous stature. 

The inscription on the plaque reads: 

Good friend for Jesus sake forbear

To dig the dust enclosed here

Blest be the man that spares these stones

And curst be he that moves my bones

In those days, a high mortality rate meant lots of bodies, which led to very full churchyards. When the churchyard got too full, they would dig up the bodies already interred there and burn them to make room for new ones. This poem was a request by Shakespeare to leave his alone. As you can see, they did. 

And thus my now-yearly pilgrimage to Shakespeare's gravesite is complete. I came, I saw, I paid homage to the great man whose work I've read, seen and admired since I can remember. Not a bad way to finish off the last weekend before classes begin: a little inspiration from the Bard, and hopefully, a little luck to go along with it. 

Sohoho and a Bottle of Rum

I just have to make three things clear before we begin.

Thing one: Susan Boyle is not appropriate pub music. I don't care how fantastic her voice is, she makes people cry into their pints and that's never a good thing.

Thing two: X Factor might be a fabulous show and all, but you're at a club. Why must we all stop and watch the TVs strategically positioned around the bar for that purpose? Dance, brother, dance!

Thing three: Chicken feet are edible. Yeah, I know, I hadn't considered the little talons an edible part of the bird either, but they are. Wonders never cease.

A group of us went on a tour of Soho-meets pub crawl on Saturday to great success, encompassing all of the above factors. Actually, the Susan Boyle and X Factor were more entertaining anecdotes than successes, but that's a bit beside the point.

This, for the uninitiated, is Soho:

Actually, that could really be anywhere. Ever notice how pictures of streets at night always looks the same? I swear, one of electricity's greatest uses is to make big, otherwise-lackluster buildings look fantastic at night. Anyway. 

We wandered around Soho for a bit, sampling some of the local bar scene before we got hungry. One of our number suggested dim sum in nearby Chinatown, so we toddled off that direction. Immediately upon opening the menu (Chicken feet? Duck tongue? Cow intestine?) at least half of our group fled, leaving the remaining eight or so to enjoy a scrumptious feast of traditional Chinese delicacies. Don't ask me what they were, for the most part. We left all the ordering up to the man who spoke Chinese and knew the dishes, mostly to great success.

After Dim Sum, the pub crawl continued. Something interesting about British bars: it's totally acceptable to fill up a darkened club before 8pm. Granted, the lines out the door didn't start until around 9, but there was definitely a respectable number there when we started our adventure. 

Susan Boyle made an appearance. So did X Factor. So did Abba, Lady Gaga, and the general popular American music repertoire. Cheap drinks all around at one bar, really expensive drinks for some at another, and a plethora of entertaining people-watching all around. This may have been our first foray into Soho, but I strongly suspect it won't be our last. 

A Funny Thing Happened at the Pub Last Night. . .

My friend from Albuquerque, New Mexico and I decided to go to a proper British pub last night for a few drinks and to hopefully make some British friends. We came to the conclusion, after wandering around some lovely apartment complexes and sitting in a campus cafe all day, that we really needed to get out and experience some British culture already. After the day we had, we certainly needed it. 

The misadventures of my Friday went as follows: My loan came through, and I discovered (much to my chagrin) that the amount of moolah I really have at my disposal is significantly less than I expected. I thereby decree this blog will hereafter be subtitled "The Frugal Life of Lizz in London." A local friend gave me a free phone which doesn't work with my free SIM card from t-mobile (beggars can't be choosers, I suppose), so that didn't go so well either. On top of it all, Jen and I epically failed trying to top up our oyster cards, after which I discover the machine charged me for both my attempts anyway, despite not adding a single pound to the card. Or rather, it apparently intends to charge me, as my bank account lists 27 September as the date of transaction. Um, okay Britain. Whatever you say. Thanks for holding $300 in bank limbo while you decide whether or not I deserve freedom of movement throughout the greater London area. 

Needless to say, we really needed a pint. We ate our peanut butter and jelly and canned spaghetti dinners (mine the former, hers the latter), bundled up in scarves and jackets (it's chilly here at night), and embarked on our first pub adventure to Stratford. Much to our delight, we discovered a lovely spot called St. Charles VIII right outside the shopping center we cut through after exiting the tube. Now we just had to figure out how to talk to some British folks. 

Things were a bit calm and quiet with us and our pints until an Irish man named Jason came up and decided to strike up a conversation. We covered, among other topics, race, religion, politics (his and ours), women in the workplace, and writing as a personal and public pursuit. Think that's a bit odd? Wait a bit.

Just as we were about to leave, we found ourselves involved in a discussion with two gentlemen. The first offered to marry each of us when our visas run out, strictly for immigration purposes. Quite the humanitarian, that one. But the comments from the other really capped off our evening: they asked us where we were from, and we offered our states of residence. As usual, they got all google-eyed at the sound of New York. When Jen said she was from New Mexico, however, the second gentleman leaned in and said, in a somewhat challenging tone, "Now when you say New Mexico, what do you MEAN by New Mexico?" Jen, a bit taken aback, replied "Um, the state of New Mexico. It's between Arizona and Texas?" Not missing a beat, he responded, "Well, different people have different ideas of what New Mexico actually is."

And that, folks, was our first foray into the world of British pubs. I'll leave you to ponder. 

Welcome to A Buffalonian Abroad

Why hello there! Having been in merry ol' England for just over a week now, I thought it might be time to drag myself out of jet lag-induced stupor and start blogging already. So here we are: my travel log and daily (or weekly, or twice-weekly, depending on how exciting things get over here) journal for all things Lizz in East London. This blog is still a work in progress, as I'm trying to decide which layout, background image, font, etc. are best, so bear with me as we travel through what may be several incarnations before I decide which I prefer. Anyway, enough of that, on to the topic at hand. Where shall we start?

Like all good artists, I appear to have been a bit absent-minded in my packing, and so forgot (of all things) my camera USB cord to upload photos. So you're going to have to wait for my stunning photos of the campus and surrounding area. For now, a little old stock photo will have to do. So here we are:




I live in Clare House (the round blue one) on the ground floor, with a lovely view (and earful) of the airport just a stone's-throw away. Literally. The City Airport is located on the shore of the Thames in Docklands and the planes land right smack in front of campus. My room (photos to follow, see USB issue above) is, shall we say, cozy. It's wedge-shaped, about six feet wide at its widest and tapers down to the door. My bed is tucked into the wall with shelves above, and my bathroom (shower included) may be the size of the average Winnebago. But hey, it's all mine, so I can't complain. I live in a flat with two other girls, Mags from Ireland and Antonia from Nigeria. Antonia (a second-year undergrad in Business Management, I believe) isn't around much, but Mags (a primary education postgrad) and I get along well. Sharing the kitchen with just two others is a treat, since most people share between five. More on my cooking adventures to come, I'm sure, as I'm still getting used to stocking my own kitchen, using UK appliances (a switch to turn on the stove? what?) and the like. Anyway, living accomodations are humble, but vastly cheaper than living in Central and easier than real-estate hunting, so I really can't complain.

As for the surrounding area, the University is situated right on top of the Cyprus DLR stop, an above-ground railway which connects to the Tube into Central London. I haven't timed it out yet myself, but the journey into Central is approximately 45 minutes on the train. All-told, not terribly awful. I'm within walking distance of an ASDA supermarket (which is owned by Wal-Mart) and supposed walking distance from a shopping center called Gallion's Reach, which has all the usual chain stores, a cell phone place, a Mickey D's and a Tesco, which is the other large supermarket chain. I learned quickly to bring my own bags to each of these, since hoofing it with a plastic bag full of canned goods and glass bottles is just asking for trouble. I already saw one girl lose her groceries to an unfortunate rippage event and it wasn't pretty.

Instead of staying on campus all the time, I'll be traveling to a venue called Stratford Circus in the nearby town (city? I can never tell the difference) of Stratford for class. No, not Shakespeare's Stratford. That's Stratford-Upon-Avon, which I will be visiting on Sunday. I couldn't tell you the difference just yet, but I'll be sure to report back once I find out. This Stratford is (as far as I can tell) a bit more populated than the area I'm living directly in, and will be a nice change from campus at least twice a week. Stratford Circus is near (but not on) the other campus UEL operates. It's a performance space for artists, since the MA Writing students are invited and encouraged to collaborate with the dance, performance and mixed media students to create our projects. For example, if I were to write a play, I could ask theatre students to perform it in class for me. Not bad, eh? Here's a photo of Stratford Circus:




My classes will take place two evenings a week, Tuesdays and Wednesdays this semester, for three hours each. They will consist of a lecture and/or seminar and workshopping of each other's work. We had our induction (which is like an orientation) on Tuesday, and I have to say the module leaders (what we Yanks would call professors) are really enthusiastic, fascinating people. I think I can really learn a lot from them and my fellow students. It's a small program: there are only about ten of us altogether, which will be nice for workshopping. It's always better (in my humble opinion) to share your work and have it torn limb from limb by a small group of people you can grow to know and trust than by a large symposium of strangers. We range in age from 20s to 60s and come from all different places and backgrounds, which is sure to provide some diverse material. I'm pretty pumped to see how it all plays out.

There's really not a whole lot more to tell, although expect more exciting developments in the weeks to come. There's a card called an oyster card which I need to use public transportation without buying single trips, which I've ordered and am anxiously awaiting in the mail. Once I have that, I'll have greater mobility and (I hope) better stories for all of my loyal readers.

I've also applied for a bank letter to get a bank account, which is a letter the school must supply stating that I'm a resident at their campus to satisfy UK bank residency requirements. I've chosen Lloyd's as my bank here because they're large, offer free banking, overdraft protection (not that I'll use it, but just in case) and their debit cards can be used widely throughout the UK. A UK bank account is vital for two reasons: first, I need somewhere to deposit my student loan check which I expect at the end of this week and it makes my money more accessible for everyday expenses. Drawing large amounts from my US account at the ATM is not only inconvenient but expensive, and I'd (obviously) like to stop doing that as soon as possible.

Communication with the outside world relies solely on the interwebs and skype at the moment, as I haven't got a cell phone yet, but I think I'm going with T mobile for the same reason: cheap, easy to use, and their store is conveniently located to me. There is still a myriad of things I have yet to buy, find or figure out (London tube system, grocery shopping at the local market, Stratford, etc.) but I'm confident all of that will come with time. In the meantime, stay tuned! I promise more interesting stories to come.