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.