Day 2: London

This is going up rather late.  In fact, it's about 1:30, and I would be killed if found.  I'm supposed to be adjusting to the time change, but woke up in the middle of the night in anticipation of Brussels.  I thought I would die of exhaustion last night, and fell asleep promptly at 9 PM.  Gill and Diogo were out for their last dinner together in a month, and I was in their flat, attempting to watch episodes of The Office (American, duh!) online.  Apparently, safe venues like Hulu are strictly off-limits anywhere but America.  So I had to go somewhere not nearly as reputable, and was rewarded with some weird alerts from Windows XP for my troubles.  Luckily, my computer lifted the ban on Internet use, at least temporarily, so I am now typing up my adventures.  Where to begin?

So yesterday, I woke up a little late.  With the jet lag, I think it should be okay, but I slept from about ten PM to ten AM.  Nice little 12-hour nap.  Woke up after Gill, which made me feel derpy, since she'd specified that she wanted to sleep in.  Until ten, apparently.  Crazy people and their normal sleeping schedules.  I had some tomato and lentil soup for breakfast (delicious), pondered my leftovers of Bubble and Squeak (the most adorable name for cabbage and onions EVER!  Cockney slang is hilarious, btw), made a contingency plan for my inevitable lost-ness, showered, ate some cookies (biscuits here, though Gill still calls them "cookies," because that's what they are!), and left the flat.

I went to the tube station, topped off the Oyster card (kind of like a Metro Card in New York, which allows for public transportation with a minimum of hassle.  On buses, you just touch it to a sensor, and they let you on with no trouble at all), and went to the London Bridge on the top level of a double-decker bus.  The sun was shining, and I felt overdressed in my orange plaid fleecy jacket, but the wind was high and I was sure I'd be thankful for it later, when the rain picked up (as it inevitably does). 

Different layers of rock found in Southwark Cathedral.  The bottom dates from the Middle Ages, and it's all up from there!

Impressions from driving around London in a bus, checking out the city mostly-objectively: The world has changed around London, and architectural stages have evolved.  I felt like an archeologist at a dig.  Everywhere, you see the mash-up of old and new; houses stacked on top of houses, and the debris slowly decaying away on the bottom.  People have always cared about London, and generations have come here for something. 

Ice cream truck parked IN FRONT OF the Tower of London

I don't know what it is, since it certainly can't be closeness.  Everyone is very impersonal.  Anonymity is assured, and there are stores at every juncture to remind you that nothing is unique, everything is mass-produced.  And yet somehow, the smile isn't unheard-of.  As I was walking into Southwark (pronounced "suthark," for no reason whatsoever) Cathedral, a worker was walking out.  I waited for him to clear the door with his large wooden rectangle, and he smiled and said "Thanks."  I was a conspicuous tourist with my hiking boots and bright yellow clothing, so I smiled in response.  That was probably the warmest interaction I'd had with a human all day.

Enough people DERPed around this door for the staff to put up a sign

Isn't that a pretty bridge?  This was right after the sun went away for .5 seconds.

I feel like I want to create my own language to speak exclusively in London.  There are soo many foreigners!  I heard Russian, Spanish, French, Italian, German, and many, many more unidentifiable tongues that my imagination doesn't encompass.  I also made friends with a duck at the base of the Globe Theater (yes, the one where Shakespeare's plays were first performed, though a replica) without my knowledge. 

The Globe Theatre, featured, among other things, in a Doctor Who episode

I was just eating an orange and journaling when I realized I was attracting a LOT of attention.  This was different, since I was used to anonymity, so I looked up, and found a duck with designs on whatever I was putting in my mouth (that's NOT what she said!).

Unfortunately for me, the ONLY non-blurry picture of this event happens to highlight a lamentable posture and silly expression.  Eleanor (my duck friend) looks cute, though.

A friendly Cockney couple took my picture with my camera, and then fed Eleanor an entire cream-filled eclair from his shopping bag.  She didn't like the cream, which got stuck on her bill, and possibly in her throat on the way down.  Dairy is REALLY weird, especially for fowl.  Serves her right for being tame enough to eat food out of people's fingers.  I stuck around blocking the wind for my friend, who'd resigned herself to the fact that I wasn't giving her anything delicious to eat.  Then, I went into the Tate Modern, which was an entirely different (though equally excellent) experience.

Ai WeiWei's Sunflower Seeds

 

The first thing I walked in on was an observation bridge overlooking a large room with what looked like a rock garden.  I walked closer, and found that it was an art exhibit.  Only in a museum of Modern Art, right?  It turns out that there are thousands upon thousands of individually-placed porcelain sunflower seed replicas in this piece.  Did I mention that they were each hand-painted?  Ai Weiwei literally had an entire city in China working on the commission.

Apparently, in Mao Zedung's China, all the propaganda centered around sunflowers.  Chairman Mao was always depicted as the sun, and those loyal to him were the sunflowers.  They absorbed the message of the party and bloomed in response to his loving care.  Also, when paranoia was at an all-time high, and your neighbor might be the person betraying you to very unfriendly people with a lot of power, sharing a bag of sunflower seeds was one of the most personal acts you could manage.  This resonated with me, since I'm still an avid eater of this delicious snack, and a survivor of a former Communist country, myself.

So there's a sense of the scope of this piece.  Now multiply this by six.

In the video, you see people raking the sunflower seeds like in a Zen garden, and then the artist interacting with the piece.  None of these are glued down; they move under your feet.  Unfortunately, the Tate decided the fumes kicked up from their pedestrians would be too toxic.  Also, I can't imagine thousands of people walking through and resisting the urge to put one or two of these porcelain seeds in their pockets to take home, so the exhibit would probably be VERY short-lived.

I would write more, but it's time to shower and get ready for Belgium.  We're on our way in an hour and fifteen minutes, because our train is at six.  Still no luck finding someone to stay with in Frankfurt, but we definitely have a person in Amsterdam, so worst comes to worst, we don't overnight in Germany. 

Hold me like you'll never let me go 'cause I'm leavin'

So, here I am.  In the airport cafe, sitting with my coffee in the smoking area.  I can tell I'm already homesick, since the only time I seek the comfort of second-hand smoke is when I really and truly miss my mother.  It's strange, because I just saw her this morning.  I was awakened at five in the morning by my traveling (best) friend, who wanted to sort out a few details before we left.  At five in the morning, my time.  I tolerated her texts once or twice, convinced that I could get back to sleep, until I realized that I certainly couldn't.  I love her enthusiasm, but felt as though my sleep were more important at that time.  The joke was clearly on me, since I couldn't get back to sleep after that little mini-conversation.  I was too wired.

I've been preparing for this trip for literally over a year.  The start of my fund for going was my tax return from 2009.  We've been planning and saving and looking forward to this crazy vacation for months.  The closer it got, though, the less I believed that it was real.  And this morning, it finally hit me.  I couldn't believe how much I still had to do.  Luckily, I ran most of my errands on Monday (I magically have a sleeping bag that fits in my backpack--amazing!), but I still needed to go to the bank, and calm down substantially before I was good for anything but jumping around my apartment like some sort of ridiculous woodland animal.  I have the backpack (Deva women's 60 litre, 2011 version), the clothing (mostly new stuff from my job, but who cares?), my notebook computer for keeping in contact with the people still in the states, my passport, and a large amount of money.  I think I'm prepared, but as I sit in the airport cafe, sipping my coffee and trying to ignore the stupid advertisements DIA tacks onto their "free" wifi to turn a profit, I can't believe that I'm closer to this life-defining experience than I've ever been.  It's one of those surreal moments right now, when you can't even really fathom the full weight of your decision.  I won't be in real contact with anyone I know for over a month.  In that time, I will visit thirteen countries via train and ferry and airplane.  I will meet scores of new people and see all the sights I've been imagining since 12th grade AP Art History class.

In other news, the coffee here is ridiculously overprices.  Okay, I know, airport food, duh, but I still feel a little ripped off.  Granted, the cup is the size of two of my fists, but I don't want to spend $1.50 on a silly cup of stale drip coffee.  I'm nervous.  This is the first time I'm traveling by myself since I was ten years old.  I'm usually the calm one, and the person I'm going with has the freak-out.  This time, there's no one to calm down.

So I woke up super early, and you'd think I did all my packing first thing.  No such luck.  I decided that my time would be better spent gathering everything, and then wasting time on facebook, and reading Garth Ennis's Preacher, which is surprisingly good.  And then Gill called me via Skype, and I finally heard her voice.  It's strange to think that we haven't talked--I mean verbally, because chat doesn't have the same effect--in over a year.  Crazy!  I couldn't see her because the camera on her computer was being strange, but she could see me in all of my unwashed glory.  We freaked out a bit about the couchsurfing people, who were all rejecting our overtures at their fold-out couches and air mattresses.  I'm not sure why, because we both made every effort to seem as harmless and friendly as possible.  Our profile picture shows two cute girls.  I have earmuffs.  She has thick black glasses.  No one who wore earmuffs or thick glasses was ever any harm!  Okay, maybe Malcolm X did some harm, but Hitler wasn't a glasses-wearer, and I'm sure he wouldn't deign to even buy a pair of earmuffs for Eva Braun.  We look harmless!  And still no one would consent to take us into their home.  So we freaked out together for a while, wrote a host of other requests, and finally I told her I needed to go shower.  My stench was getting to me.

Instead of showering right away, I decided to go to the gym to calm down.  That usually helps, but I've recently begun reading while on the elliptical, with mixed results.  On the one hand, I never bother looking at the amount of time I've been working out, since my books are always interesting.  On the other, I end up procrastinating on going anywhere else because my books are so unbelievably interesting.  I'm almost finished with Wiseguys, which I decided to bring with me and probably leave at Gill and Diogo's place since I'll have finished it in about an hour and a half of dedicated reading.  I also decided to bring Breakfast at Tiffany's, Dharma Bums, and two other books I can't reach at the moment.  So much for my "strict limit" of three.  I should've known that I would never actually only pack three books for the month.  Oh well.

So I got back from the gym, and it was 3.  My dad was picking me up at five to go to the airport, and I still needed to shower and go to the bank.  I showered, meanwhile packing my bathroom things and negotiating loads of laundry.  When I finally looked at the clock, it was 4:40.  I still needed to go to the bank and get back to my house in time for my dad to pick me up, so I needed to hurry.  I dressed, did my makeup (bien sur!) and got to the bank.  And the teller was taking, literally, forever!  I thought I would strangle him.  His client before me was Hispanic, and they were having language issues.  Also, the teller was having synapse issues.  Clearly, this wasn't a new state of affairs for him.  Luckily, the other teller was the kind Russian woman whom I know.  She's seen the profusion of jobs I hold down and heard about my trip, and I think she decided I would be a good influence on her son.  Either way, I gave her my number for him with instructions not to call before the fourth of May, when I return from Europe.  She finished first, in spite of the difficult client, and helped me.  It's amazing knowing another language; you instantly feel connected with the people whom you share it with.  She wished me well, and even suggested I call the customer service line at Wells to inform them that I'd be out of the country and might use my debit card in case of emergencies. 

When I got home, my dad was waiting in front of his truck.  I'd forgotten my phone on the charger at home, of course.  I still needed to pack my backpack.  I invited my dad up, and started throwing carefully-folded items haphazardly into the pack.  It reached capacity surprisingly soon.  I had to leave behind a sweater, a jacket, a pair of pants, and a pair of shorts.  The pack weighs around 26 pounds, which is good for carry-on on the airplanes we're taking from Warsaw to Athens, and from Porto to London.  We left by 5:30, which was apparently on schedule according to my dad (he knows me pretty well, and probably assumed that I'd be running late), and I only realized that we were going to the airport when I was in the car and we were halfway there. 

Security was a breeze.  There literally wasn't a single person in front of me.  The lady behind me had a cross, and it made me wonder how many otherwise-secular people travel with religious iconography.  I made it to the gate with an hour to spare, and am now typing out my last post before I leave the country.  I should get to the gate shortly, but I still can't believe that this is happening.  The last month flew by on invisible wings, and now my bags are packed and waiting.  I didn't check anything, so I'm carrying everything on, and the plane should be pretty free if the airport is anything to go by. 

Signing off, not to type again until London.  Wish me luck!

My bags are packed. You know, I hate to go...

Well, here'e the cursory pre-trip, trip-planning e-mail.  I don't feel prepared yet, but most things happen when you're unprepared for them, right?

I'm in the process of washing every item of my clothing because I have no idea what to bring.  I still haven't made a list of necessary items to pack, and I don't think my money is transferred yet.  I'm grossly underprepared, and have two days left.  Well, one and a half, since my plane leaves at 8:40 tomorrow evening.  I leave on the plane, and arrive on the next day.  I'm confused as to whether or not I should check my backpack (there won't be any liquids over 3 ounces, but you can never be too sure), what I should wear for travel, how much cash I should bring with me, which cards are safe to keep in my wallet, and whether or not I should suck it up and bring my laptop.

Yesterday, I spent most of the day e-mailing potential hosts in Frankfurt.  Out of the four potentials we'd identified, only two had couches available for surfing, and I sent them e-mails detailing the plans of Gill and me.  I tried to sound fun, effervescent, and absolutely cool, but may have ended up sounding slightly desperate and/or frantic, since if the couchsurfing falls through, I'm spending money that I don't want to spend on lodgings.  Either way, it'll be fine, because we know of hostels in the area of each city, and the couchsurfing was a fun idea with which to play.

Very soon, my entire life will be contained in one backpack, capable of holding 60 litres.  I still need to visit the bank one last time, check in with the optometrist to pick up my contact lenses, call my school because apparently they didn't get the message that I haven't been enrolled in the Business School for quite some time, and pick up a sleeping bag capable of being stuffed into earlier-referenced backpack.  Oh, and pick out some reading material.  And contact the rest of the hosts for couchsurfing.

I'm not positive which book will be most appropriate for my trip.  Since Borders is closing its doors in many locations, I've visited one near me more than I'd be comfortable admitting, and picked up an impressive assortment of random books.  I meant to finish reading a few before my trip, but only managed one since I received Pokemon White at around the same time, and subsequently devoted every waking minute to its mastery.  I suppose the urge to Catch 'Em All is as tailored to older audiences as it is to younger.  I did beat the game in less than a week to the chagrin of all of my friends.  As a result, I have a huge amount of books from which to make my travel selection.

1.  The Magicians, by Lev Grossman.  This is the single book I've finished out of the entire list, and it was very good.  Consumed and digested within a day.  It's a grown-up Harry Potter-esque story about a math savant who's unwittingly led onto the grounds of a magical university set in upstate New York.  He finds magic not as kind as Harry does, and studies desperately to master his control over the ridiculously-complex and unbelievably-dangerous discipline.  And then, after he graduates and descends into a pit of undulant hedonism (waay more believable than any other post-graduation plans I've heard of from magical school alumni) he finds that the magical world he's been obsessed with for most of his life (based shamelessly and eerily on the Narnia series, though much more meta for all of that) is real.  And he goes there with his friends.  And has drinks in a bar with a talking bear and an Ent.  Favorite quote?  "debated on the likelihood of the success of an X-rated magazine called Enthouse."  XD!!!  Definitely worth re-reading, since it's soo amazingly good.

2.  Wiseguys, by Nicholas Pileggi.  This is the book that inspired the movie Goodfellas.  I've been reading it sporadically for a few days now, and it's very interesting.  A little surreal to imagine going across the street for a job, and finding yourself setting fire to cars within a year, but that adds a very real charm to the contents.  I've always been fascinated by stories of the mob, though I know very little about them in reality.  So far, this book is neatly written, though it's starting to get a little old.  This seems like one of those paperbacks people take traveling.  Possibility.

3.  Chocolat, which I can't locate at the moment.  Unlikely, but charming in its way.  Possibly something to read after I return.

4.  American Rose, by Karen Abbott.  A biography of the amazing Miss Gypsy Rose Lee, a famous Burlesque star from near the very beginning.  I loved her mostly because she doesn't actually take everything off, but in the process of removing one glove, she mesmerizes her entire audience with the manner in which she does it.  I've heard that the main motivation for her act was the money, which I don't necessarily respect, but certainly understand.  This book is also a hardcover, so I might not necessarily take it traveling, since I have limited space.

5.  Breakfast at Tiffany's, by Truman Capote.  Okay, I love Holly Golightly.  It's impossible to think of her and not love her.  And this edition has "House of Flowers," "A Diamond Guitar," and "A Christmas Memory" to boot!  I've never read the book, only seen the movie.  And Capote's rhythm is reputed to be the very best.

6.  The Myth of Sisyphus, by Albert Camus.  I know it's not your typical vacation reading, but the whole point of Existentialism is to enjoy the moments, right?  Also, this might put me in a very zen state of mind, which is necessary for success in any endeavor.

7.  The Dharma Bums, by Jack Kerouac.  This might be the most appropriate choice, since I'm going to be backpacking and bumming around.  Also, the only time I find it possible to read Kerouac is in transit.  That's how I finished On the Road two or three years ago.

8.  Bel Ami, by Guy de Maupassant.  Flaubert's protege writes a book about seduction and the manipulations of a man whose success with women makes him a success with men.  Sounds juicy.

9.  The Learners, by Chip Kidd.  I've been meaning to pick up this sequel to The Cheese Monkeys for years now, and never did.  This is about the post-graduation work of an artist who idolizes his professor for advertising art.  Kidd is himself a very famous artist and designer; he designs all of his own book covers, and includes bad reviews along with good, and a nod a the fourth wall with the price tag placed next to a "from you."

10.  The Eyre Affair, by Jasper Fforde.  I don't like mysteries, but this one is said to be capricious and hilarious and chock-block full of literary allusions.  Jane Eyre goes missing from her story, and a detective must find her.  What?  Sounds awesome!

There are more books, but I probably won't be taking them.  Wish me luck!

Mastering the Cleanse

Yesterday marked the tenth day in a very arduous, and at times nauseating, process.  A multitude of factors including, but not limited to: an extremely spartan food budget, that extra holiday bulge shared by millions of people the world over, increasingly bad skin, an upcoming Burlesque performance in which my body would be on display for all my loved ones to see, and an exceedingly unflattering picture of me published in a local Russian newspaper brought me to the simple conclusion that I needed to do something about my food addiction, and quickly.  This was not for a boy.  I repeat: this has nothing to do with finding Mr. Right.  Actually, I was dealing with more boy drama before I decided to lose weight. 

I was sick of bitching to my friends about how I couldn't fit into a single pair of jeans.  It was getting so bad that even my thick leggings were beginning to tear at the seams.  My muffin top was slowly engulfing my sides, and turning into a uniform curve from the middle of my waist to the tops of my knees, feeding, no doubt, on the boredom and insecurity that fester when I'm dissatisfied and not paying attention to the movements of my hand to my mouth and back.  I was spending more money on takeout Chinese food than anything else.  The situation was becoming dire.  I didn't want to go up a size, so I decided to devote the time directly following my 21st birthday to slimming down into the body I've always imagined I had.  I knew it would be hard work, so I enlisted an accomplice, who also wanted to lose weight, albeit for a different motive.

Our first stop was a cleanse.  We talked about it, and decided that a cleanse would be the easiest way to re-set our addictions to sugars and processed foods, while losing a little bit of weight right at the beginning for inspiration.  I'd done a serious cleanse once before, last year, right before I left for Israel. 

Dr. Alejandro Junger's book Clean is an amazing resource that details the detriments of living in a modern society.  The dangers of toxic living show themselves in excess fat around the middle, poor skin, depression, and allergies.  I've never had allergies, but the excess fat around my stomach, and acne rang true.  I wouldn't necessarily call myself depressed, but I do get moodier than I think many people do.  I try to bury that emotion with more food, which subsequently turns into a worse mood, more weight gain, and more eating.  This isn't a problem that many people face.  Before I read the book, I hadn't thought of my shower, or the impure water I was bombarding the largest organ in my body with.  No wonder I couldn't lose the weight.

Dr. Junger's cleanse is deceptively simple.  You begin your morning with a couple of glasses of water, and a teaspoon of olive oil.  If you have a neti pot, you wash your sinuses out with it.  You take a shower that's as cold as you can stand, after brushing you body off all over with an organic body scrubber.  They're sold at most health food stores, and at first glance resemble more of a brown bristly torture device than anything else, let alone the first thing you want to confront in the morning.  Your breakfast is a liquid, prepared to the letter from one of the recipes detailed in the back portion of his book.  Lunch is solid, and dinner is another liquid.  You maintain a 12-hour window between dinner and breakfast, so if you drink dinner at 9 PM, the earliest you can have breakfast is 9 AM.  You are also advised to sweat as often as possible, which means copious visits to your local sauna, or hot yoga, alternatively.  All grains and almonds must be soaked in filtered water before they're cooked.

You're supposed to last on this for three weeks.  I managed two, and was interrupted by my trip to New York, and then Israel.  I always meant to get back on after I came back, but didn't get around to it.  This time, with much less money, my friend and I decided to do the Master Cleanse.

The entire cleanse is supposed to last for ten days, during which you consume nothing but a mixture of lemon juice, grade B maple syrup, cayenne pepper, and water.  My friend and I did a few warm-up rounds of three days each, and noticed a difference immediately.  I realized just as quickly that eating nothing is almost impossible.  Not because you get hungry, but because almost every human interaction that involves going out somewhere also involves food.  Or booze, which is also prohibited.  So whenever I went out, I'd have to explain everything, and get uncomfortable looks. 

To be honest, the first day sucks.  Day two is no better, but you hit day three, and you no longer really want much of anything but the cleanse drink.  Between mini-cleanses, I tried a piece of birthday cake, and the only part I could taste was the disgusting congealed vegetable oil that the cake was baked with.  Unappealing, to say the least.  I still craved chocolate, though, and on occasion, I'd want something to chew.  Walking through the food court to my retail job sucked for many reasons, but when I really wanted something desperately, I'd breathe in, relax, and tell myself that it's okay to have cravings.  Everyone craves things.  Not everyone gives in.

Yesterday was my last day of carrying around a huge jug of nasty-looking liquid with chunks of lemon floating inside.  I went to sleep at five, because I'd awakened at four in the morning for work, and woke up to day of one the ease-out day.  I'm drinking orange juice all day, but the horizon is in sight.  Soon, I'll be out of the cleanse period, and into another tier of my dieting.  Next up is the vitamin-rich Israeli soup diet, which lasts for a week.  That'll bring me within two weeks of my Euro-trip, which gives me enough time to ease into normal food, though restricted calorie intake.  I think my biggest mistake was to go straight from the cleanse last time to normal eating, and that's the quickest way to gain back the weight lost, and then some, since your body doesn't have as much of a tolerance for the toxins as it did before. 

This isn't for a boy, and this isn't because I think I'm fat.  I love what I see when I look in the mirror, and I love my shape.  I want to be healthier.  I want to live a long and fruitful life.  I'm worried that bad habits and momentary stupidity will impede my progress.  This time, I don't want to let them.