Brick Lane: ★★★☆☆
I cannot put into words how overwhelming Brick Lane can be to those who love food. In a nutshell, Brick Lane is this: food on food on food, some small shopping tents, and then some more food. The main building that I would consider a food court has food from all over the world, literally. African food, Asian food, Middle Eastern food- you name it, they most likely had it. They even had stands selling gluten free desserts and kosher meals. It truly was a building you could spend hours and tons on money in. Once you start walking down Brick Lane, you see even more stalls and food trucks selling food. Mexican food, German food, all types of cuisines lining the streets on both sides, offering samples of their foods. You’ll pass a small area with some vendors selling miscellaneous items like notebooks or art prints, but then you will find yourself surrounded by even more food choices. To start my day, I had spinach and ricotta ravioli with homemade meatballs for lunch. It was extremely delicious and worth the £8 I spent on it. It was slightly expensive, but I was glad I bought the bigger size and got the extra food. A little while later, I stopped at a Mexican food truck and got a churro with an apple filling, and then after that I stopped at a Portuguese bakery table and bought a nata, my absolute dessert weakness. I finished everything I bought and would love to go back to try some more food there one day. Unfortunately, part of my day was also wasted in one of the restaurants on Brick Lane. I had gone into “Cereal Killer Cafe” with a group of friends just to see what it was all about. We put in our orders and sat down at a table, thinking we would get a quick snack and continue searching through the market. After a while and noticing other tables getting their food and leaving, we asked if everything was okay. More time passed, and after over an hour we discovered that the kitchen never received our slip. They offered to put our order in then, but they were only going to take off part of the bill. We ended up leaving two hours later to a market starting to close down, and not in a great mood to continue wandering the market. I had mixed feelings about Brick Lane at the end of that day. It taught me that if I ever go to another market like that or something similar to it, just stick to the vendors and food trucks instead of the restaurants on the street. I also learned that you should save restaurants like that for the end of your day at the market, rather than try to stop for a quick snack in the middle of the day.
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Kicked out for a good reason
Upon entering the Portobello market I was almost positive I saw the gates to heaven. The street was filled with food and shopping, two of my favorite things. There were tons of fashion items such as clothes, furs, gloves, and bags. On the shelves sat cameras, telephones, postcards, and jewelry. The market was filled with tons of food, hot and cold, meats, fruits, vegetables, breads and desserts. A dangerous place for a woman like me. I never know which to conserve first, my weight and health or my wallet. I usually justify all three by telling myself when in Rome. God forbid you do the impossible and don’t find anything appealing in the market, there are plenty of stores lining the streets. A friend and I decided to poke our heads into a dress shop so she could try on a sequin dress that was in the window. As we entered the store we were greeted by this man whose teeth were so yellow they looked wooden. He towered over us despite my friend being six feet tall herself. He most likely assumed we were not going to buy anything from his boutique but allowed her to try on one of his dresses anyways. While she was getting dressed we spoke about how we are visiting London from America and traveling within Europe. He told me I could buy one of his dresses or I could travel almost anywhere in Europe, housing, food and activities included. After that, as my friend exited the dressing room he told us to shoo and go book a plane ticket. THE TUBE:
One of the things I decided to go to on my own was the London Zoo. I had a fantastic time being able to enjoy the animals and experience them in a whole new way. A lot of the exhibits were as minimalistic as possible and allowed you to get an up close view of the animals while also respecting their space. One of the small monkey exhibits allowed for you to walk into the habitat of the monkeys and gave them the choice of if they wanted to interact with the visitors or not. If they wanted to they could jump right onto your shoulder, but if not they had a large indoor area they could escape to, along with numerous bushes and trees. Meanwhile, the lions had a large open area to frolic in and places for visitors to see them from above, through a glass, or just by looking over a fence. When I went to that exhibit, one of the lionesses was laying right beside the glass, and that is when I realized how huge lions really are. Besides the animals, the London Zoo is known for their conservation efforts and keeping people aware of the endangerment of certain species. After a whole afternoon of experiencing this, I became motivated to buy one of their reusable bags that expressed saving the animals, especially those that are endangered. I thought nearly nothing of this while walking around until I got on to the tube. I had gotten on at Camden Town Station and on one of the stops back to Goodge Street a woman sat down directly across from me. Now this wasn’t out of the ordinary, people had sat across from me everyday on the tube. But, this particular woman wore a floor length fur coat. It wasn’t until then that I noticed the side of my newly purchased bag that expressed its conservation views was facing directly towards her. I could not believe the irony of the situation that laid before me. Within a half hour of purchasing the bag, the only woman I have seen wearing a floor length fur coat, sat right across from me. I do not think anyone but her and I noticed the awkwardness of the scene. On Talking to Strangers
Owning a rubber chicken purse has a plethora of handy dandy advantages.
Now, as a disclaimer, I already am a very outgoing person who loves to talk to anyone and everyone, but I can honestly say that bringing my chicken purse on the trip to London made my interactions with locals more frequent and sincere. Instead of being just another American tourist, I was that cool lady with the chicken purse. People would smile at me on the Tube. If something happened to break the ice (like my falling over when the train started and yelling “weeeoo!”), I would have actual conversations with people until one of our stops, which as my professor kindly pointed out, is not what the Brits do and makes us Americans stick out like a sore thumb. Well, when there is a chicken purse involved, the Brits will talk. I think its because it is perceived that a bad person would never have a chicken bag so therefore I must be a good, trustworthy human being. Of course, I like to think of myself as such anyway; it would be intriguing to test this hypothesis by having a rude, unfriendly person carry around a chicken purse for a week. The most common instance, of course, where the purse would come in handy was at bag checks. I would make the security guards’ day when I would hand them my bag to peer into. I’m sure after a long day of sticking flashlights into plain old purses and backpacks the chicken must have been a nice surprise. Lamentably, the opening into the chicken is rather small which makes it harder to search, but because its a freaking chicken, most of the guards wouldn’t really care too much, and would be having such a grand time asking me where I got the purse and then relaying their chicken stories. Thereafter, they didn’t mind having to put a little more effort into seeing what was inside. Some guards wouldn’t even care, assuming “who would put something dangerous in a rubber chicken?” (Funnily enough, I have, in fact, gotten my chicken searched at TSA for forgetting to take my Swiss army knife out of it, so I guess I have mistakenly carried something dangerous in a rubber chicken.) The chicken has also made some experiences more meaningful. When I was at an interactive piece in the Tate Modern on immigration and empathy, a little girl ran up to me as I was putting my shoes back on to play with my purse. Her mother, of course, was flustered that her daughter had just run up to a complete stranger to play with her purse. Understandable under normal circumstances; if my bag hadn’t been a chicken I might’ve been worried that the child was going to grab it and run as part of some extravagant pickpocketing scheme. But, all she wanted to do was play with what seemed to her to be a toy. It was actually quite beautiful, the art piece we were admiring, was all about taking action and not being embarrassed to ask and give help, and here was a child who wasn’t old enough to understand what was happening around her, yet this child embodied the artist’s thoughts on human outreach and empathy so well. Her mother and I exchanged polite banter as the child played with the chicken and then we went our separate ways. At markets, the chicken prompted conversations with vendors as I looked through their collections. It’s great because I find that when you converse with a vendor they’re more likely to strike a deal with you. I approach markets in an odd fashion in which I will only buy something if the overall experience is good. When I shop in this sort of setting, I do so in order to find something to remember the experience by, so why would I want to remember something that wasn’t enjoyable? The chicken purse breaks the ice and helps me communicate with the people behind the stalls more easily. It also gave them the impression that I know what I want and probably wouldn’t be swayed to buy some cheap, touristy trinket. In fact, while I was browsing in Alfie’s Antique Market, I was asked if it was vintage. My response, “It will be one day!” I can’t wait for it to be vintage, what a conversation starter it will be then! Greenwich Market: ★★★★★
Have you ever stuck your hand in your pocket expecting to pull out a dollar but instead pull out a twenty? That’s what it felt like exploring Greenwich Market. I didn’t have high expectations going into Greenwich mostly because I was told it had a lot of shopping tents and boutiques. I had pretty much bought all of my souvenirs for family and I’d spent enough money on myself already, so window shopping wasn’t really my idea of how to spend my Saturday. I made my rounds seeing all of the usual market products- crystals, paintings, clothes, etc- and then I saw it. Behind all of the vendors selling trinkets was an open area with vendors selling pastries and desserts. My eyes instantly saw the table selling Portuguese desserts and I made a beeline for it. I already knew what I wanted- a nata. Eating this little custard tart reminded me of the Portuguese bakery near my house, and it was nice to have that little piece of home with me today. Then I wandered down a small alley and found the “food court” of Greenwich. Without really looking around, I found another table selling Portuguese food and I was sold. I ordered chorizo stew which came with potatoes & rice and a pineapple Sumol, a portuguese soda. It tasted exactly like something I’d order from a restaurant at home and was a nice comfort food on a slightly cold and rainy day. I somehow ended up back near the desserts and pastries again, except this time near the cannolis. Most rational thinking people would just get one for £2, but am I a rational thinking person? No. I decided to get four cannolis for £7 because it made more sense in my head. It got to the point where I had to head back towards the boutiques because I had already spent too much money on food there and I knew I could spend more if I didn’t cut myself off. The only caveat to Greenwich Market is the cost. All of the other markets I’ve been to have been fairly inexpensive, so buying lunch and two sets of desserts in the past hasn’t been too costly. At Greenwich, however, things were slightly more expensive. If you plan on going to this market and buying both food and souvenirs, make sure to bring plenty of money with you, as some of the booths only accept cash. What started off as a market with fairly low expectations turned out to be one of my favorites so far. If it wasn’t so far away, I’d definitely consider going out there again just for the food. I would also make sure to bring extra cash with me in order to maximize the types of food I could try. But no matter how pricey or far Greenwich may be, I will always remember it as the market that reminds me of home. A Collection of Men I've Fallen in Love With in London
Guy at The Roxy, leaning against the bar. Tall, maybe even too tall. Dark hair, sharp face. He is smiling absently to himself. I think I might approach him. Maybe I can get him to smile at me, because of me. But I don't. The pink light carves his image out of the dark and I am drunk. And I am in love. The Cinnamon Bazaar, he is our waiter. As I talk and gesture I whack him as he comes from behind. "I'm so sorry." "It's okay, not a problem." An accent I cannot place. We order drinks and his face has an odd quality I cannot place. "What's your tattoo?" It's a wolf, and it's tacky. Why I love him? I cannot say. I cannot place it. Falafel stand, he is waiting in line. Standing there, dark hair, face slightly scruffy. Standing. I catch his eyes a few times and I want him to be looking at me like I am looking at him. I want him to be like me, struck by the desire to be seen by someone and approached by someone but I tell myself that no, he is not like me. I convince myself that he is not actually looking at me at all, that he is completely and utterly blind. I walk away unseen. I am in the stalls in the darkness looking down at a man whose face I cannot guess but whose body is stark on the stage and I follow it religiously. It is not the man himself but it is the way he touches the women on stage, his hands on their waists, creeping up their legs, slowly on the beat and he dips them, rights them. I chance a touch on my thigh, black lace stockings, but it does nothing for me. German man at The Porcupine. He has a face made up of angles and he leans down and into my side to whisper into my ear. "What part of Germany is your dad from?" I couldn't say. That I still don't know my father frightens me and he's who I see now before me. "How old are you?" "Twenty-two." He leaves me alone after that. I feel young. I feel fatherless. Two separate instances. Two men, different men - I'm unsure whether they even know one another. But to me they are the same. Darts. The Angel. Flirting at a bar and wanting something stupid and dumb like being fucked in a bar bathroom by a stranger. Cute stranger, talkative stranger. The love for this one man - these two men - is gross and makes me not recognize myself but what if this is myself? It saddens me that some love I feel is ugly, that some love I feel makes me ugly. Drinking a coffee, face cast downward and his breath is a cloud around his mouth. The steam and the nighttime make me want to follow him, walk with him, link arms and let our breaths and this darkness swallow us like coffee. With him, in London. Travel Essay Five: The Best Place to Cry in London
When I was a freshman at Eckerd, I had a terrible roommate. Well, it wasn’t so much that she was terrible as it was that her boyfriend was terrible. He lived back home in New Hampshire, and it was clear she wanted to be with him rather than at Eckerd. She would FaceTime him almost every night, often without headphones, forcing me to listen to his constant use of racist and homophobic slurs and the casual sexist abuse he directed at her. He was controlling, too; he didn’t like her going out to parties and often told her not to wear anything too “slutty.” I did a lot of crying that year, mostly because I was very mentally ill and an unconfident, non-confrontational stranger in a brand new place. I never had the spine to tell either of them to fuck off, and it made me feel powerless and miserable. And I was too afraid of confrontation to even allow myself to cry in the room, so I almost always went outside and sat on the curb when I needed to have a good pity party. It was one such night, with me sitting despondent and hopeless outside Kappa Scott, that someone noticed me crying. They were a total stranger, and I’m sure I looked pathetic: Scooby-Doo pajamas and an oversized t-shirt and sleep-messy hair. But they ignored all that, crouched next to me, and asked me with complete sincerity if I was okay. If you think about it, that’s sort of a ridiculous thing to ask, because stable people don’t tend to sit outside in their jammies sobbing at 11:30 at night. But it was really more about the gesture. The fact that someone I’d never met would take the time to let me know they saw me and were concerned about me — something my anxious ass would never consider in a thousand years — meant the universe to me. Of course, I lied and said I was fine, which is equally ridiculous. But again, it’s about the gesture. And over the years, that memory alone has made it hard to chime in when people around me complain about Eckerd. Fade in, years later, on the corner of Goodge Street and Tottenham Court Road. Different city, same shit: after a gnarly fight with my best friend, I was huddled on the sidewalk against the brick wall of Le Pain Quotidien and just really letting loose. The bathroom would’ve been preferable, but the door required some kind of code to open it, and I’m still afraid of talking to people. So I let myself break down on a public street. I figured it wasn’t the weirdest thing Londoners had ever seen on their evening walk, and I seemed to be right; almost everyone was passing by me with barely a glance. So I put my head in my hands and resigned myself to riding it out. That is, until I heard a soft, heavily Italian-accented voice come from next to me. “Do you cry for a man?” asked a woman who was crouching next to me. Her friend looked on, concerned. Both were slender and beautiful, with long dark hair, wearing high heels and black stockings and thick, expensive overcoats. I gave her a watery laugh and shook my head. “No, nothing like that.” She didn’t seem to understand me, though, and she continued. “Listen. You never cry for a man. Men are shit. You do not let them make you feel this way. You are worth so much more than them.” Her friend nodded and said something in Italian. I laughed again at the sheer absurdity of the situation, of these two strange Italian women telling an American lesbian not to cry over a man, and the woman next to me smiled. “It is good to see you laugh and smile,” she said. “I am glad I could make you laugh.” Pretty soon, we were all standing against the wall, and the Italian women were smoking cigarettes and asking me about restaurants and trying earnestly to find the English words they were looking for, and I kept laughing. “It is good to see you laugh,” the English-speaking woman kept telling me. Before we parted ways, she insisted we trade phones and follow each other on Instagram. Later that night, an Instagram notification popped up: a direct message. I checked it. It was the Italian woman. in these months I have suffered so much for a man, she wrote, and when I was about to die I realized that I am more important. it's the same for you, you do not have to cry, you have to cry because he lost you I decided not to explain. It was about the gesture. I wrote back: Thank you so much for checking in on me tonight and making me smile. It was so kind of you, and I really needed that kindness. ❤️ She responded: you see that you are a good soul and you deserve it ❤️ We haven’t spoken to each other since then, and we probably never will again. I haven’t, to my knowledge, spoken to the person who comforted me that night three years ago. But I’m perfectly okay with that, because all I needed – all it took – was that one meeting. Growing up is realizing that the world is a lot meaner than you thought, but it’s also a lot nicer than you expected. And in a monsoon of Trump tweets and alt-right reactionaries and border walls and government shutdowns, sometimes all you need is a lively, confident, and slightly confused Italian woman to ask you how you’re doing. I am a dog person. I true, bona fide dog person. Not the “prefer-dogs-over-cats” kind of dog person. The crazy kind of dog person. The kind who truly believes that dogs have the ability to change lives. I’m the kind of crazy dog person who believes that humans could learn a lot from dogs - that dogs are, perhaps, the superior species. They live life so simply, and enjoy the little, but important things. Like the warm sun on their face and the wind blowing through their fur. They enjoy wide open spaces and exploring unknown places. People have ruined and complicated so many simple aspects of being human. We have forgotten the vital conditions of happy living. Dogs have not and they never will. They know exactly what matters most in life. They can teach us the importance of living in the moment. They can teach us to accept ourselves for who we are. They can teach us not to hold grudges, and to overcome fear with love. There is so much that we can learn from dogs. But most people overlook these impactful lessons. More often than not, I enjoy the company of a dog more than I enjoy the company of a person. Yes, I talk to my dog like she is a human. I confide in her my deepest darkest secrets knowing full well that she has absolutely no clue what I’m saying. My dog is my person and my hero. I am so pleased to have encountered many Londoners who have recognized the full potential of man’s best friend.
Most people travel abroad to experience diverse cultures and meet new people. I am very introverted. I enjoy getting to know new people, however, I don’t put myself out there. Nor do I make a large effort to interact with others. In all honesty, I didn’t travel abroad to hear epic and inspirational stories from worldly foreigners. I certainly did not travel to London to hear the unexceptional narratives of the local folk. I came for the sight-seeing. That is what interests me most. But, turns out, the unexceptional narratives were exactly what I got. And damn!, am I pleased with what I learned from them. Like many dog enthusiasts, there is no easier way for me to get to know someone then by interacting with their dog first. I remember the people I encountered in London through the dogs by their side. I remember Eleanor, the old lady who aged more beautifully than George Clooney. Her short, white hair framed her slim face and complimented her furrowed, pale skin. Her sapphire blue eyes were framed by rose gold glasses. An oak Fritz walking cane secured her balance and completed her “chic old lady” ensemble. Getting around became a bigger challenge as she got older. Her muscles were growing weaker, she said, and her energy level was slowly dwindling. Luckily, her dog had enough energy for the both of them. Ziggy was a border collie who’s white fur matched her owners. After her husband died, Ziggy brought Eleanor back to life. She told me how much her companion did for her. In the mornings, Ziggy would help her out of bed. She pushed doors open with her nose, and pulled the curtains to let in the daylight. Most importantly, Ziggy was there for Eleanor. On harder days, when the arthritis struck fire through her joints, Ziggy was by Eleanors side, licking her hand and loving her through the pain. On better days, like the day Eleanor learned she was going to be a grandmother, Ziggy was there by her side, sharing all the joy and excitement with her. I remember Audrey and Liam, the recently engaged couple who moved to Greenwich to start their life together. They were young and exhilarated by the idea of growing old with each other. To kick-start this new chapter in their relationship, they got a dog together. They purchased Zoe six months prior to our encounter in Greenwich park. She was a purebred English cocker spaniel. Her deep liver-roan fur felt like silk under my hands. She was docile and excitable. Audrey and Liam were proud to admit that their relationship withstood the tiring and inevitable weeks it took to train the dreadful puppy behavior out of Zoe. They survived the sleepless nights that come with crate training. They never argued out of frustration when Zoe left yet another surprise on Audrey’s inherited oriental rugs. They beared the vet expenses together without complaint, knowing full well that that money was supposed to go toward the apartment rent. They were a proud couple. And for good reason, puppies are not easy. But they now know the amazing reward that comes after the first brutal months of puppy ownership. They expressed to me their endless love and appreciation for Zoe. She strengthened their relationship. Now, they can’t imagine their lives without this sweet dog. She has become an essential building block to their growing family. I remember Beckett, the University College London student who was studying physics but aspired to be a model. Beckett adopted Jaque, an old and decrepit jack russell terrier/pomeranian mix, to fill a certain void in his life. I believe the emptiness he was experience factored into his undeniable daddy issues. He told me that his dad left his mom before he was born. Though Jacque could never really replace his father, he was a wonderful distraction and showed Beckett a different form of love. Dogs have the power to make our lives feel whole. They complete us in one way or another. Whether you’re like Eleanor, who lost her greatest love and needed a companion to get her through the lonely days. Or you’re like Audrey and Liam, who needed a dog to bring them one step closer to starting their family. Or if you’re like Beckett, who find that something in their life is just missing, and turn to a dog to find that something. You are completed by the unconditional love from your dog. Borough Market: ★★★★☆
To put it simply, Borough Market is this: heaven for foodies and hell for those with lactose intolerance, (and possibly vegans). If you’re anything like myself and think about food constantly, Borough Market will be your paradise. Vendors there allow and even encourage you to sample things from their stands before deciding on your meal for the day. With tons of options available, Borough is a great place to stop and grab a quick lunch or wander and purchase food for the upcoming days. Most of the booths are inexpensive, another plus for those of us who have trouble saying no to food. Everything there is fresh, and I have yet to try something there that I wouldn’t purchase again. Since arriving to London, I have been to Borough Market twice and ordered different things each time. The first day, I had fresh ravioli with spinach and ricotta, one of my favorites. On the second day I was on the search for these mussels that I heard were delicious. While waiting in the line for them, the same vendors were sampling their paella, a Spanish dish served with rice, chicken, and seafood. After trying a little bit, I was having trouble deciding which I wanted more- the mussels that have only gotten great reviews, or the delicious paella I had just tried. After a lot of debate, I decided to treat myself and get both (best decision from that day). The portions were great and I left that day without a single regret. This market is also fantastic for cheese fanatics, such as myself. They have multiple vendors selling cheeses from all over the world, and some even offer samples. Many of those stands also sell wines, meats, or olives to go with the various cheeses. If you ever plan on hosting a small dinner party or even just want to feel fancy, head to Borough to buy some fresh cheese and wine. Speaking of wine, mulled wine and cider is also popular there. They offer a variety flavors in order to appeal to a larger demographic. Even though it is more popular and common in the United States, non-alcoholic cider does not exist here (I learned that one the hard way). Here in the UK, cider without alcohol is simply “hot apple juice” with the spices we put into our version of apple cider. I did get the chance to try some the second time I went to Borough, and I have to say it tastes exactly like apple cider from home. Borough Market is the market that aims to please people from all over the world, offering many options for everyone. From seafood to milkshakes, they have anything that you may be craving at any given moment. Out of all of the markets we have visited so far, this is the one that I know I can rely on to get a good meal that won’t disappoint. Noteworthy Food:
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