1/5/19 A large old woman sat in her fold up chair at the Portobello Market. She wore two down coats, a hat, and a pair of gloves with the fingertips cut off. The gloves allowed her to exchange money easily with her customers. She didn’t smile when I approached her covered booth. She didn’t look happy. She didn’t say a single word. As I rummaged through the seemingly endless boxes of scarves that sat in front of her, I wondered if she was British, or if she even spoke English. Perhaps she was Russian and her English was poor. She certainly looked Russian. Of course, it’s never safe to assume. I smiled at her, said hello, then told her how beautiful her scarves were. She just looked off to the side and grunted. I asked her how many scarves I could get with five pounds. Without saying a word, she held up two fingers. So, I grabbed my two favorite scarves along with the five pounds, and thanked her. Behind her were three long racks that temporarily housed the numerous fur coats that she brought to the market, hoping maybe this time, they would finally sell. The selection was spectacular. She had mink, ermine, fox, nutria, and even chinchilla. There were brown coats, black coats, white coats, black and white coats. There were even red coats. I was in fur heaven. After sifting through the racks and admiring almost every coat I saw, I finally came across a long, jet black mink coat. More often than not, a woman’s first fur coat is mink. This particular coat was made from male skins. I could tell from the length and it’s heavy weight. It was love at first sight, so I pulled it off the rack. Handling it ever so gently, I carried it over to the old woman and asked if I was okay to try it on. She looked at the coat, then back at me. She finally forced out the words, “Fine, okay.” She looked annoyed. Not necessarily with me, but with human interaction in general, as if it pained her to have to speak with another human. I replied with an enthusiastic “great, thanks!”. Now, I was the one who was annoyed. Why get into this line of work if you can’t stand to interact with others? At this point, I was purposeful in my patronizing tone. “Looks great, huh?” I said. I knew from the beginning that I was not going to buy this coat. It was black, genuine mink and in perfect condition. It had to be over a thousand pounds. Way more than I was willing to pay. I got the feeling that she knew I wasn’t going to buy it either. Maybe that’s why she had a bad attitude. She spent her day watching woman after woman try on her gorgeous fur coats with no real intentions of buying them. Regardless, the coat looked fabulous. I felt like Cruella de Vil, chic and in vogue. I am well aware that many people would find it insulting to be compared to Cruella de Vil, as she is a villain character that all children are supposed to hate and fear for her cruel actions and murderous intentions. And like all other children who were fans of 101 Dalmatians, I despised the glowering villainess. But now, as a grown woman who is quite fond of high-end fashion and quality vintage clothes, I can’t help but envy Cruella’s wardrobe. I share very similar taste with the evil fashion connoisseur. I, too rarely stray from black and white articles of clothing. She might be a terrible person, and perhaps I am too for loving genuine fur coats and animal hide rugs, but her style is undeniably trending right now. Look around in a public setting and you’ll see countless women sporting a fur coat of some kind. The only difference between these women and Cruella is that these women aren’t fully committing to the posh lifestyle like she had. Most women aren’t buying genuine fur these days. Turns out that killing animals for their fur is widely frowned upon, as it leads to their extinction. Who knew?! Then it hit me. It was perhaps the greatest realization I had ever made. This old, grumpy woman was the modern day Cruella de Vil. She was exactly who Cruella de Vil would be after she had served her time in jail for animal abuse and attempted murder. She was Cruella de Vil in retirement. Having lost her multi-million pound haute couture company after her plan to slaughter the Dearly’s puppies blows up in her face, she was forced to sell her furs at local markets and fairs just to get by. She’s broke and bitter, surrounded by beautiful, authentic furs that no one will buy because the world all-of-a-sudden cares about living beings other than themselves. Unlike Martha Stewart, she was never able to rebuild her empire after her release from the clink. Because of her record and new reputation as a conniving cunt, she has no future.It all makes sense. This old woman has no reason to smile, no reason to speak to anyone. She is resentful and seething. She once had everything, but now has nothing. Her name is despised and her world seems worthless. Her story is neither tragic nor heartbreaking. It is not deserving of any sympathy. Nonetheless, this woman’s history - her story - justifies her bad attitude. I, too, would be miserable and bitter if I had nothing left. There is always the possibility, of course, that this woman is just having a bad day.
1/7/19 I have found heaven. What an amazing way to end the day’s sightseeing adventure. Today, Professor Chopan took a small group of us to an adorable little bookstore on the water. When he asked if we wanted to go with him to this floating bookstore, I pictured a ferry style touring boat, similar to the kind you often see chugging along the East River between Manhattan and Brooklyn. Essentially, I was imagining a Barnes & Noble on a boat. In my head, this ferry style bookstore would look fairly new and updated, complete with a starbucks coffee shop to meet all the needs of the self-important assholes who would inevitably be shopping there, because those are the type of people who shop at Barnes & Noble. I planned on turning down Professor Chopin's invitation, but was convinced by a friend to give it a chance. I always keep my expectations low. That way, when I’m disappointed it won’t ruin my mood. And when the result is not disappointing, I’m that much more pleased and excited. That’s exactly what happened when we discovered Word On The Water. What I imagined was far from what actually was. I was beyond pleased with this discovery. A small rustic houseboat docked on the Regent’s Canal had been transformed into a library. The top deck was covered with plants and potters. Shelf brackets and old wood had been fashioned into a protected bookcase off the starboard side of the boat. This shelf held classic, used books that smelled of mildew and the past. Eager and intrigued, I entered the bookstore through the stern of the boat. Lady, the complementary old dog, greeted me with soft eyes and a warm lick on my hand. I always knew that my heaven would be shared with kind, spirited dogs who would fill my soul with their unconditional love and lead me down amazing paths of discovery only they could find. Lady was a mutt with long, tri-colored fur and tan velvet ears that stood up tall. A shepherd mix, I presumed. Her place was atop an orange and red oriental cushion that sat on a worn out, leather maroon sofa-chair that had been reupholstered more than once. Her head lay on a square pillow that’s design resembled books on a shelf. I could tell that's exactly where the sweet old dog wanted to exist for the rest of her boat-guarding days. Bookshelves painted black covered the walls inside the stern entrance. The original hardwood flooring was scuffed up and splintering. Prints and old, black and white photographs were clipped to a string that hung from the ceiling. Used and new books were in abundance. Some lined the floors, while others were pinched into nooks and crannies on the shelves. Everything in sight, excluding Lady, was for sale. This makeshift bookstore had three rooms in total. Lady and her sofa-chair lived in the first room. Taking three steps down, I entered the second room. I had to duck my head to keep from banging it against the top door panel. Like the first room, this one had floor-to-ceiling shelving. Here, I found a book titled Love. It’s a collection of female-written short stories chosen and put together by Victoria Hislop. I decided this would be my “London gift” for my mother. She’s recently divorced and now in a new relationship with someone. Her and the boyfriend are still in that exhilarating honeymoon phase that feels so invigorating and intoxicating. It’s that phase in the relationship that’s inevitable demise you dread. The phase that makes you believe in soulmates and happily-ever-afters. So, a book about Love seemed very fitting for my mother. The last room in Word On The Water brought me so much life. There I sat, next to a wood stove surrounded by all the romantic poets in history. The air smelled of old books and burning wood. I shared my space with all the right people: Wordsworth, Blake, Byron, Keats, Tolstoy, Hemingway, Wilde, Whitman, Austen, and many more literary geniuses. I was exactly where I was supposed to be; In a small, warm room filled with history, knowledge, and romance. I was in heaven.
1/8/19 Today I choked while eating a duck confit wrap. Some friends and I decided to head to Borough Market for lunch. There, I bought the most savory duck confit wrap i’ve ever tasted. I got so excited to eat this beautiful work of art. So excited that I forgot to breathe while scarfing down that loaded six inch meal. If you’ve ever choked before, then you know how shitty it feels in your throat. You also know, then, the sheer panic that takes over your whole body. Yes, I tend to be overly dramatic. But, this was real choking. Not that pitiful kind of choking, where all you have to do is cough a few times and your throat is cleared. This was the kind of choking where I couldn’t even muster up a cough. Or words, for that matter. I couldn’t make a single sound to let someone know I was nearing the end of my existence. All I could do was squeeze my friends arm and give them that deer-in-the-headlights look, wide “help me” eyes, and hope they got the message. Luckily, they did. I did not die in that moment. Hence why I’m writing this. But, “Why am I writing this?” you may ask. Who actually cares about my unfortunate occurrence that so many other people have also experienced? Well, my little “near death” experience got me thinking. No, it hasn’t made me a better person. No, it didn’t get me thinking about the wonderful future I could have, or the amazing adventures that await me. And no, it didn’t make me a more sentimental human being that cherishes every waking moment. It got me thinking a rather morbid thought. I realized, honestly, that wouldn’t have been the worst way to go out, to kick the bucket, to cash in my chips, to bite the dust. That wouldn’t have been the worst way to die. Okay, I know what you’re thinking, “What the fuck is wrong with this girl? Of course choking would be the worst way to go, how fucking embarrassing that would be.” But, think about it, I was eating a delicious piece of food. No, it wasn’t delicious. It was better than delicious. What is better than delicious? Exquisite? Mouthwatering? It was the kind of meal that you would request to have for your “last supper”, right before you got the electric chair. I was eating a meal that was that good. I was at an amazing market surrounded by food. The atmosphere was lively yet, peaceful. I had cool people around me. Not the best people, but definitely above average. Above average is better than what most people get. The british man who sold me a brandy and vermouth cider would have been the last person I’d talk to. That's okay too. He was kind and hilarious, and made me a wonderful drink that warmed my soul. And those are the best kinds of people; the people who are so happy to brighten your day by serving you alcohol and chatting your ear off with their random facts and mediocre life stories. It wouldn’t be the worst way to go. Most people die alone, old in their nursing home beds. Or, If they are not alone, they are most likely surrounded by underpaid orderlies who hate their lives. Choking on a life-altering duck confit wrap, in the company of above-average people, with warm brandy/vermouth cider running through my system, at an adorable food market in the heart of London, wouldn’t be the worst way to go. No, you don’t have to worry about my mental health. I have never been happier in my life than I am now. I do not need to see a therapist. This is not a cry for help. This is simply me, documenting the weird thoughts that come into my head, because I can’t find anything else to write about.
1/24/19 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.
1/27/19 DISCLAIMER: I do not support Donald Trump. I do not hate other cultures or countries. I am not even a patriot of our own country. This was written with sarcasm.
As expected, most of the money I spent on my trip to London went toward food and alcohol. Experiencing the food and drinks abroad was what I looked forward to the most. One of the largest aspects of encountering new cultures is trying their food and drinking their booze. As a lover of all food, especially those that are loaded with carbs, I looked greatly forward to tasting the food of London. As a hop farmer (and slight alcohol abuser), I was thrilled to imbibe their booze. If you are an American who’s experienced London culture, and who shares these two interests with me, then you are most likely as disappointed with the food and drinks as I am. Perhaps my eating habits are just horrendous. Or, perhaps my drinking problem is more serious than I thought. But, I really don’t think it’s either of those problems. I honestly think that London food and London booze really is just shitty. To begin my rant, I will first complain about the food. Breakfast sandwiches should always have cheese on it. That is basically a cuisine law. Breakfast sandwiches ALWAYS taste better with cheese. That is a fact of life However, London doesn’t embrace this reality. For reasons I don’t, for the life of me, understand, London restaurants don’t put cheese on their breakfast sandwiches unless you specifically ask them too. I will admit that I enjoyed the sausage. But don’t even get me started on the bacon. It was some hybrid form of canadian bacon and ham that severely lacked flavor. Overall disappointing. Pizza exists in London, but it really should not. All the pizza restaurants throughout the city should meet for tea time or an afternoon brew, compile all their recipes together, burn them, then form a suicide pact. I have never tasted such horrible pizza in my life, and I’ve eaten at Little Caesars before, so that’s saying a lot. I can’t pinpoint the exact problem with their pizza. But I can say that what they are making is a crime against humanity and they should forever stop. The last disappointing dish that I will whine about is the hamburger. Simply put, the burger scene in America is better. Burgers have come so far here. These days, we have lamb burgers, turkey burgers, bison burgers, and many many more. We even have burgers for those insane, culty vegetarians! We’ve discovered toppings that compliment each other beautifully and tie the whole burger together. The options are endless. Britain, being the old-fashioned nuts that they are, still think that burgers come in two forms. They have the classic hamburg, with lettuce and a tomato. If you’re lucky, you might get onions and pickles on it too. Then, they have the cheeseburger. It’s not just the construction of the burger where they fail. They don’t know how to form the actual patty correctly either. The beef that they use is way too lean. And they grind the meat too finely. The best burgers have a fat content of about 15-20 percent. To achieve perfection, the meat needs to be coarsely ground, and lightly handled after grinding. Conclusion: London burgers are a disgrace to the Hamburger name. Moving on in my rant, I will protest the alcoholic drinks of London. The only compliment I have goes toward their beer. No complaints there. Two thumbs up. Unfortunately, as a lover of cocktails and mixed drinks, I was continuously let down by theirs. I was able to get all my favorite liquors, as the brands I prefer are known worldwide. It was never an issue with the spirits itself. The problem lies with the bartenders lack of bartending knowledge. When you ask for a Screwdriver in America, you get one parts vodka, two parts orange juice. At the jankier bars, where the cheapest liquors are fountained, you’ll get half vodka, half orange juice. In London, when you ask for a Screwdriver they look at you like you’re an idiot because they don’t know what that means. Over there they call Screwdrivers “vodka orange juice”. So, when you order a “vodka orange juice”, you get a cup of OJ with a splash of vodka. This standard of measurement goes for all the cocktails and mixed drinks in London. To get an American tasting screwdriver, you have to ask for a triple vodka orange juice. Every drink I ordered was a triple. So, I had to pay for three shots instead of one, just to get a decent god damn drink. To budget wisely I had to spend many nights in London sober. Sober and disappointed. I am no expert on London cuisine, nor am I a professional food or drink critic. But, my opinion is right. I have learned that London lacks creative geniuses in the chef field. Time and again I was disappointed. My advice to you, London, and my final words on this matter are simple and come from a place of superior knowledge, righteous intolerance, and pure nationalism. Make food great again.