Thursday, January 14, 2010
You know you're in England when...part three
You know you're in England when people use umbrellas in the snow.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Highlights of Christmas break
Sons of Maxwell’s “United Breaks Guitars” video, the saving grace of my mission to get my guitar home for Christmas without checking it. (Me: “Is there any space for this in the cabin? I really can’t put it underneath…” Flight attendant: “Yes, don’t worry, I’ve seen the video. We’ll find a place for it.”)
The brewery tour of the RO with Troy – even if I suffered for it.
My father as Herr Drosselmeyer in “The Nutcracker” and his ridiculous mutton chops; clapping for my parents with my sister at my side. Being there for Terry’s last Sugarplum was also pretty special.
Making Italian Christmas cookies with my mom – and Em and Michelle – for the first time in probably a decade. And throwing said cookies into frosting to thwart the Master Baker’s neat rows. “Rollin’, rollin’, rollin’… Keep those cookies rollin’… Raw batter!”
Two consecutive visits to Dietsch Brothers on the way to and from my grandparents’ house in Indiana, where my 89-year-old grandmother announced, “I’m going to bed,” and my 88-year-old grandfather responded, “Well, we’ll miss you. We were going to have an orgy in here.”
The Troublesome Trio, reunited for the first time since one became a Dannenberg, one became an Englin and one moved to England – followed by a night out with the Dondero ’04 kids.
A slightly pathetic sleepover with Sarah, Sami and Em where we struggled to stay awake past 12:30. Also, where we concluded that borrowing Chris Schulte’s flannel PJ pants was “not as weird” as borrowing my boyfriend’s father’s bicycle shorts, which I have also done.
The Christmas Eve traditions: cinnamon rolls, front pew of the balcony at church, the street with candles in bags, the Washington house, “It’s A Wonderful Life”, “The Night Before Christmas” and Luke.
Reading old journals, to endless amusement. Talk about vivid recollection: I recorded a phone conversation with my seventh-grade crush in painstaking detail, and even notated the music from the adagio at my first Hope audition on a hand-scrawled treble-clef in the margins.
Two bedrooms, an attic and fourteen people: the Crisafulli Clan descends upon Uncle Dave’s house for a week. Somehow, it works.
My cousin Ian: “Papa, it must be strange to be at the bar with your kids and your grandkids.” My grandpa: “It’s strange just to be at a bar!”
A half-hour debate among the offspring about what my (other) grandfather’s upcoming date: what he should wear, where he should go, what time he should go, what he should order, whether he should stay in one spot or move and whether he should kiss the lady at midnight on New Year’s. Poor guy’s head was probably about to explode.
Uncle Tom, gloating about the “great deal” he got on a blanket over eBay – to discover, upon its arrival, that the $3.80 plus $8.00 shipping he paid far exceeded the $4.98 shelf price of the felt rag printed with Americana kitsch. This led him to defend his purchase even more valiantly.
My cousins Maggie and Matthew, ages four and two, who perform a routine called “Dance Kids” every night before bed, which consists of them jumping, whirling, twirling, falling and bouncing to three Queen songs. The finale? “Fat-Bottomed Girls.”
Said cousin Maggie devouring a chocolate chip cookie as big as her head and an equally-large hot chocolate with whipped cream. (“I would have to drink a KFC chicken bucket full of hot chocolate to drink the equivalent of what she’s got.” –Dan)
A day trip to Brighton: girly time, pier walk and shopping, followed by Eastern Star, Pompoko and Battle of Trafalgar. Home.
The homeless man we served at FoodWorks who drizzled about a quarter cup of olive oil on each helping of soup or vegetable loaf, and then asked whether the flapjacks or scones were healthier when he returned for dessert. (He ended up eating several of both.)
A ski lesson in Switzerland, surrounded by pine-covered peaks, and the thrill of arcing down a mountainside for the first time.
The muesli, cappuccinos, pumpkin seed oil, Cailler chocolates and free-flowing wine that evoke my summer in Switzerland so well, thanks to Di and Malcolm.
Looking at old photos of Murray, Roland and their parents. Conclusions: Roland has thankfully grown out of his propensity for long bowl cuts; Murray’s facial expressions have changed little over time; and South Africa was much like the States in the ‘70s in at least one respect: short shorts galore.
All right, London. All right, Lent term. I'm rested. Bring it on.
The brewery tour of the RO with Troy – even if I suffered for it.
My father as Herr Drosselmeyer in “The Nutcracker” and his ridiculous mutton chops; clapping for my parents with my sister at my side. Being there for Terry’s last Sugarplum was also pretty special.
Making Italian Christmas cookies with my mom – and Em and Michelle – for the first time in probably a decade. And throwing said cookies into frosting to thwart the Master Baker’s neat rows. “Rollin’, rollin’, rollin’… Keep those cookies rollin’… Raw batter!”
Two consecutive visits to Dietsch Brothers on the way to and from my grandparents’ house in Indiana, where my 89-year-old grandmother announced, “I’m going to bed,” and my 88-year-old grandfather responded, “Well, we’ll miss you. We were going to have an orgy in here.”
The Troublesome Trio, reunited for the first time since one became a Dannenberg, one became an Englin and one moved to England – followed by a night out with the Dondero ’04 kids.
A slightly pathetic sleepover with Sarah, Sami and Em where we struggled to stay awake past 12:30. Also, where we concluded that borrowing Chris Schulte’s flannel PJ pants was “not as weird” as borrowing my boyfriend’s father’s bicycle shorts, which I have also done.
The Christmas Eve traditions: cinnamon rolls, front pew of the balcony at church, the street with candles in bags, the Washington house, “It’s A Wonderful Life”, “The Night Before Christmas” and Luke.
Reading old journals, to endless amusement. Talk about vivid recollection: I recorded a phone conversation with my seventh-grade crush in painstaking detail, and even notated the music from the adagio at my first Hope audition on a hand-scrawled treble-clef in the margins.
Two bedrooms, an attic and fourteen people: the Crisafulli Clan descends upon Uncle Dave’s house for a week. Somehow, it works.
My cousin Ian: “Papa, it must be strange to be at the bar with your kids and your grandkids.” My grandpa: “It’s strange just to be at a bar!”
A half-hour debate among the offspring about what my (other) grandfather’s upcoming date: what he should wear, where he should go, what time he should go, what he should order, whether he should stay in one spot or move and whether he should kiss the lady at midnight on New Year’s. Poor guy’s head was probably about to explode.
Uncle Tom, gloating about the “great deal” he got on a blanket over eBay – to discover, upon its arrival, that the $3.80 plus $8.00 shipping he paid far exceeded the $4.98 shelf price of the felt rag printed with Americana kitsch. This led him to defend his purchase even more valiantly.
My cousins Maggie and Matthew, ages four and two, who perform a routine called “Dance Kids” every night before bed, which consists of them jumping, whirling, twirling, falling and bouncing to three Queen songs. The finale? “Fat-Bottomed Girls.”
Said cousin Maggie devouring a chocolate chip cookie as big as her head and an equally-large hot chocolate with whipped cream. (“I would have to drink a KFC chicken bucket full of hot chocolate to drink the equivalent of what she’s got.” –Dan)
A day trip to Brighton: girly time, pier walk and shopping, followed by Eastern Star, Pompoko and Battle of Trafalgar. Home.
The homeless man we served at FoodWorks who drizzled about a quarter cup of olive oil on each helping of soup or vegetable loaf, and then asked whether the flapjacks or scones were healthier when he returned for dessert. (He ended up eating several of both.)
A ski lesson in Switzerland, surrounded by pine-covered peaks, and the thrill of arcing down a mountainside for the first time.
The muesli, cappuccinos, pumpkin seed oil, Cailler chocolates and free-flowing wine that evoke my summer in Switzerland so well, thanks to Di and Malcolm.
Looking at old photos of Murray, Roland and their parents. Conclusions: Roland has thankfully grown out of his propensity for long bowl cuts; Murray’s facial expressions have changed little over time; and South Africa was much like the States in the ‘70s in at least one respect: short shorts galore.
All right, London. All right, Lent term. I'm rested. Bring it on.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
You know when you're in England when... (take two)
You have discovered drinking establishments named "Dirty Dicks" and "The Famous Cock".
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
You know you're in England when...
You know you're in England when you sign up for the Royal Opera House's online ticket purchase service, and your choice of titles includes:
Baroness
Brigadier
Commodore
Count
Countess
Dame
Duke of
Earl of
H R H the Duchess of
H R H the Princess
His Highness
HRH Sultan Shah
HRH the Prince
King
Lady
Lord Justice
Marchese
Rt Hon Baroness
Rt Hon Viscount
The Dowager Marchioness of
Viscondessa
...or simply, "The Venerable."
And what the hell is a Princessin?
Baroness
Brigadier
Commodore
Count
Countess
Dame
Duke of
Earl of
H R H the Duchess of
H R H the Princess
His Highness
HRH Sultan Shah
HRH the Prince
King
Lady
Lord Justice
Marchese
Rt Hon Baroness
Rt Hon Viscount
The Dowager Marchioness of
Viscondessa
...or simply, "The Venerable."
And what the hell is a Princessin?
Friday, September 25, 2009
London Life: Take One
Today I commuted by bike for the first time. The ride from my flat in East London to the London School of Economics is 3.6 miles, pretty much a straight shot down a street that changes names about nine times. Last year my commute was 4.5 miles, so this should be a snap, right?
Wrong. It was harrowing. People do this every day? Good lord. I wore my helmet, donned my fluorescent pink biking vest and rode very conservatively, yet my heart was still pounding. I'm sure the veteran cyclists could tell by the look of terror in my eyes and the frequent, panicked glances over my shoulder that I'm a newbie. I know they're not going to hit me, if I'm not rude or stupid. I know that what I'm supposed to do is to ride out from the curb, perhaps a meter away, so cars and cabs don't squeeze me out but know that they have to give me space. But this is going to take some getting used to.
Everything else about living in London, though, is perhaps not as novel as it should be. London is already familiar turf to me. Yes, East London and the Whitechapel neighbourhood is new, and I love it - constant street markets, cheap and delicious Indian food, Somali translations everywhere, people of every hue. But the Tube is a pain, not a thrill; coming out of the Westminster station to see the Eye and Big Ben isn't exciting but just...is. Still, I'm no longer associating London with exhaustion, toting a big backpack, and harried dashes to catch a train or a bus, which is overwhelmingly how I remember it from last year.
I'm lucky to live near Regents Canal and Victoria Park - eight-tenths of a mile takes me to the canal and from there on out I'm on pedestrian-bike-only paths - and my runs are relaxing and gorgeous. The London Royal Parks Half Marathon is two weeks and two days away, and aside from the shin splints that are developing I'm feeling pretty much ready, and excited. The last of my five flatmates has moved in tonight, and it's shaping up to be a nice place. Best of all, Murray is staying in London and going to SOAS this year. Up until two weeks ago, we both thought he was going back to South Africa to take an internship, and that was going to be it for a while, and now he's about to move into a flat about a mile from me. It's very exciting :) (And the things we saw while flat-hunting on Monday made me very thankful to have already found a good place!)
Registration at LSE was today; I've got a student card, but I'm holding off on the "throwing myself into it" thing until classes really begin next Thursday... One more week of limbo, in which to finish my freelance work on 30-Second Economics, a book I'm contributing to - and celebrate my birthday on Sunday!
So that's what's up. I guess I don't write because part of me feels that it's indulgent, self-centred, to assume people want to read what I'm doing and thinking and learning. But I like reading my friends' blogs, so perhaps I'll make a bit more of an effort to record the trials and triumphs of my second year in England, my life in London.
Wrong. It was harrowing. People do this every day? Good lord. I wore my helmet, donned my fluorescent pink biking vest and rode very conservatively, yet my heart was still pounding. I'm sure the veteran cyclists could tell by the look of terror in my eyes and the frequent, panicked glances over my shoulder that I'm a newbie. I know they're not going to hit me, if I'm not rude or stupid. I know that what I'm supposed to do is to ride out from the curb, perhaps a meter away, so cars and cabs don't squeeze me out but know that they have to give me space. But this is going to take some getting used to.
Everything else about living in London, though, is perhaps not as novel as it should be. London is already familiar turf to me. Yes, East London and the Whitechapel neighbourhood is new, and I love it - constant street markets, cheap and delicious Indian food, Somali translations everywhere, people of every hue. But the Tube is a pain, not a thrill; coming out of the Westminster station to see the Eye and Big Ben isn't exciting but just...is. Still, I'm no longer associating London with exhaustion, toting a big backpack, and harried dashes to catch a train or a bus, which is overwhelmingly how I remember it from last year.
I'm lucky to live near Regents Canal and Victoria Park - eight-tenths of a mile takes me to the canal and from there on out I'm on pedestrian-bike-only paths - and my runs are relaxing and gorgeous. The London Royal Parks Half Marathon is two weeks and two days away, and aside from the shin splints that are developing I'm feeling pretty much ready, and excited. The last of my five flatmates has moved in tonight, and it's shaping up to be a nice place. Best of all, Murray is staying in London and going to SOAS this year. Up until two weeks ago, we both thought he was going back to South Africa to take an internship, and that was going to be it for a while, and now he's about to move into a flat about a mile from me. It's very exciting :) (And the things we saw while flat-hunting on Monday made me very thankful to have already found a good place!)
Registration at LSE was today; I've got a student card, but I'm holding off on the "throwing myself into it" thing until classes really begin next Thursday... One more week of limbo, in which to finish my freelance work on 30-Second Economics, a book I'm contributing to - and celebrate my birthday on Sunday!
So that's what's up. I guess I don't write because part of me feels that it's indulgent, self-centred, to assume people want to read what I'm doing and thinking and learning. But I like reading my friends' blogs, so perhaps I'll make a bit more of an effort to record the trials and triumphs of my second year in England, my life in London.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Patriot, Misfit
(Written in my first week back in the States)
In the last 24 hours, I have been told four times that "This is the best country in the world," by women who insinuated that to feel otherwise just makes you darn stupid and, well, an evil socialist. I feel like a traveller in a foreign land, like an observer of some foreign culture: American patriotism.
But why? I'm glad I was born in the U.S. I loved growing up here, and when I am here I am happy. I'm proud of some of the things in our past, and some of the things we have contributed to the world. I'm fortunate and I know it. I loved showing off my country to my Norwegian friends last year, to my South African boyfriend this summer. Yet sometimes I'm wondering if I'm setting myself up for the life of an expat, because in a way I feel like I don't belong. Because I believe, more than almost anything, that nationalism should never supersede humanitarianism.
I know that's foolish. There are plenty of people here who feel the way I do - and plenty of people there who don't. (BNP, anyone?) Maybe it's just that two out of the last three years have been spent overseas. And the fact that during Bush's presidency, Americans abroad spent so much time apologising, trying to prove that we ARE great people.
But why is our nationalism and patriotism any different from that of my Greek friend, or my Belgian friend, or my Brazilian friends who love their countries? I suppose it's just more... loaded.
In the last 24 hours, I have been told four times that "This is the best country in the world," by women who insinuated that to feel otherwise just makes you darn stupid and, well, an evil socialist. I feel like a traveller in a foreign land, like an observer of some foreign culture: American patriotism.
But why? I'm glad I was born in the U.S. I loved growing up here, and when I am here I am happy. I'm proud of some of the things in our past, and some of the things we have contributed to the world. I'm fortunate and I know it. I loved showing off my country to my Norwegian friends last year, to my South African boyfriend this summer. Yet sometimes I'm wondering if I'm setting myself up for the life of an expat, because in a way I feel like I don't belong. Because I believe, more than almost anything, that nationalism should never supersede humanitarianism.
I know that's foolish. There are plenty of people here who feel the way I do - and plenty of people there who don't. (BNP, anyone?) Maybe it's just that two out of the last three years have been spent overseas. And the fact that during Bush's presidency, Americans abroad spent so much time apologising, trying to prove that we ARE great people.
But why is our nationalism and patriotism any different from that of my Greek friend, or my Belgian friend, or my Brazilian friends who love their countries? I suppose it's just more... loaded.
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