Bus-Bus-a-Go-Go

The community that cycles in London are fond of the privacy, the lack of crowds and the quickness of being able to just bike on through areas that would constitute four or five stops on a bus. Unless things change, though, I don’t think I’ll be cycling anytime soon, so it’s all about my, my Oyster card. All things considered, buses in London are awesome for the most part, though some more than others.

If you look up a map of the buses that go in and out of my neighbourhood, it resembles a colourful spider with loads of legs reaching out to all sorts of possibilities. I haven’t ridden all of them, if you’re curious; there are eleven buses that run through Holloway, two of them 24-hour buses, and five night buses that run throughout the wee hours.

Of these, I have ridden seven, and the 91 is my favourite because I am on it all the time (it takes me to SOAS), I always seem to get a seat, and my fellow riders don’t seem excessively batshit crazy or obnoxious. It’s a mix of people on their way to various points on Caledonian Road, King’s Cross, the British Library, Bloomsbury, Holborn or Trafalgar Square–not particularly rowdy areas although there are two prisons along the way. Still, I refer to the 91 as *my* bus, and its night-time incarnation (that goes up to Cockfosters) is also a winning choice.

The 43, which I will sometimes take to and from Islington, is often crowded, especially coming back from work, sosometimes I opt to walk for 30 minutes than to stand excessively close to people for 10. When it rains, though, I’ll cram in, although it can get unpleasant, or just flat-out odd. I remember this one instance where this elderly woman was shouting on about whatever on the crowded 43–”You’re too close to me trolley there!” and “I’ve got te get te Holl’way Road, now!” and “Will someone open this bloody door! I’ve got things te do!”

Forgive my poor ability to properly transcribe Cockney, but yeah. She was actually kind of funny, albeit in a worrying way–I was concerned she was going to try and open the door physically or maybe yell at the driver (who hadn’t yet gotten to the stop, so he wasn’t supposed to have opened the door, anyway). She was kind of a rarity on the 43–most people are pretty tame, which is good if you’re squished into them.

The 29 is even more perpetually crowded, and it has a bit of a reputation for being unruly when it becomes the N29 night bus, although the two times I have ridden it at night weren’t so terrible–just crowded. Also, I’m not keen on the bendy-buses for some reason. When I ride the buses, I generally like to clamber on up to the upper deck, and if I can get a seat up at the front for the best view, it’s a super-win. The 29, being a low-rider, doesn’t have this option of the upper deck, and there are some instances where the seats face other riders, which can be awkward if you don’t particularly want the other rider staring at you for ten minutes or so.

The 254 seems to attract the loudest batch of riders ever, especially the teenagers. I haven’t needed to ride it in over a month, though, and maybe I was just really unlucky those three or four times. I expected my more recent ride aboard the N253 to be equally obnoxious, but it was actually quite peaceful–maybe because it was only around 2 am, but still, the bus was empty for the most part, and the only offense I was subjected to was this man who, despite loads of other seating options, sat in front of me–and he smelled unpleasant, like wet cigarettes.

Public transit isn’t always so kind to those who have a sense of smell that’s a bit on the keen side. I remember being on one bus and there was a woman who sat next to me who reeked of terrible perfume. I had my hoodie sleeve to my nose the entire time she sat next to me, facing the window in an effort to be more discreet, but also to turn my face away from her and whatever it was she was wearing. Man, it was horrible.

Last time I was on the 29, I was knitting, and I noticed two of my fellow crammed-in riders (I was lucky to have a seat) entranced by my knitting. In fact, I’ll notice that periodically when I am knitting–some people will look at the yarn and needles and just zone out. Sometimes it’s amusing, but other times, given the length of time, I wonder if I’m providing some sort of unintended calm-time for these folks watching me knit away.

I knit on the buses all the time, and maybe this benign image of a young-ish woman knitting makes me one of the more relatively desirable people to sit next to, because frequently, when the upper level fills up and people have to start sitting next to others, I’ve noticed individuals pass up three or four viable seating options to settle next to me. Last Saturday, for example, I was in the halfway point on the upper deck on the right side, and this gentleman skipped the (coveted, in my opinion) two available seats at the very front next to women, along with three completely available seats next to three different men, to sit next to me. Sometimes, when this happens, I can’t help but pause my knitting and look around to calculate the options someone had and deliberate on my new neighbour’s decision.

Not as if I don’t plop down in an non-arbitrary manner. If there are options, I tend to sit next to people who are around my age, who look amenable, and who aren’t taking up the extra seat with bags of groceries or other crap. I tend to sit next to other women. And if I’m on the bottom deck and sitting in any of the priority seats, I am keenly alert to anyone coming in who may me more deserving of that seat than I am. But then, sometimes it’s a judgement call, because I don’t want to offend anyone at the suggestion that they are “elderly” if they don’t think of themselves as such. The last person I gave my seat to, though (on the 91), seemed grateful, but I generally try and avoid this altogether by going up to the upper deck.

I am still fascinated at the amount of eating and drinking that goes on in public transit here in London. I think the LYNX buses of Orlando don’t allow eating, and neither did the buses in the Bay Area–I don’t think they even allowed drinking. I can’t remember the rules regarding eating or drinking in Seattle, but I don’t remember seeing any of that going on. Here, in contrast, not only are people eating ribs on public transit (seriously, on the tube, no less), but people as a whole and in comparison to what I’m used to are incredibly nonchalant about leaving their garbage. I noticed one couple, for example, on the tube literally empty their pockets of garbage–wrappers and chip/crisp bags–onto the ledge of the window. Last time I rode the tube someone left an empty paper cup that held coffee. There’s often crisp/chip bags, empty water bottles, crumpled up McDonald’s bags and used napkins on the floor of a bus in London, alongside a trodden copy of some newspaper or another.

Don’t get me wrong, people litter in the US. I think because I was on public transit far less and lived in a less-dense city I didn’t encounter other people’s garbage as much, but I did see plenty of people throw their cigarette ends out the window of a car, or soda cups or napkins or whatever else.

Still, despite some ginger stepping at times, the rants of random passengers, the odious effluvia of others–I love the London bus system. Especially the 91.

Jersey Chicken n’ Ribs

There seems to be a fascination with fried chicken in London.  It’s far more popular than I had imagined, but I haven’t seen a Kentucky Fried Chicken–or KFC, as it’s now known–anywhere.

Instead, enterprising Londoners have substituted “Kentucky” with other states in the Union.  My friend Ossie told me this, and the visual evidence I’ve encountered walking around and looking out the window of buses has confirmed this to be true.  This evening, I saw Jersey Chicken on Caledonian Road (not too far from Dallas Burgers, I might add).  Mississippi Chicken has also been spotted, though I can’t quite remember where.

If I run across a Florida Chicken place, I’ve got to get a photo of it.

Oh yeah, and in many of these chicken shacks, you can also order burgers and ribs.  It’s times like this where I wish I could grab some bona-fide Southerner (I’m just a pretender) to actually see how authentic these burgers, fried chicken and ribs are.  Maybe I can take photos of them if I happen to be with anyone who eats at these places and let you all decide.

Edited to add: Doh! I have seen a KFC here! There’s one on Seven Sisters Road that I walk past only pretty much every day.

Lights Out, But Hello, Standard Tandoori

Tuesday evening I got home from the internet cafe up the road and found there was no power in my studio.  At all.  After knocking downstairs to see if one of my neighbours had power in her flat (nope), fretfully texting a friend (who seems to hear nothing from me but whines and whimpers), calling my letting agent and leaving a message on his phone, and damn near pouncing on the poor French guy in Flat #2 to grill him about whether the power was out in the whole block or just our building (about which I feel rather regretful for, and feel as if I owe him baked goods to apologise, the poor man), I went out in search for a flashlight to buy.

I didn’t find one, although I went to a number of later-night establishments, but I did wind up in the midst of a huge crowd that spilt out of Emirates Stadium, home of the Gunners (Arsenal, woot), who had a game that night.  So, I am in this mob of folks walking towards Islington, and, well, since I couldn’t really walk the opposite direction without feeling like a salmon trying to swim upstream, I had no other alternative but to go into an Indian restaurant.  Really, like an awning sheltering a poor head in a downpour, so did Standard Tandoori provide me with a shelter from the throng of football fans.  Seriously, I had no other option except to order tons of food and eat it all until my eyes started to cross because I was so full.

Truly, no other option at all.

The food at Standard Tandoori was great, and the service was pretty good as well.  I ordered garlic naan, which is a standard order for me in Indian restaurants.  Seriously, garlic naan is one of those foods I would take with me to a hypothetical desert island in my hypothetical suitcase that can magically produce only ten items of food ever.  The vegetable tikka masala, my first tikka masala, was a little sweet for my tastes, but the gobi bhajee, which is “lightly spiced cauliflower” according to the menu, was deliciousness.  There’s a large selection of vegetable side dishes, and upon reviewing the menu, I’m pretty eager to walk back down Holloway to see what their chana masala, vegetable curry and sag paneer tastes like.  With garlic naan, of course.

Anyway, when I got back to my flat that night full and fat with Indian food after the crowds went home or found pubs to situate themselves in, there was power back in my building.  Hooray!

Until around 1 am, when the whole block lost power.  And I was in the shower, in a windowless bathroom, when the power went out.

Joy.

The electricity came back on Wednesday afternoon, so I couldn’t really justify another night at Standard Tandoori, but at least in the future, whether or not I have electricity in my apartment or not, I know where to get good Indian food in my neighbourhood.  It’s not the closest Indian restaurant to me, funny enough, but it’s worth the walk past the Holloway Road Underground station.  I’ll save exploring the other Indian-style restaurants near me on a day when it’s raining or I’m feeling otherwise lazy.

London Pubs and Krispy Kreme

So, I last left off in the process of moving to London, and now, here I am, in a small studio flat in the north of London along a busy road.  I’m typing this now nearly 10 o’clock at night, but it won’t be posted until I can get connected to internet tomorrow morning.  I don’t have internet at my apartment, so I walk a few blocks up the road until I get to a place where I can plug my laptop in and do what needs to be done.

Looking for a job currently, so I can start earning money instead of spending it.  Being a student who is a foreign national, I’m only permitted to work 20 hours a week while school is in session.  Twenty hours is better than nothing, especially when one finds oneself spending 100 pounds (around $165) in the span of two days.  To date I’ve dropped off my CV to two pubs, one Franco gastro-pub (where I had an interview… and didn’t make the cut, it seems) and two shops.  Really hoping to hear back from someone, especially the pubs, even more especially from one pub in particular.

And here I will segue into my pub story.

I recently had trouble with my electrical wiring at my flat; the fuse had blown and I didn’t know where the fuse box for the apartments were.  I had power, but only to the outlets–my ceiling lights were out.  The main room wasn’t that terrible, as the agency I’m letting from has neglected to take these ugly lamps out of my flat, so I was able to use them as a light source, but the bathroom had no light, and there isn’t a window, so it was pitch if you closed the door.  I’d been calling the leasing office all day about the issue, told that someone would be by, until finally it was 6 o’clock and the person who was supposed to have shown up didn’t arrive.

When living in a new city where you can count your friends on two fingers, and you’re watching your bank account deplete with no way of filling it back up, and you’re missing the things you’re used to and the friends you adore, and you can’t seem to get a stupid part-time job to save your life, getting ignored by your letting agency was a bigger blow to me than it should have been.  Maybe it was the rain.  Maybe it was the little catalyst that caused the bigger problems–money anxiety, loneliness, lack of the familiar, disappointment with myself–to bubble up.

So, after a very short mini-breakdown, I went out to a pub.  Not just any pub, as I walked past at least three different pubs and bars to get to this one particular pub.  It is the pub which was recommended to me by a friend of a friend (one of those two friends), the pub I have adopted as my “local.”

There, I was greeted by one of the staff who remembered my name (and I hers, as she is really nice) and the drink I had when I was last there.  I couldn’t get internet connection, but that was okay, because I started reading and drinking my cider, and everything began to slide a bit back into place.  The rain continued to fall outside as I contemplated food, and yes, I ordered the gnocchi with pesto and salad, along with a half-pint of London’s Pride Ale.  The sound of the cheered conversation around me by the locals and the fantastic staff filled the room, and each bite of the potato dumplings filled my previously bleak existence with a renewed joy, washed down with a most complimentary ale.

The local pub restored my faith in humanity.

Seriously.

Long live the British pub, for making a lonely American feel all right again.

Anyway, tomorrow, after I put this up on the internet for all of the world to see, I have to go to Harrods.  That damn place is bananas, but it was the first place I had managed to come across measuring cups.  It wasn’t the last, though, as I found cups for (much) cheaper the same day in a place practically down the road.  Thus, I have to go back to Harrods to return the set of measuring cups and spoons I bought for around 17 pounds, which isn’t all that bad, but I already have measuring spoons (found at a Waitrose last week), and I don’t need two sets when I’ve got another set in the mail from across the ocean (thanks, Ma and Pa).  I saved the receipt and didn’t unwrap the package, so it’s just as I found it on the shelves, so hopefully I can get my money back.  It’s not as if they didn’t get me for other things, some of which I later found for cheaper as well… but unfortunately already unwrapped.

My reward for dealing with all this is that I might get another Krispy Kreme Doughnut while there.  I went to the Krispy Kreme area and paid a pound ten (whoaaa… they’re like 59 cents back home!) for an original glazed, and the guy behind the counter, bless him, gave me another one “on the house!”  Random, because I wasn’t doing what I normally do in a Krispy Kreme, which is dance a happy dance or jump up and down and go “Omigaaaah, Krispy Kreeeeme!!”  I was being well-behaved, really.  But man, once I bit into one of those doughnuts, it was magic.  The hot light wasn’t even on, but oh, still, I could taste the oil, that delicious oil, that the doughnuts are fried in.  It was sweet and good and happy, but yet a weird experience, eating something so familiar in a place like Harrods, because your mouth is telling you “Home!  Hot damn!  That’s what I’m talkin’ ’bout!” whereas your eyes and ears are all “Ack!  People everywhere!  Where am I?  Where am I supposed to be?”

So, yeah.  Maybe I’ll pay the equivalent of $1.80 or so for a doughnut (or two, if I get another generous fella behind the counter).  Or maybe I might save my senses and just get out of Harrod’s with my 17 pounds and bake something sweet at home instead.  I’ve got my measuring cups, and I might have some ingredients to cobble together something.  Can’t get too used to clinging to Krispy Kreme or anything else I had before.

Must go forward.

Update on the move and everything

So, I’ve left a message for my landlord saying that I’m leaving the property and got my plane reservations with Lufthansa.  My visa and all the documents needed for it will be at my place this afternoon, and I’ve booked a stay at a hostel for six nights, hopefully giving me enough time to find a flat of my very own.  I’ve even made dinner plans once I get there, as I will be meeting up with two friends I’ve known online for ages, and one of them will be in town from Germany, so I feel quite lucky to come in at such a time.

Now all that’s left is the damn packing.

It would be one thing if I was taking everything with me to London, but I’m not.  I’ve rented out a storage unit here in town, and have begun filling it with things I won’t need in London (or at least I think I won’t need), along with care packages for myself when I get to London.  These boxes are mostly filled with clothing and cookbooks or books on food that I may need for school.  If you know me, you know I have a lot of clothes, so there are quite a few of these boxes already, and I’m not even done yet.  I’ve labelled them so that if I ask my parents to send me, say, dresses, they can find one of the care packages with “dresses” listed in the contents and ship it to me.  I’ve tried my best to include things like matching shoes and socks, along with some DVDs I may want to watch on my laptop when I get there and begin to get settled.  I bought seasons 1 and 2 of Pushing Daisies, which has now been shoved into my box of linens to be sent.  Granted, I can buy linens when I get there–and I will, as I’m not sending all of my bedding–but I’m cringing at the thought of having to outfit my future apartment all new stuff, nothing familiar.  So, some of the familiar gets tucked away and stuffed in boxes to be sent to me across the ocean.

The rest stays behind, waiting to see what will happen once I settle in and begin school again.