So I spend a lot of time on the bus...

I know this is yet another in a series of bus themed postings, but I do not care! After being back in DC, briefly, I have my confirmation of something I had noticed was different about the bus-riding habits of Londoners versus those I knew before. That is this: people riding the bus in London have absolutely no qualms about quickly fleeing the seat next to a person as soon as one with two free seats opens up. I noticed this behaviour shortly after arriving in the big smoke, and found it a bit odd, in that I would feel rude doing the same thing and hadn't noticed it in my previous home city.

Granted, I will admit no one exactly likes being forced to sit directly next to some stranger on the bus. Perhaps your knees will touch awkwardly, perhaps they had to move their all too precious bag/purse/rucksack/glove in order to make room for you to sit. When this is the case you, steely bus rider, have no doubt first been forced to endure the 'look of death' that seems to result from your rude imposition of wanting to sit, and feeling you are probably more entitled to do so than, say, the random rider's clutch. God forbid humans get priority over glorified lipstick holders..but, I digress.

My main observation is that, as soon as a seat opens up where one might be able to sit alone, people in London will immediately scramble away from their erstwhile seat-partner to have the pleasure of sitting alone (or with only their own bag as seat-mate). This has always struck me as slightly rude, and was something I had never noticed before in my years of public transit ridership. In DC, and perhaps much of the rest of America, people will generally remain seated directly adjacent to someone, even when another seat has opened up, from my observations. I think that I, and perhaps other Americans, don't want to appear rude. I'd hate to give the person next to me the impression that sitting beside them represents some unendurable trial for me, perhaps as a result of their body odour or some other unmentionable misfortune. In London, this consideration doesn't seem to figure quite as prominently. Or, if it does, the Londoner's desire for a seat of their own quickly overrides any consideration of appearing unable to handle being within a few inches of another person. Maybe it is the relatively cramped nature of life in London as compared to, for example, Washington DC, that makes the difference. I'm not sure, but wonder whether others have noticed similar dynamics (either grin-and-bear-it DC style, or jump-and-sit London)?

Goodbye.

So, its been forever, but this is gonna be short and sweet anyway. People here have a very hard time ending telephone calls without sounding awkwardly high-pitched on the 'bye'. It is bizarre, but after speaking on the phone with more than a few British people, I've noticed that what I thought was an individual curiosity is actually a generalized phenomenon. I've heard it on the street, on the bus, and anywhere else I am within earshot of a British person ending a phone call. It tends to go something like this:

Man-on-phone (MOP): Right, right. I think we need to get those figures to HQ asap, Jim. This is too important to delay because f**kers in sales can't get their acts together.
Jim: (on the other end of the phone so how should i know)
MOP: Right, will send that spreadsheet right over. Ok, talk to you later then. (in high pitched childlike whine, yet still somewhat hushed) BYEEEEEE.

It's really weird seeing men in suits give the same parting shrill as 15 year old school girls. Without fail, however, it seems to be the case.

The English don't respect authority...

Only, they really are the most deferential people (compared to Americans anyway), almost in a bad way. Like, they are constantly apologizing for existing. Anyway, check out these two clips of the hilarious Catherine Tate doing in sketches as her character 'Lauren Cooper', the quintessential working-class London teenager:

Is one bovvered? Tony Blair isn't bovvered.

On the night bus..

This post springs from a conversation I had yesterday with a few new friends here, where we all traded stories of riding the bus home late at night in London. You see, some busses here run all night, hence night bus, and this is when all the crazies really come out. Oh, they're out in daylight as well; the stop where I catch the bus each morning to head into central London is just outside a hospital, where it seems everyone in a violent altercation in the southern portion of the city ends up. I imagine for most of them the story goes something like, 'Go out with friends in the evening. Become drunk, nay, totally belligerently pants-shitting plastered. Get in fight. Go to hospital, get stitched up, get released.' Released, mind you, right around the time I'm waiting for my bus. Hardly a day goes by when I don't see some charming archetypal young Londoner, hair matted with dried blood, face swollen and stitched (usually at the eyebrow), waiting for the same bus as me. But this is a digression away from the really fun bus stories, those that take place at night!

There was the one that happened to my friend, just last night in fact. He reported to me live via text that his bus had been attacked by men wielding traffic cones, which they were throwing at the bus windows as it went past. Luckily, no windows broke, but still a little alarming. 

Then there was the bus ride a few nights ago when one very drunk older English man became involved in an argument with two francophone men of African origin. One of these men was happily chatting away (rather more loudly than the English seem to find appropriate, though within reason!) on his mobile phone, in French. The English man started muttering at him, "What the f*** are you saying anyway?" The exchange continued:

African man: Pardon?

Englishman: What the f*** are you saying to me?

African man: Pardon? I don't know what you want.

English man: Motherf****** immigrant bastard, what are you saying to me?

African man: (unphased) Pardon?

English man: (now yelling, exasperated) Just what the f*** are you trying to say to me? 

African man: (into his phone) Comme ci, comme ca.... etc.

English man: (yelling) Ill give you come see, come so, motherf***er, this is Eengland, speak English for f*** sake. 

Random woman: Alright mates, lets all calm down, all friends here. Why don't you just read your paper?

English man: F*** off bitch, you want to start wiv me too?

And so on, and so forth, until the Africans got off the bus. Apparently, drunken angry racist stupidity is a universal, as is the correlation between blood alcohol levels and use of the word fuck. Im just glad no one got knifed. 

Slang

The UK is home to some of the most brilliant slang one could hope to hear. Some of it I cannot work out, as I cannot figure out how certain words would be spelled, given the difficulties with translating accents. However, its good stuff. Beyond slang, just colloquial words for everyday things can become an adventure in cutesy land. Here are some of the best slang and cute words I've come across:

Minger - pronounced: ming-uh - a very ugly person. (adj, minging) Example:
Lad 1: Oy, mate, check out dat Minger in da pink trainers.
Lad 2: Ahh mate, naw, she be right minging.
Translation:
Young hooligan 1: Oh, friend of mine, look over there at that unfortunate looking girl in the pink athletic shoes.
Young hooligan 2: I see! How awful, she is quite ugly.

Alright - pronounced: awl-rwight- hello, how are you?, good day, can i help you? etc.
Example:
Young Cashier: Alright?
Customer: Alright.
Translation:
Young Cashier: Hi there, welcome to Sainsbury's, do you have your Nectar card(discount membership card)?
Customer: Im doing well, thanks. No, I havent got (or: Yes, I have.)

Tings - pronounced: tings - very attractive, f**k (can be used as a verb, noun, and adjective)
Example:
Hormonal London teen: Check out dat girl over there, she buff tings.
Hormonal Friend: Dat's right mate, she is well fitter than that minger wot I tingsed last week when i was pissed.
Translation:
Hormonal London Teen: Hey, look at that girl over there, she is really hot and sexy.
Hormonal Friend: I agree, she is much better looking than that really ugly girl I slept with last week when I was drunk.

Biccies - pronounced: bick-ees - cookies (short form of biscuits)
I just think thats a cute one.

Memo

So I realize the first two posts have been somewhat like an episode of 'Full House' in that they have a theme, some laughs in the middle, and then in the end we all learn a lesson. In short, maybe a little preachy. Hopefully I will be able to cull some short and sweet, and funny, tidbits from my daily doings this week to provide you with a similarly short, sweet, and funny posting.

Stay tuned.

Fried Food Nation

I certainly won't be the first foreign observer to comment on British cuisine, but that isn't going to stop me. Yes, the rumors of it being relatively bland and, some might say, bad, are not exactly exaggerated. I tend to automatically and liberally dose all my food from the dining hall with pepper, ketchup, vinegar, hot sauce, or whatever flavo(u)r booster I can get my hands on. It's not that they aren't trying, its that they have been raised with a different palette. The "spicy pork and veg bake" that was my lunch a couple days ago was not spicy in the least, having perhaps a small dose of garlic thrown in among the stewed tomatoes and other assorted vegetable/pork slurry that was then covered in "white sauce" and baked til hot. Just for reference, that is an all too typical food preparation method on this soggy island. Combine that with a propensity to eat baked beans (more tomatoey here, not sweet like the American version) and some form of potatoe at least twice a day leads to a diet that is somewhat uniform in color and flavo(u)r.

This long chain of food fauxs-pas is neither the inspiration nor the point of this post, the television chef known as Jamie Oliver is. Jamie is best known States-side for his stint as the "Naked Chef" while in Britain, in addition to having achieved full-blown celebrity chef status, he is widely known for his down-home Essex accent and massive campaign to get healthier lunches in public schools, as well as a general opposition to everything Britons like to put in their mouths. He has now launched a brand new Channel 4 (they are creative naming tv networks) show, and social crusade, called Jamie's Ministry of Food, in which he is attempting to get fat/poor/lazy/unhealthy/unknowledgeable about cooking/any combination of the above (which works out to about everyone in the country it seems) cooking "good, honest, affordable food" for themselves and their families. The common person in Britain just isn't eating nutritiously, regardless of what you might see friends and others of the "educated band" of society eating in London.

Which brings us to the point: British cooking/eating is not all that healthy. As much as America is slammed for being the heartland of the obesity pandemic, the food here is often less nutritious and prepared in less healthy ways. Frying, of everything from meats to potatoes to desserts, is about as common here as in parts of the deepest South in the US. My dining hall has menu items that have been fried available at every meal of the day. Oftentimes, veggie burgers here are little more than lumps of breadcrumbs, beans, and other vegetable matter held together by a sort of tomatoe-ish paste, and then deep fried. With a side of chips (thick cut french fries..). Oh, and your green vegetable will be peas. You might see a string bean if lucky. And so on, and so forth, until your GI tract is so chock full of nutty foods that you will need a colonic immediately upon return to the US. Fresh vegetables here, rather than the kind that come in cans or frozen, seem to still be a treat for the rich or better off, as Jamie Oliver finds in his new television program.

Of course, a huge chunk of the US population eats similarly poorly, often as a result of socio-economic factors. We might have lots of food available cheaply, but people are still under-nourished when it comes to the vitamins and nutrients necessary for a health-ful life. The striking thing here, and with confirmation from British friends who have been to the US, is how much less fresh and green a lot of the food available even in middle quality restaurants is. That, and the acceptance of frying as a main method of cooking, will only keep British food with its dogged reputation. Its surprising to me, expecting "the Europeans" to clearly know how to eat better and healthier. If anything, this leads me to believe that people really are connected more by "class" across nations, at least when it comes to food. Average income Americans and average income Britons are eating themselves to death for economic, social, and cultural reasons that must be addressed if we are to pride ourselves on living in fair, modern societies committed to the health of our citizens.

Won't you be my neighbour?

Before arriving in the UK this time around, I knew very little of South London. This Summer, when the College informed me I would be living in a complex of dorms (British: Halls of Residence) in Camberwell, a neighborhood in the the borough of Southwark in South London, it meant little to me. Wikipedia and googlemaps quickly informed me that, no there is no tube station nearby. Ok, buses it is then, and only a short 30 minute journey to central London and my academic department. This all seemed well and good enough to me, sitting soundly in the basement of AU library in Washington at the time, clearly working hard.

By the time my flight had touched down at Heathrow and I had found my way out of the maze that is that ridiculous airport, I was a little tightly wound. As in, really tightly wound. First, I hate to fly, and view it as nothing short of a miracle everytime I complete a trip without the plane breaking apart and scattering my tattered remains over the North Altantic. Second, I had over 110 lbs. of luggage to schlep behind me, split between two large suitcases and my backpacking-style backpack. In any case, I knew I had to make my way by tube to Waterloo, where the College said I should the get a black cab to the halls. The guy on the train (that kept mysteriously stopping because of pulled emergency alarms, while no emergency was ever found) with the bandana over his face barking crazily into a cell phone didn't really make me any more comfortable. When I finally got to Waterloo I had already had to change lines which included my schlepping said luggage up and down two flights of stairs because the elevators were mysteriously malfunctioning. When the cab driver said "Where?" and quizzically consulted a map when I gave him the address of the halls, I was not encouraged. By the time we finally found the residence halls, he informed me that he wasn't used to making trips "this far out" even though I am a mere 2 miles from the river Thames and central London. Hm.

Camberwell is an area that seems alright to me, really. It is situated in a part of London with large communities of immigrants, mostly African and Carribean, but also a good dose of Polish and others thrown in. There are plenty of places along the main shopping street to get my hair braided and cornrowed, in both Ghanaian and Caribbean styles one salon window proudly proclaims, as well as pick up cheap ethnic eats. This translates to a lot of fried chicken, Jamaican patties (like empanadas), kebabs, fish and chips, and really just about anything fried that you could want. Mostly, though, lots of fried chicken. This makes me feel at home, reminding me especially of DC but also New Jersey as well: I like fried chicken. The area seems fairly safe to me, I have often come home by bus late at night and walked the 10 minutes from the stop to the halls without really seeing anyone, or else seeing only other people making their way home at that hour, not threatening or shady looking at all.

Apparently, I am wrong. I've had comments from a number of British people, referencing shankings and exhorting me to be careful, because South London is a rough place! A pair of English people at a bus stop just last night struck up a conversation with me, after the three of us had guided two tourists to the correct bus stop to get them where they wanted to go. The two had said, "Poor Americans, don't know where they're going and too cheap to pay for a cab!" I rounded on them, proclaiming that 1. Those people were not Americans, as I could tell by the accent. (The Brits quickly agreed they were probably "Euro Trash"), and 2. there isn't anything wrong with being American anyway. They also quickly agreed to this, and started up a jovial exchange, no doubt greased by the great British equaliser: Alcohol. When they found out where I lived the man asked, jokingly, "Oh, so you haven't been shot, yet?" I said no, and asked where they were going. Pimlico, which is a much fancier area, and the two lamented that they can't get any decent fried food in their area to snack on after a night out. After a few more jokes about my having to take the "Penge" bus (Penge being the final stop, with the automatedly cheerful British female voice announcing at every stop that this is the "One Seven Six, to, PENGE" with an especially sing-songy emphasis on the Penge), they were off, and so was I. Another safe uneventful trip home, this time at nearly 3am, and not a shanker or shooter in sight.

I wonder why the neighborhood gets such a bad rap, seeing as I've looked up the crime statistics and it is in the fairly average middle-range for London. I think I might, as a foreigner, be missing some crucial natural insight. I'm not sure if it is a matter of simple racism, given the "darkness" of the area, which might lead white British people to think of it as especially "dodgy." Maybe thats a very American assumption to make (though I don't for a second think that people here are any less racist than those back home), but whether the association between violence and race is as strident in the British psyche as in the American, I don't know. The tabloid press here seems to have a new story everyday about a violent, gory, and totally random stabbing in some part of London. These seem to inevitably be put down to "Chavs," a category of people I would say is roughly equivalent to the American "white trash" idea, but with a very specific fashion sense and overall demeanor. Think of a Staten Island guido, but paler, and with a giant sparklingly white baseball cap and equally blindingly white sneakers. With a knife. And they will stab you if they don't know you, or you look at one of them, or breathe. This, I think, is probably the tabloids playing into classism, regional biases, the urban/suburban/rural divide, and god knows what else. Chavs, though, are the default people everyone loves to hate and blame for most of society's ills, in addition to immigrants, especially brown ones. Though, while not absent by any means, they don't seem especially conspicuous in my neighborhood, and I don't know whether or not they are the source of other Londoners' knee-jerk reactions against South London.

My question is, whom shall I fear? Not knowing how it works here, who am I "supposed" to be afraid of when walking home late at night? Should I shrink in fear from the white guy with the slouchy jeans? Should I cower from the Kenyan? What about the guy with the beard and cap, who I can only describe, vaguely, as perhaps Arab, or Persian, or some other brown group of people who happen to be Muslim?

Or maybe, really, I'm lucky, because all my culturally built-in categories of who to fear (in DC, you know who not to mess with, whether this "knowing" is right or wrong) don't really apply here. So I can fear everyone, or fear no one. I choose to do the latter, yet being street smart, while not blindly suspecting every person walking down the street after dark of being a brazen shanker.

Welcome (English), Fàilte (Scottish Gaelic), Croeso (Welsh), and Y'alright (Londonish)!

Hello, all. This will be my very stereotypical study abroad blog. In it, you will get to hear thrilling tales and theoretically amusing musings on my life as a graduate student in London, one of the great world capitals. Some of it will be relatively specific to my life, such as what it's like to be a graduate student in one of the constituent institutions of the University of London (henceforth, the College, to avoid defamation). I will avoid overly personal rantings, and keep it somewhat informative, taking a pompously scholarly view of the life of a foreigner in modern Britain. I hope my anecdotes will first of all entertain you and make you laugh, and just maybe get you thinking about things you took for granted. Or, you might click once and never return again, but I hope that isn't the case.