Oh, London

All of us have been lingering around the city praying for the return of the ridiculous hot-flash that was last weekend. I further suppose that we were rather disappointed by the pissing down rain, the chilliness and the weak rays of sunshine that rarely bobbed out from below the clouds, like my head from under the blanket on a Sunday morning following a decent weekend. London weather seems more like a dirty tease at the moment, some heavy petting and then a total let down. But fear not. I have found a way to make all of us get over our momentary disappointment and fall right back in love with this gorgeous city, and forget all about it not putting out for once. 

The Museum of London houses the Galleries of Modern London from May 28th until 31st of August with free entry. Absolutely awesome. Starting somewhere in the mid-17th century all bits and bobs bring us up to the present day city we all know and love. If features all sorts of cool interactive technology, for example you can tap on the water-fountain complete with sensors to learn what kind of crap is floating about the sewers. Totally gross, but also great fun. If you live relatively central, you can find your neighbourhood down to the house on an 18th century colour-coded map of wealth and crime distribution. Apparently the part of Camden where I live, which is definitely is not the nicest at this point in history, featured as upper middle class with low levels of crime, while my friend living in Marylbone was semi-middle class. Urbanization bites. For my lovely hood anyway. 

It is a very interactive and personal space. There is fashion, industry, royalty and diversity. One of my favourite parts was an interview montage of what I presumed was to represent the changing attitudes and atmosphere of London. The few sentences from each participant were moving, funny, thoughtful and insightful. The one that had me snickering was one not poignantly relevant to London, but had a more universal appeal. A boy in his late teens-early 20s, from the mid-60s, was having the following (approximate) conversation with the invisible interviewer:

'Do you think girls have to be virgins?'

'Well yea, yea I think so.'

'Why?'

'Well, because then you don't know where they've been.'

'Do you think guys have to be virgins?'

Pause. Sensing a trap maybe?

'Erm, no man, no.'

'Why not?'

'Well that's different, innit, I mean you see it's different. Don't you think? ... It's different, innit?'

You are what you eat

Which normally would mean I bounce between an overzealous and occassionally successful cook and a skint student living on Heinz baked beans, but when the parents come to town it is a whole different matter. This is why I have decided to share here the treasures that we have discovered during a 4-day gastronomic orgy.

Due to my mother's excessive need for shopping our first destination can be found spitting distance from Oxford Circus, just off of Carnaby Street, under 14-16 Fouberts Place (map). Carnaby Burger Co. serves massive and delicious yet healthy burgers and its broccoli and courgette soup had me licking my fingers. Don't recommend however their Welness Salad, which is bland and tastes like a handful of grass (despite the avocado). You went to a place that has the word 'Burger' in it. Eat a burger. Or at least the chicken wings.

To get away from the often unbearable hustle and bustle of the Selfridges' area, we wondered up towards Marylbone and found Seabass on 40 James Street (map). Lovely service, friendly environment (you can see into the kitchen and unlike a lot of places it looks clean and orderly) and the food was great. Simple, but delicious, you can literally hear the waves of the sea in this highly recommended little Mediterranean place!

If you are looking for a great gastro pub after a walk through Regent's Park (granted you are at the Great Portland Street corner) look no further than the Queen's Head and the Artichoke at 30-32 Albany Street (map). Quaint atmosphere and the food, organized in tapas style, is to die for. Soups, meat, and an abundance of small vegetarian dishes is waiting for the tired traveller-walker. Weekend nights I suggest to make reservations. If we are talking about tapas, not the English interpretation of it, but the real deal, well we have found a gem, without a doubt. Under 195 Great Portland Street (map) lies Iberica, a place where you will have earth-shattering gastro-orgasms in your mouth, believe you me. The cheese plate comes from cheese that have their own humidor (!) and the legs of ham hang from the ceiling like morning dew on the grass. They even have their own delicatessen, which can be admired while trying not to 'un-Spanishly' devour my food faster than my wine. Naturally, I can recommend the Serrano Ham and the mixed cheese plate, if you are looking for a well-rounded general experience. The padron peppers (nothing like when I attempt it in the kitchen) are succulent and not overly salty, and the thought of the white bean stew with chorizo and morcilla makes my stomach growl. They have a good paella selection as well, although for that I cannot vouch, but will provide an update as soon as my parents return. And finally, if you are looking for a great Japanese, this one is especially recommended if your night is taking you to the Famous London Jazz Cafe, as it is located right next to it (map). Bento Cafe is adorably authentic and has a great selection of food besides sushi. The portions resemble more of a Chinese restaurant than the more moderate Japanese sizing. The only downside is, try not to peep into the kitchen on your way to the loo. It is not sightly and I would strongly urge them to put a door to cover up the mess.
Overall, if I am what I eat, I have become a world-traveller in the space of 4 days, and I haven't even left the wonderful city that gave us all this exciting foodly experiences!

Glasnost and the odd Mondays

I know that traditionally we are required to whole-hearedly despise Mondays, but I have to admit this particularly delightful Monday, I would pick from a whole bundle of other weekdays (not weekends, let's not get carried away). Lovely lunch was had in Yo Sushi, where they have introduced a little thing called Blue Mondays. This means that all plates on the belt are colour blue, meaning that you can have your heart's desire that costs so much more usually, for only £2.20 a pop!

Haunch of Venison is currently housing Glasnost until the 26th of June (free entry!), a collection by Soviet non-conformist artists from the 1980s. Inspiring, thoughful and often comical (jokes being a favourite tool of dissent) the exibition spanned two floors and more than a decade of subversive and later nationally and internationally accepted and celebrated art. For me, as a Hungarian, it was particularly fascinating to see the criticism aimed at the system whose last death-throes I lived to witness firsthand, even though, at the time, I was not aware of what was actually really happening, having only the vague impressions of childhood. The Haunch of Venison is also housing exhibitions by Rina Banerjee, Forever Foreign and Spun by Thomas Hetherwick, both until the 15th of May.

To defy the despicable May weather, we had coffee in the Royal Academy of Arts, and we stumbled upon a lovely one-room show of photographs of old and new London. A heart-warmer to all admirers of this great city, hidden and not-so-hidden spots are shown on shots taken in the 1870s and 1880s standing as charming and beautifully dreamy reminders of what should be preserved and cherished about this glorious metropolis.

All in all, I have successfully avoided Monday-gloom and the oh-crap-it's-an-other-week blues. A great receipt for everyone!  

Apologies ...

... for not being in touch much. The thesis is taking up most of my life, and even though I am somewhat in S-n-M love with the British Library, it is still a time and energy consuming bitch. I do regularly culturate myself, however the two exibitions I've recently been to were closing on the day of my visit, so I did not see much point of reporting it here and consequently making you terribly sad that you couldn't go. On the weekend, despite the promised ridiculous amount of sunshine, possibilities of getting a tan and a beer in the park, I will continue to get fucked upwards and sideways by academia. But alas, there is hope! I may get so bored that I will be so much in need of procrastination that you will, yet again, be able to enjoy my miserable ranting! 

Orphans' Easter

There is a delightful tradition in Hungary originating in the countryside that on Easter Monday the boys come to the houses of the single girls and they 'water' them to presumably make them cleaner (?) or more attractive (?) so as to help them find themselves a man, while chanting some little poem to speed up this process. The girls, in exchange, give the boy brightly painted eggs. Of course modernity and city-life has considerably altered this little custom. Now it is more often than not cheap perfume that is sprinkled, leaving you stinking to high heavens at the end of the day if you are not careful. It is possible that instead of eggs the boys are given money(!); how terrible is that? And the poems have gradually transformed from cute, into flirty to outright offending sometimes. But no matter how much modern times have altered the habits of Easter Monday, today I am definitely longing for them. To eat ham, hard-boiled egg and horseradish sauce with the family! To wake up to my father mischievously sneaking into my room and soaking me in my own bed and then cook for the boys, family members or friends, who trickle in during the day for a bite, a painted egg and to see my sister and I standing in front of them, in raincoats, prepared for the screaming and the shower to begin.

All I want is a bucket of water to stick my head in this hangover Monday morning. Friday's housewarming was a success, we managed to not piss off any neighbours and friends from all parts of my life seem to bond with each other and with M. I just let about two hectoliters of beer somehow trickle down my throat, so I just sat in the corner lovingly and sentimentally admiring all this bonding. Saturday, M and I started exploring our territory, marking it not (necessarily) with urine samples, but with the (non-) memories of alcohol fueled nights. First on the list was the two centrally located, non-paying Camden establishments, the World's End and the Camden Eye. Cool-randomer numero uno of the night was the old dude who, out of his numerous fanny-packs, was selling cigarettes for 4 quid and tiny bottles of vodka for 3. Or lighters if that was what you wanted, and I am sure that wasn't the whole extent of the contents he carried around, just to make you the deal of your life. Cool-randomer numero dos was the guy dressed in black with large circles of make up around his eyes, from Glasgow. Surprisingly we did manage to understand him, and he shared with us the reason for his celebration, as around supper-time he managed to bump into Pete Doherty and was extremely excited about that. On this note I gotta say, maybe his story left such an imprint on my mind that I could've sworn I also saw PD from the bus the next day jumping into a cab with two other people. Anyway, the PD fan from Glasgow decided to hug it out with M, he kept saying that we are such good people and extensively wishing M good luck on his start in London. I think M was just simply over excited about his first drunken chat in London. Well, I understand. The dude was fun. 

Hoping for a quiet night in, because I was aiming to go to the library the next day, I laid low, trying not to arouse the attention of anyone who might want to party. This of course shot to hell, when a friend appeared with a bottle of vodka, which I of course topped up with an other one, and we proceeded to have a raging night in Proud, the hip-hop, tip-top club, Camden's belle-de-jour. The two main rooms contain different and ever-changing music styles, but if you want to drink yourself silly before hopping on the dancefloor you can do that in the stable boxes located all the way to the terrace kept up for the crazy smokers. Really great place, will be returning soon. 

And now, for your viewing pleasure the photo of the day

Must do tomorrow

Unfortunately, my habit of leaving everything to the last minute is clearly noticeable on this blog. Just as with Crash, where I arrived breathless on the very last day of exhibition, I got to the British Museum, the day before the last of the Revolution on Paper. Apologies, but it is a must see exhibition, so drop everything on your all-too-hated Monday, and take a walk through the wonderfully funny and socio-politically insightful prints from the early 20th century Mexico. 

Ok, there is a slight possibility that I might be a bit bias about this exhibit. Having lived in Mexico for three months, it is only natural that I may feel a deeper connection with the contents of the prints. I highly doubt, for example, that anybody would feel the sort of piss-myself excitement of looking at a nude sketch of Dolores Olmedo by Diego Rivera, had you not wondered her beautiful gardens with peacocks, house-galleries filled with a unique and magnificent collection of works by Frida Kahlo and Rivera and played with the almost-extinct Xolo dogs (that are bald!) in the shade of the maguey cactuses. Or looking at fragement sketches of Orozco's murals, and feeling the pangs of acutely tear-jerking nostalgia, recalling standing in front of and admiring the full mural of Omniscence, stretching two stories, at the Casa de los Azulejos in the heart of Mexico DF. 

But even if you don't possess this over the top sentimental attachment to the country, it is nevertheless worth inspecting a nation's struggle for independence from the point of view of shrewd visual commentary. It is also the most extensive such exhibition ever put on in the UK, and you can discover such 20th century art-celebrities as 'Emiliano Zapata and his horse' by Diego Rivera, or observe the ever-present relevance of criticism of capitalist media control, or the Churches fight against secularism and its bullying of indigenous cultures into mix-and-matching local and Catholic religion.

Emiliano Zapata and his horse, Diego Rivera, 1932, lithograph © 2009, Banco de Mexico Diego Rivera & Frida Kahlo Museums Trust, Mexico D.F. / DACSFair enough, you don't really have to 'discover' this one, it is the first thing you see as you walk into Room 90. It's good it doesn't poke your eyes out.

 

José Chávez Morado (1909 - 2002)

The Laughter of the Public - away with your nonsense

1939, Lithograph

A gachupín commonly refers to an immigrant especially a Spaniard in Mexico. The gachupín here is tooting the horn of 'Free Press', which, according to the little limerick on the side is 'Is neither free and is neither press', it is essentially a mouthpiece for pro-fascist propaganda. 

José Chávez Morado (1909 - 2002)

Symbiosis, c1940, Lithograph

A beautifully simple representation of a painfully complicated and sensitive subject. The Christianization of the indigenous population in Mexico was a forceful and sometimes violent process. It is very interesting to see how not only Christian churches were built upon the ruins of destroyed sanctuaries of the natives, but how Christian traditions and the cult of the saints were built on local ceremonies and superstitions. 

Leopoldo Méndez (1902 -1969)

Poltical piñata, 1936, Woodcut

The piñata represents President Plutarco Elias Calles and his Constituional Revolutionary Party, which is represented as a disguise for Capitalism. The worker using the baton marked 'Feliz Año 1936' is cheered on by a group of spectators, showing that the print could have possibly been designed as a holiday card, hoping for the defeat of Calles and Capitalism in the coming year. 

José Guadalupe Posada (1852-1913)

A Skeleton from Guadalajara, 1910

Photo-relief and letterpress

'The word Tapatia in the title is used colloquially in Mexico to describe people from the city of Guadalajara, which is regarded as the city that most fully embodies Mexican identity. The verses, written in the first person, recount the way in which the skeleton has defeated people from other states in fights. The scene is set in a Mexican cantina, a bar traditionally reserved for men, and a likely home for such a macho figure, even if a female skeleton is peering over his shoulder.' (quote: the little tablet next to the print)

Of course I couldn't resist the temptation of purchasing the book (it was half off!!) which contains all the prints and others not included in the exhibit, and extensive history of the era and background on its artists! A treasure for all lovers of Mexico! 

So go ahead and don't do what you are suppose to tomorrow, and enjoy the savvy puns made at the expense of political climate, capitalism, religion and everyday Mexican life, which are not without actuality for today's casual museum-goer and occasional thinker. 

A new-born Londoner and car-porn

Having lived in London on and off for over three years, I have come to realize that I take many things for granted and some essential actions of my day-to-day life have become instinctive rather than conscious decisions. Examples could include the way you hold on the stairs of the double-decker in order to avoid diving headfirst downstairs when the crazy driver is abusing the brakes, or that you refer to things half-hour commuting away as 'in the neighbourhood' and you have long stopped being (or you never really were) amazed by the efficiency and ease of the Oyster card system. So when M arrived on Monday I knew I am in for one of the biggest challenges of becoming a 'Londoner', that is guiding a new-comer in the maze and chaos of this metropolis. 

'I can see the modern dick building. I am outside where are you?' Liverpool Street station was possibly the most harrowing first impression that my incredibly calm and chilled out man could have gotten. 'Why is everybody running?' and why is everybody dressed for a funeral? - could also have been an appropriate question in the heart of the City. Having a newbie around is like watching Bambi learn how to walk. The neighbourhood still consists of the area within walking distance, but it is growing corner by corner, day after day. Maybe next week I can trust him to get on a bus and find his way back? Oh, the worries. 

On an other note, I went on another book-binge, and got the following treasures:

Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami , because I just loved loved Kafka on the Shore, and now my friend has lent me What I Talk About When I Talk About Running, his memoir. Ay, I can't wait for the Murakami overdose! But it will have to wait, because I also have the following works jumping up and down and yelling on my shelves 'read me! read me!': The Piano Teacher by Elfriede Jelinek, The Essential Tales of Chekhov edited by Richard Ford and my current reading material Crash by JG Ballard. 

Being as awesome and horrendous as it is, I had the luck of not only visualizing the disturbingly pornographic images of scrap metal in my head, but see it interpreted by numerous artists at the Gagosian Gallery. The homage to JGB revolved mainly around the many folded visualization of the components of the equation

 

LORIS GRÉAUD

The Future, 2009

Oil on canvas

57 x 41 inches framed (145 x 104 cm)

Oddly enough I did find some of the installations, that at first glance had nothing to do with sex, erotically charged. One of the rooms consisted of 3-4 meter screens showing various massive mechanical constructions operating, and as the metallic sounds filled the space, they slowly and somewhat gracefully made you feel tiny, helpless and fragile. And a little horny. I know this sounds weird and I still don't know if I felt this way, because of my preconceived idea that I should feel this way; because let's face it I was at an exhibition about a man's work whose characters get off on car crashes. Or there is truly something sexually arousing about technology, our helplessness without it and the dangers within it.

DAN HOLDSWORTH
Untitled (Autopia), 1998
Chromogenic print
Diptych: 41 7/8 x 52 3/16 inches each (106.5 x 132.6 cm)
Ed. of 5

On the soothing shores of Thames

Polling

After I have abused the local cafe's hospitality for most of the morning, I have arrived home to discover that my replacement modem has arrived in the post. Yippee's all around. 

Consequently I decided to pimp my blog a bit. There are two reasons for this. One, because I enjoy it, two, because you people (friends, because I haven't really heard from random readers) keep telling me how you like/love/enjoy reading my rants, but there is hardly any written evidence of this. I write this up as general laziness. After all you are my friends, so we surely have that in common. Now, all you have to do is click at the bottom of each post, to rate my attention starved cyber-verbal diarrhea. Needless to say, the two choices refer to one of my favourite past times. The drunkenness is guaranteed either way it's just the size of the hangover that will be different. So, hop to it!

I realize that this is the second blog-post of the day, and this makes me somewhat of a pale-skinned social degenerate, so to give you the cyber-finger and try to prove you wrong I need to tell you that I am leaving for the Southbank Center Chocolate Festival in 15 minutes. La-dee-daa, in your face :)

Artsy Farts

Having some serious budget deficit issues due to the posh dining and wining of last weekend, last night was spent at home with a dear friend and several bottles of wine. So, even though I can't link you towards any special place to eat or drink this time, you will be glad to know that, exceptionally enough, I am with my constant companion, the hangover. 

The first time I went to the library, I fell off a curb. So the following incident should have not come as a surprise. I have set out to begin the laborious process that is the writing of the first few pages of my thesis. Motivated, I have decided to wash some glasses in the spirit of 'clean surroundings, clear mind'. As I thrust the sponge into the glass, it just gave up all will to live and broke in half in my hand. The result was a gaping wound that I held under cold water for a good half hour. 30 minutes is a long time. I was bored. So I decided to play around a bit. Call it art, call it self-entertainment, I actually quite like the results. *Contains flashing images*

I guess the lesson I should learn is that fate does not want me to write my thesis. Or only after considerable blood loss and extensive bruising. Thanks for the heads up.

Pop-art and doll hair

It's Friday afternoon, and I already laboured 5 hours in SSEES , and more importantly I already had a beer, so beyond re-registering, I only have mental capacity to exploit the free wi-fi here in the British Library. It is a lovely space; the quiet and presumably highly intellectual whispering of the cafe crowd is rather soothing and I can practically feel my MA thesis writing itself from the ridiculous amount of knowledge detectably lingering in the air. 

On this note, I will dedicate this post to all the (two) cultural outings I've had this past few days. On the beautiful Sunday afternoon I dragged my wretched, hungover body to Marble Arch, which was in itself a huge effort, but I concluded that it would be a waste to turn back now. I admired my new favourite public statue (left) and then I listened to a few people sharing their ideas at the Speakers' Corner. It was actually quite dull, as religion exclusively took over, here a rabbi, there's a priest, there's a tree hugger ... well you get the picture. Nevertheless, I do believe that I was just there at the wrong time, surely there must be also other things occupying people's minds. I strolled to the Serpentine Gallery to check out Richard Hamilton's exhibition (free!) which is the first since 1992 and it is on until April 25th. His representation and commenting on contemporary events, such as riots, terrorism and international conflicts seemed spot on and his strong criticism of the media representation was a fresh air for my starved conscious in this mass-informed society. However, I was never good at understanding the workings and methods of pop-art, and his, conceptually speaking, black and white representation of certain delicate problems (such as the Palestinian-Israeli conflict) were too crude for my taste. He definitely made me think, but once that happened, he left me longing for some shading. 

Alice Anderson's Time Reversal (until April 24th) at the Riflemaker was a whole other matter. Having thought I may have issues with my mother from time to time, I figured it could be interesting to see how an other woman, especially an artist goes on to resolve or understand such relations. Well, let me say, if I have issues I don't know what this woman has. The several meter long doll hair hanging from the first floor to the entrance door was only the beginning. For a quid you get to go down to the beyond-creepy basement, where the 12-minute short film 'The Night I Became a Doll' recounts the story of a little girl, who, to obey her mother's wishes of not speaking, not eating, not blinking, gradually transforms herself into this eerie porcelain doll. Positively chilling, however highly recommended. 

Hopefully I will finally have internet at home from Monday, so you can look forward to more regular cultural banter from this page. 

Novelties

It's been over a week I've moved into my (presently 'our') new place, and haven't had internet since, which led to the curious finding that I can procrastinate by reading non-required material, instead of taking notes on any of the 15 books that I should. So I am typing away from a cafe in Camden, and trying to conjure up the number of happenings of last weekend. 

The new apartment is fab, and I didn't notice any real problems with it until I fancied myself up, put on my Saturday-dress and headed for the door. Promptly I bounced back. It was stuck. Locked. Unmovable. Yanking the door. Panic. More yanking. More panic. You know what is more terrifying than being stuck outside of your place? It's to be stuck inside. There is very little to do there, if you are alone that is. There is a whole world outside, so I came to the, maybe surprising, conclusion that any day I would rather be stuck outside with the world, than inside, with virtually nothing to do, just circling around like a poisoned mouse. I had a randez-vous with a friend I met in Colombia. Unfortunately, his cell is Swedish and I quickly ran out of 'foreign credit', so after begging him to come and rescue me, I had to resort to calling an other friend with a UK cell to call Sweden and continue the directions, while I glued myself to the little window of my entrance door. The door was pried open after some considerable efforts by my friend and later on by the neighbour's part. At this point I only had time for a quick catch up drink with my knight in shining armour, before heading up to fancy restaurant numero dos this weekend, Tamarai. Unfortunately, the night before, I couldn't properly enjoy numero uno, as I already had dinner at a remote, little, nevertheless exquisite, phillippino restaurant at the end of Charlotte street. So when I arrived to Gaucho , and they brought out the glisteringly beautiful and mouthwatering stakes on a cutting board to choose from; in tears I had to resign myself to the idea of having a miserable little ceviche, which, naturally, was nothing compared to the ones to be had on a Peruvian beach under lot less glittery circumstances. Saturday night was spent, well, spending. We ended up in Sketch, whose egg shaped toilets still cause me little shivers of joy when casting eyes upon them. I'm pretty sure it is quite bizarre to get so excited about toilets, but I can't help it. 

I can no longer pretend that I still have even a morsel of bagel left on my plate, so I will dutifully and with head hanging proceed to pack up my stuff and head back to the library. Tear. 

Sunshine!!!

London is going totally crazy. It is sunny, and warm, and dry, and generally just not very London-like. It is truly hard to get any work done, all I want to do is wonder around, preferably in a park and offer my face up to the warm strokes of the sun, sit around and recharge my solar-power operated batteries. I think it is due to the, on average, way too many rainy, cloudy or foggy days in this city, that you can tell without much difficulty, who are the ones who really live here. No true Londoner will ever put on sunglasses. You will look around on a day like this and you can instantly pick out the squinting, happy locals, with that goofy smile on their faces. The only people that will actually put on shades are tourists and fashion-victims. And me, when I am insanely hungover. 

Which was the case on Sunday, so after a healthy, long walk in Hyde park, my dehydrated brain couldn't take it anymore and I had to escape into the Victoria & Albert, to soothe my pounding head with some coolness and darkness. I checked out the Digital Design exhibition, which is running until the 11th of April in Porter House. It was pretty damn cool, although the lot of flashing and beeping didn't exactly help my hangover. I had difficulty of understanding some of the technological lingo posted as explanations, but I sure had a hell of a time playing around with all the interactive stuff. I always love seeing adults shedding their adulty-pretentiousness and becoming children again, which was added benefit of the exhibit as grown-ups laughed, jumped around and played with the pieces. My personal favourites were the dandy-lion whose seeds were blown away and flew according to the direction of your movements, as you were holding a working hairdryer. 

And then there were the little spermatozoids and eggs digitalized on a screen, under sand that you could move. The little baby-makers sensed where there was no sand and they started multiplying there. Unfortunately, not a lot of people made the effort to actually read what the point was, they just liked touching the sand, so there was a lot of smiley face drawing going on, which didn't really allow the little things enough sand-less space to go play. Oh and the montage of hundreds people (couples of 50% woman-woman, 30% woman-man and 20% man-man if I remember correctly) almost kissing. As you walked past, a sensor picked up on your movements, and the couples started going at it. Some, rather heavily.

But I could go on and on. The point is, go and see it, it is a great feeling, playing like a child inside, and then stepping outside and continuing on like that in the blazing London sunshine.

Out and about

I met up with a former classmate and friend from the alma mater tonight in the chic, up-and-coming bar Aqua Nueva. Beautiful design, amazing smells of food streaming in from their Spanish and Japanese themed restaurants and the usual uptight and overdressed crowd. We had a great time, and she suggested that, after two bottles of Cava, we take a wonder down to Cuckoo Club, her often frequented place to hang out. Which would have been, supposedly, great fun, except that she has been drinking since lunch, so the doorman whom she was tight with, deemed her unfit to enter even before she opened her mouth. We hang around for a bit, trying to convince him that she wasn't as unstable as she may have appeared, but he was unmoved. Sharing a fag, trying to figure out the future party options, I mentioned that as she usually went out alone, my presence as a sort of chaperone, could have impeded her chances of getting in. Before long, she bade me goodbye to attempt her way into the club on her own. 

This is a thing I really hate about London. You can never actually aim at going out on a weekend night without sufficient amount of planning. You either circle around town like 'bird-shit in the air' as the Hungarian saying goes, or you are giving up all your self-respect, trying to beg your way into where you want to party. A total buzz killer. 

I was expecting having dinner before the catching up deteriorated into the Cava, so I was pretty gone and completely exhausted from a day of library-ing after only the alcohol part of the night delivered. Catching the night buses to Notting Hill I got the chance to observe the desperate crowd lined up in front of Amica. There was even a guy in wheelchair involved, for the sake of persuasion. For crying out loud.

Optimistically enough, I was wearing heels, despite the breaking and tumbling incidents of last weekend. I usually speed-walk to the rhythm of my music, so, my Ipod on shuffle, out of the 3631 songs (just checked for the sake of accuracy) I stumbled upon the following two great tunes, which I kept playing over and over to slow me down, to cheer me up and to give me a nice chilled way of walking, without tripping over anything. 

Ok, never mind, somehow I can't upload or attach the videos from YouTube, but here are the links. 

I Heard It Through The Grapevine by Marvin Gaye

and

Nika Pata Lambo by Kaissa

Sunday, Monday, happy days...

So I fell off a curb today, because this is how I spend my in-between library time. And I realized that before my own clumsiness or a London cabbie kills me, I think I should update my blog. Oh, the priorities. I spent a day and a half recovering after a weekend long high school reunion, which left me broken in body, but quite uplifted in soul. 

Naturally, the first, Friday, night was a bit awkward, trying to sum your life up in the past 7 years, to people you are not even sure care, can be dull. Of course this was only until the boy arrived who makes everybody drink. Heavily. After that conversation became more or less meaningless, but a whole lot more entertaining. S, my true best friend from those days, and I caught several night buses until we made it from Brick Lane to Notting Hill, but time flew by as we drunkenly stumbled around London. 

Saturday, we spent the whole, beautifully sunny day, trying to get from NH to Barbican to check out Céleste Boursier-Mougenot's new installation, The Curve. A musical composition with zebra finches flying around, decking out and feeding themselves sick on top of electric guitars connected to amps and creating some truly weird sounds of Mother Nature's rock'n'roll. Dinner was pleasant, but the banging club music at Tiger Tiger a little later didn't really help the long over due catch up, but the vodka sure flew abundantly. So much, in fact, that true to form I tripped on some stairs and ended up breaking off my boot heel completely. Thank god, S found it, but as there wasn't anyway of reattaching it I elegantly limped around for the rest of the night. I'm not sure I fell because the heel came off or I just TUI (Tripped Under the Influence haha) and consequently the boot fell apart. It is a very egg or chicken conundrum. Not surprisingly, I didn't remember this significant moment until the next day, when looking for something else, I found the missing part of the footgear in my bag.

Sunday turned out to be much more debaucherous than planned. Instead of a quiet stroll through Camden market, we managed to get tangled up in several bottles of wine with two other old mates and ended up having a rockingly great catch up time, which really felt like how a reunion should feel like.  

Monday brought a hangover to die from after my head has rolled away to an undefined location. S, left in the morning, I'm not sure how; I was still dying. Was dying through most of Tuesday too, although that may have been only a case of severe laziness, and Wednesday I finally got my ass to the library. So now that I most carefully, and less so entertainingly walked you through my week, here I will stop, and promise not to write anymore, because, well I will be in the library. And I try not to use 'boring' as a deadly weapon. Cheerio. 

Happy World Book Day, 2010

The 11 o'clock viewing just got cancelled. It was a dream place. Affordable and spacious. And it will stay so, because I will never see that it was actually a ran down hole. So I will keep beating myself up about it that I have missed out on this possibly perfect opportunity. This is what viewings are really for. To see what you do NOT want. But no fretting, I still have a quarter to 12 and a half 12 appointment to see where we do not wish to live. As you can see I am resorting to morose skepticism in order to not be disappointed, as I was when the agent called minutes ago to cancel the viewing and I went into a not-so-dignified chain of cussing, that may have offended my neighbours on the other side of the paper thin walls. 

You will be glad to know, that I still haven't made it to the library, since the last brief visit to register for my library card (which is actually a piece of yellow paper with a barcode sticker on it, fancy huh?). London is sunny! Who in their right mind would voluntarily imprison themselves within four walls, when spring comes trotting into the grey and rainy town? So I took a long, wonderful and bathing-in-the-sunshine walk in Hyde Park. Then, took a long, wonderful and bathing-in-the-sunshine walk in Regents Park. Then ... alright, to cut to the chase I also walked up to Camden and then Kentish Town. Let me tell you, I walked everywhere except to the library. 

I also wondered into a bookstore, when I was waiting for my randez-vous with the Doctor. I should have learned never ever to do that. It is dangerous activity for my time and also money. I could live in a bookstore. Just sit on the ground, and devour everything from classic to cult, through non-fiction to cook books. Somehow, I never end up reading what I'm supposed to be reading (fascinating pieces for aiding the structuring of my theoretical framework - says me, swallowing back a little vomit) so basically I procrastinate from reading by reading. I walked away, with only the essentials. At one point I was clutching five books, and trying to decide on the verge of tears, which ones I should take home. I think this is what most people feel when they have to pick out puppies from a litter. 

Under the Frog (A béka segge alatt) by Tibor Fisher

Pedro Páramo by Juan Rulfo, y en español

and finally,

Haunted by Chuck Palahniuk,

which by a simple game of 'reach-in-the-bag-and-see-what-you-get' was the first to be read. Sitting at Euston, waiting for the Doctor, the station disappeared as I was sucked in to the horror and insight of the narrative. I actually had to look up at times, to tear myself away from the vivid images that my mind kept belching up of torn intestines, mouths bleeding from cold sores and carrots. While I was trying to find the appropriate balance between continuing reading and registering that there is still a somewhat normal reality around me, I noticed that the girl next to me is immersed in the Bible. I don't think I've ever seen anybody actually Reading the Bible. Nor at a coffee shop or on the bus or, in this case, at a train station. There is talk about it all the live long day, but not a sight of somebody just casually whipping it out. Of course, it is also possible that I haven't frequented the right places. So, I looked at my book, the one that is clinically dissects and smears the world the other is striving to build, and the other whose message is threatened or at least faded with the existence of the prior. I looked around, and it was only the two of us reading in a long row of people playing on their blackberries, iphones, ipads you name it, anything to not look and recognize each other, while from the Haunted rose cruel, disgusting and illuminating reality of the everyday life and from the Bible rose the promise, guilt and superiority of an other universe. And the girl and I played out the silent war of worlds from within our hands.  

Baby steps

At the end of this day I can proudly declare that I have a functioning phone and a number to go with it and I have re-registered at library of my alma mater. Furthermore, I successfully opened a bank account even though at the first branch this was denied to me, because my proof of residency was in an obscure language, which impeded the world's local bank to function properly. Anyhow, in a different branch it turned out that there is actually a whole account policy designed for oversees people taking British jobs. However, besides not being able enough to look up my UK postcode on the WWW based on my address (I wasn't supposed to touch anything, in case I may perform a swift security breach using Royalmail as portal) the otherwise really pleasant bank clerk and I had the following conversation:

"So you are doing your masters. Wow. So what is it in? Banking and accounting?" 

Maybe I was wearing something formal and tight-ass?

"No...I study something like sociology."

"Oh, well, that's good enough too."

WHAAAAAAT??? THE F****CK??? Thanks Mr. BankClerk that you approve of the direction of my education slash life. Weight off my shoulder. 

I also managed to book two apartment viewings for tomorrow. I've already had some email correspondence with the person who is letting the place I've already fallen in love with and, I wouldn't go so far as to call him eloquent, but he read clear and logical. When he picked up the phone, he sounded more like Hannibal. So if you don't hear from me in a few days, come and look for me. 

It has been a great day, I have gotten a whole lot done, and to put the cherry (well, prematurely) on the cake I even went for a run in the morning. Even though my nicotine soaked lungs couldn't take more than 15 minutes, I bathed in the beautiful forenoon sunshine, despite the cold that made me into a glass-cutter and incidentally made the eyes of the workmen pop out. 

Overall, I declare the day a total success. May my productivity increase. Amen.

Best website for the skint yet culturally eager Londoner

This may be me. So this may become my favourite cyber-corner for a while. YAY.

http://www.timeout.com/london/aroundtown/features/6274/London_on_a_budget.html 

Notes to self

Note to self: please for the love of god remember for once not to travel when so incredibly hungover. Or if travel is already scheduled, then please don't get so obliterated that you want to throw up in the car on the way to saying goodbye to the grandparents. 

When I am in this miserable state and have to take a plane, or any form of windowless transportation, I have, what only can be described as panic attacks. I was having the smoothest 3 hour flight from London to Helsinki a few years back, yet I was unable to detach my mouth from the paperbag, breathing heavily and probably freaking the shit out of my neighbour. This is due to the fact, that for some reason I become (only when battling the aftereffects) acutely aware that there is no fresh air on board and I am enclosed in this space where there is no exit and I am breathing the same stale air as a 100 or so other people do. The more I think about this the more aware and panicked I become and it takes only minutes to reach the bottom of the downward spiral, where the sane part of my brain is screaming (almost inaudibly for the one that went berserk) to stop being so moronically childish.  I usually turn all three air-conditioning nipple-thingies towards myself on full, and while I freeze my ass off I have the vague impression of fresh air caressing my face. 

This was of course no longer a problem when the flight was delayed with 3 and a half hours. Note to self:  WIZZAIR sucks!!! Just because they rob maybe less from you, for the idiotic idea that you have to PAY for your checked-in luggage, (which can be a miserable 15 kilos) it is so not at all bloody worth being stuck at Ferihegy 1 for 4 hours, which can, with the best of intentions, only be described as mind-numbingly boring. 

As usual I bought the Economist, but my still alcohol hazed mind could not process it faster than at the rate of a page/30 minutes, so I gave up and bought The Reader by Schlink. Moving as it was, it didn't make for the best travel-reading. Its moral complexity left me breathless and deeply in thought and an airport and later a psychotic screaming and kicking child behind me, did not quite provide the relaxing atmosphere I would have required for reflection. 

When I, of course, missed the last tube, I ended up with one of those talkative cabbies. Naturally, when I told him where I was from he told me he was starving. After a day like that I almost cried from pain hearing this. But he went on telling me that he wouldn't be here if it had not been for a Hungarian man. His Polish father was in a camp and was in the Death March when he was 14 or 15. When he could not go on and laid down in the snow, a man lifted him up and told him he needed to live. So the cabbie's father was dragged up and survived. So did the Hungarian man, who is around 90 now. And the cabbie was born, to tell me this story, take my breath away and give me a lot more to think of than when I started out for the day. 

Note to self: everything happens for a reason.

New Beginnings

Well, hello, and welcome back. It has been a while. How've you been?

For a bit more than 10 days now I am sleeping in a bed and in a room on my own after three and a half months of sharing with boyfriend, friends, sister, parents and of course the occasional random strangers. At first it seemed awfully quiet and strangely relaxing not having another heartbeat close, no sounds of breathing. Also, I tend to worry about me snoring and pissing off others (except when I'm wasted, then of course I'm hardly capable of giving a shit) so I can finally have guilt free dreams. 

Being home is always blissful, for the first days. There is usually a viewing planned for the extended family, where they come around, eat, hang out and pat me down and try to comprehend why I do the things I do within the space of a few hours. This also frequently involves telling me that I have lost weight, which is more often than not untrue, and I think it's because they remember me as chunkier than I actually am. At Christmas I made the mistake (after some wine and Jagermeister) of ranting about my adventures in the Chiapas jungle interspersed with a cleansing ritual, which just added to my already ready-made profile, that everybody remembers how darn cute I was when I was a kid, but now I am just plain weird. 

So it's been good to be home, but I've gotten quite lazy here. I started with doing vigorous yoga and running around organising and sorting out stuff, and putting stuff here and there, and typing and faxing, and feeling real productive. Now I even have time to update my blog about a bunch of bollocks, which will essentially boil down to the following:

I am moving to London. After a lifestyle, which can only described as bumming about on an international scale, I plan to take a break for a while, move in with the boyfriend, research my thesis, get an internship, eat healthy, do some exercise, generally settle down and be a boring knob. Sounds like fun? Yes, and beware, I plan to write a blog about it. The good part about it is that I have a feeling I will be inclined to fuck this idyllic picture up, or at least bump into some more or less seriously entertaining difficulties on the way.