Today is a day for interludes - a shorter more cynical entry awaits you. Our spirits will lift after we leave London and if you continue to read you will understand why.
London is such a simple, overpopulated, tourist attraction of a city, and therefore it requires an interlude. After less than two days I grew tired of this bustling city. I lack gratitude for the melting pot of cultures, the accessibility of the tube, and the overpopulated walks through S. Kensington Park, Hyde Park, and the S. Bank. Buckingham Palace, though a site to see, still but a disappointment since onlookers are no longer allowed to approach the guards to play the game of trying to make them break position. All I wanted to do was wave my hands quickly in front of his face to make him blink. To my disappointment we are separated by a gate, or a rope, or a street performer dressed as Gandalf from The Lord of the Rings saying, "You Shall Not Pass" as he bangs his staff. I played make-believe as I stood in front of the gate disappointed: maybe years of thousands of tourists waving in the guards faces has forced some of them into retirement with post-traumatic stress disorder. Now in their retired lives, no one can wave to them, swat flies around them, or come within a foot of their face without them reliving the trauma of tourism. Hah
Although I see London in wicked contrast of NYC, sadly they are similar in that London too has its fair share of racism. After a long day of rest, my brother (who has joined me for the next few weeks), a new Latino friend named Andre, and I, went to the Soho area to see what the nightlife of London was like. While walking about on a hunt for bars that didn't require a cover charge, we stopped suddenly at a street corner stood and watched. In front of us, a police car blocked the crosswalk, and I noticed that suddenly the white male officer was yelling at a group of black twenty-somethings who had just crossed the road behind the car. "Hey! What did you say to me?! Did you just call me a dick?" And he jumped out of his car with a swiftness, grabbed one of the young black men by the shoulder and said "what did you say to me?" The young man said, "I'm sorry, do I know you?" He had an American accent. The officer spoke closely and loudly to the mans face, and the man respectfully denied any such behavior. The officer then handed the young man off to a female officer who gave them all tickets. I felt ashamed for not saying anything - but weighing out my own risk; I do not know if the young man actually did anything (though I doubted it), and I cannot afford to be arrested or ticketed in a foreign country. Although, if I were kicked out of England for any reason and never to return, I might not mind it terribly. For a moment I thought that because I had white skin, I could say something and not be arrested. Sometimes we aren't meant to know if we did the right or wrong thing. Sometimes life just plays its film and we watch and we watch and we watch until we learn and we do things differently during the next scene - when it's our time to act.
Having also walked by Arab restaurants with smashed glass windows - one does not give naïve excuses for these observations.
You'd think in a "melting pot" such as London, that racism would be less, not more. After that, my opinion of London solidified, and I reflected on my own judgment. I am my own best critic. I always have a critique. A good critic never says "flawless" and never says "hopeless." I am neither, yet I am both.
After that it was time to leave London. My brother and I have made the most out of our experience having walked over two hours a day - every day - throughout this city. We've seen monuments, recognized the differences in cultures - the tube not the subway, the lift not the elevator - our biggest challenge being to make sure to look the proper directions when crossing the street, and to not throw toilet paper into the toilet. We can both navigate without a map now, and we both decided that an interlude from London to Brighton Beach would bring us to the true English culture and away from the city that we were growing distasteful of.
We woke up early, packed, and headed to the train station. After areiving in Brighton & Hove we walked down to Brighton beach, and passed dozens of Kebab shops - i instantly thought Yes! An Arab community! Unfortunately the racism of the city was a challenge to escape, with one of the Kebab shops locked up and closed due to several rock holes in the windows. Ignoring coincidence would be naïve.
My brother and I sat in silence; tanning, drinking, eating, and laying on the pebbles that made the beach ground. My brother chose to rest, and take pictures of me while I rented a paddleboard for the first time in my life, on the rough and rocky English Channel. I was not so successful in standing for long due to the high white trulls, however, I did get to do some yoga on my board in between push-ups and paddles. I made sure to make it as much of a challenge as possible.
The water was a diarrhea brown color, and not very welcoming. "Merky" would be a compliment. Despite my efforts to avoid it, I fell in at the very end of my hour rental. At the end of the day, around 4pm, the water color appeared to be a clear green and blue - and so the color changed with the tides. I wondered if on the opposite side of the Channel - in Normandy, France - they received England's shit colored water with the incoming tide.
The Brighton Pier was fantastic. Down the stairs from the street to the beach, we immediately came across a boardwalk lined with shops, restaurants, a hookah lounge, merry-go-rounds, carnival games, and bars. I tried a cockle (sea snail) and sang Molly Malone to myself as I did, with cockles and bottles alive alive-O! Of course my brother and I ended our afternoon at the hookah lounge. After saying only a brief word in Arabic to the Egyptian owner, Adam, we sat and talked about his hopes and dreams. He was one of those people who had a hand in everything - he was a chef, a financial officer, a marketer, a shop owner - and all successful within the year that he immigrated away from his family in Egypt. From Egypt to England. I had instant admiration and curiosity. I wondered about his experience of Egypt at present, and why, perhaps, he was not put-off when we said we were American. I purposefully did not ask about Egypt - I did not dig deeper as I normally do. My brother suggested to me later that Adam became more open to us only after I entered into the conversation speaking Arabic. I thought; of course, everyone gets excited about their people, especially when they are far away from home. Its one of those universal responses.
If I ever come to England again, I will go around the coast - everywhere but London. The beauty lies within the eyes, not within the heart. The heart is an organ, after all, it doesn't have emotion - the eyes do. The eyes are the window to the soul of a country the same as of a person.
London is such a simple, overpopulated, tourist attraction of a city, and therefore it requires an interlude. After less than two days I grew tired of this bustling city. I lack gratitude for the melting pot of cultures, the accessibility of the tube, and the overpopulated walks through S. Kensington Park, Hyde Park, and the S. Bank. Buckingham Palace, though a site to see, still but a disappointment since onlookers are no longer allowed to approach the guards to play the game of trying to make them break position. All I wanted to do was wave my hands quickly in front of his face to make him blink. To my disappointment we are separated by a gate, or a rope, or a street performer dressed as Gandalf from The Lord of the Rings saying, "You Shall Not Pass" as he bangs his staff. I played make-believe as I stood in front of the gate disappointed: maybe years of thousands of tourists waving in the guards faces has forced some of them into retirement with post-traumatic stress disorder. Now in their retired lives, no one can wave to them, swat flies around them, or come within a foot of their face without them reliving the trauma of tourism. Hah
I would appreciate the culture of London, if it had one. Unfortunately fish and chips are much to be desired, along with English beers, and eye contact after 8pm. I would say to steer clear of all of the above.
The English drink Pimms is quite popular and tasteful. Its a fruity cocktail with vermooth, juices, and fruit. The English Sangria - it's much sweeter (in compensation for their terrible tasting beers.) Of all English foods and beverages, thats all thats worth talking about. Imagine leaving Spain and the only thing you had to say was, well the sangria was pretty good.
I have walked this entire city, and I disappoint myself that I cannot seem to find anything that I have grown to love about it. I just think, at least they make fried eggs better than the Irish. I like to crack my yolks not crumble them. I have a tendency to crack a yolk sometimes. Ho!
Despite my cynicism, I hypocritically say that I could imagine myself living here. It is easy to live here. There are so many walks to be done, and outer cities to be seen. Scotland is but a skip away. Everything is accessible, as it is in New York City, except for maybe 24 hour accessibility. Perhaps I can imagine myself living here because I have lived there. A fantastic city to live in, a somewhat obnoxious city to tour.
But then again, I'm not touring am I?
I have walked this entire city, and I disappoint myself that I cannot seem to find anything that I have grown to love about it. I just think, at least they make fried eggs better than the Irish. I like to crack my yolks not crumble them. I have a tendency to crack a yolk sometimes. Ho!
Despite my cynicism, I hypocritically say that I could imagine myself living here. It is easy to live here. There are so many walks to be done, and outer cities to be seen. Scotland is but a skip away. Everything is accessible, as it is in New York City, except for maybe 24 hour accessibility. Perhaps I can imagine myself living here because I have lived there. A fantastic city to live in, a somewhat obnoxious city to tour.
But then again, I'm not touring am I?
... am I?
Its an insult to New York, however, to compare the two. The Londoners and Europeans like to think that London is the European New York City, with its mimicking shopping districts, broadway shows, even an M&M factory in the center of Leicester Square. London, however, is not nearly as exciting, not nearly as spontaneous and organized, and not nearly as proud.
I'm learning quickly my likes and dislikes - I do not like cities, unless there are numerous views and walks along rivers or parks with plenty of personal space. In New York it was always easy to avoid crowds and live, at times, as if I was not even in a city.
---- Now heres where I switch gears from cynical to passionate. You'll notice - although I didnt do it on purpose and am only inserting this as an afterthought to reflect on my own self - that my writing instantly becomes more engaging and thoughtful. As with life, cynicism poisons our senses and makes us dumb. Read on and watch me gradually become smarter and for beauty to unfold. ----
Although I see London in wicked contrast of NYC, sadly they are similar in that London too has its fair share of racism. After a long day of rest, my brother (who has joined me for the next few weeks), a new Latino friend named Andre, and I, went to the Soho area to see what the nightlife of London was like. While walking about on a hunt for bars that didn't require a cover charge, we stopped suddenly at a street corner stood and watched. In front of us, a police car blocked the crosswalk, and I noticed that suddenly the white male officer was yelling at a group of black twenty-somethings who had just crossed the road behind the car. "Hey! What did you say to me?! Did you just call me a dick?" And he jumped out of his car with a swiftness, grabbed one of the young black men by the shoulder and said "what did you say to me?" The young man said, "I'm sorry, do I know you?" He had an American accent. The officer spoke closely and loudly to the mans face, and the man respectfully denied any such behavior. The officer then handed the young man off to a female officer who gave them all tickets. I felt ashamed for not saying anything - but weighing out my own risk; I do not know if the young man actually did anything (though I doubted it), and I cannot afford to be arrested or ticketed in a foreign country. Although, if I were kicked out of England for any reason and never to return, I might not mind it terribly. For a moment I thought that because I had white skin, I could say something and not be arrested. Sometimes we aren't meant to know if we did the right or wrong thing. Sometimes life just plays its film and we watch and we watch and we watch until we learn and we do things differently during the next scene - when it's our time to act.
Having also walked by Arab restaurants with smashed glass windows - one does not give naïve excuses for these observations.
You'd think in a "melting pot" such as London, that racism would be less, not more. After that, my opinion of London solidified, and I reflected on my own judgment. I am my own best critic. I always have a critique. A good critic never says "flawless" and never says "hopeless." I am neither, yet I am both.
After that it was time to leave London. My brother and I have made the most out of our experience having walked over two hours a day - every day - throughout this city. We've seen monuments, recognized the differences in cultures - the tube not the subway, the lift not the elevator - our biggest challenge being to make sure to look the proper directions when crossing the street, and to not throw toilet paper into the toilet. We can both navigate without a map now, and we both decided that an interlude from London to Brighton Beach would bring us to the true English culture and away from the city that we were growing distasteful of.
We woke up early, packed, and headed to the train station. After areiving in Brighton & Hove we walked down to Brighton beach, and passed dozens of Kebab shops - i instantly thought Yes! An Arab community! Unfortunately the racism of the city was a challenge to escape, with one of the Kebab shops locked up and closed due to several rock holes in the windows. Ignoring coincidence would be naïve.
My brother and I sat in silence; tanning, drinking, eating, and laying on the pebbles that made the beach ground. My brother chose to rest, and take pictures of me while I rented a paddleboard for the first time in my life, on the rough and rocky English Channel. I was not so successful in standing for long due to the high white trulls, however, I did get to do some yoga on my board in between push-ups and paddles. I made sure to make it as much of a challenge as possible.
The water was a diarrhea brown color, and not very welcoming. "Merky" would be a compliment. Despite my efforts to avoid it, I fell in at the very end of my hour rental. At the end of the day, around 4pm, the water color appeared to be a clear green and blue - and so the color changed with the tides. I wondered if on the opposite side of the Channel - in Normandy, France - they received England's shit colored water with the incoming tide.
The Brighton Pier was fantastic. Down the stairs from the street to the beach, we immediately came across a boardwalk lined with shops, restaurants, a hookah lounge, merry-go-rounds, carnival games, and bars. I tried a cockle (sea snail) and sang Molly Malone to myself as I did, with cockles and bottles alive alive-O! Of course my brother and I ended our afternoon at the hookah lounge. After saying only a brief word in Arabic to the Egyptian owner, Adam, we sat and talked about his hopes and dreams. He was one of those people who had a hand in everything - he was a chef, a financial officer, a marketer, a shop owner - and all successful within the year that he immigrated away from his family in Egypt. From Egypt to England. I had instant admiration and curiosity. I wondered about his experience of Egypt at present, and why, perhaps, he was not put-off when we said we were American. I purposefully did not ask about Egypt - I did not dig deeper as I normally do. My brother suggested to me later that Adam became more open to us only after I entered into the conversation speaking Arabic. I thought; of course, everyone gets excited about their people, especially when they are far away from home. Its one of those universal responses.
On the Pier were two arcades where adults can win money and children can shoot make-believe characters and drive make-believe cars. There were dozens of snack and candy shops - apparently Brighton is known for their cream fudge, and rock candy (in all shapes and sizes). "Rock candy" is simply what they call rock hard candy - ho! At the very end of the Pier were the most exciting carnival rides I have ever seen at a beach. Akin to Coney Island. There were two rollercoasters with loops and all, along with several other fly-in-the-air-while-ya-twist-and-spin rides. The English Coney Island.
The prices for everything were fair, the people were enjoyable, the sun was out, I exercised - I could have stayed at Brighton Beach for the next week. Unfortunately, we hadn't planned on going at all let alone staying a night, so our day ended when the sun went down.
The prices for everything were fair, the people were enjoyable, the sun was out, I exercised - I could have stayed at Brighton Beach for the next week. Unfortunately, we hadn't planned on going at all let alone staying a night, so our day ended when the sun went down.
We learned through locals and firsthand experience that when the night falls upon Brighton the "trashy white bloaks" come out, getting drunk and fighting whoever looks at them, or doesnt look at them, or breathes near them. Just as we began to experience some this, we woefully returned to London.
Suffice to say, Brighton Beach saved my perspective of England, despite the local reckless drunkenness. It was a fantastic day journey - and my brother now loves my spontaneous travel ideas and will follow me into whatever darkness or light I lead him. It is amazing to have him by my side even just for a moment, to experience what I experience, to know what I know, and to understand how I think about the world. And vice versa.
Suffice to say, Brighton Beach saved my perspective of England, despite the local reckless drunkenness. It was a fantastic day journey - and my brother now loves my spontaneous travel ideas and will follow me into whatever darkness or light I lead him. It is amazing to have him by my side even just for a moment, to experience what I experience, to know what I know, and to understand how I think about the world. And vice versa.
If I ever come to England again, I will go around the coast - everywhere but London. The beauty lies within the eyes, not within the heart. The heart is an organ, after all, it doesn't have emotion - the eyes do. The eyes are the window to the soul of a country the same as of a person.
London is the heart of England.
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