So much wabi-sabi (侘寂), but the Awesome Machine keeps ejecting new widgets.

Tunnel on my walk from Bermondsey station to my flat

I've decided I can't do pub trivia here until I've been sufficiently sponge-like about my complete lack of English/British history and pop culture. Yelp trivia night with a team of Dutch, American, Spanish ex pats was only saved by the Welshman who seemed to answer everything. "Which gate in London commemorates troops dying at the Battle of Ypres?"

I don't even know how to pronounce Ypres.

It's been two weeks since I last posted, and that seems like a good amount of time between grabbing adventure by the handfuls and jotting down these notes for my future jollies.

View of the Thames from Clifford Chance

I got to play my usual role of underdressed public interest lawyer at a BigLaw event, meaning I pretend to be a vacuum cleaner that specializes in appetizers both cold and hot. Hey, my salary doesn't pay for me to have tuna tartare in adorable mini-waffle cones on my own dime.

Is it just me or do all law firms have similar heft and views?

I can't walk in the general vicinity of Shoreditch and Brick Lane without thinking about whether I can fit a salted beef beigel in me. Something about that unctuous fatty meat with a smear of mustard, gherkin, and the bag already turning translucent with nutrients when the overworked ladies hand it to you. Wilton's Music Hall was gorgeous, but what pub isn't suffused with old timesy charm? That night ended at The Bridge literally under a bridge, and it felt like an eastern European brothel, but assuredly a high class one.

I was in bed by 1 am like an old person while most of our group stayed out until 4 am. Lord, I would have died.

Pão de queijo before I took 2nd place!

Temple innards smelled so good!

I took second place at the London Signature Dish Competition, though I suspect I did as well as I did because of my recipe writing since none of us actually had to cook anything at the event. Also, milking the recent arrival sparkle for all it is worth before it fades like the glamour it is. Bought myself a snazzy Superdry duffel coat just in time for a spot o' drizzle, and walked out of the mall accompanied by a marching band.

It at least got me out to Wembley, which unshockingly revealed that all suburban sprawl with Ikea as oasis is the same around the world. Of course there is a grand Hindu temple out in the sticks. Shri Swaminarayan Mandir and your tasty nag champa incense, I've not spent such a restful hour shuffling around in my socks in a while.

V&A dining hall, though the food was not quite as splendorous

The Victoria & Albert museum dwarfs my comprehension of what exhibitions should be like, and after three hours, I think I only skimmed through a third of its offerings. Such a sheer immensity of stuff, though I suppose this is because Empire.

That seems to usually be the answer: Empire.

Zoned out from the V&A, we of course stopped into a nearby pub for a pint before escaping to Sherpherd's Bush. Dharma and Lu popped me into Harrod's to gawk at the naff-ity (I can't even use my new terms right) of a Princess Di statue as done by the Vegas Luxor crew, and then it was straight into a sugar and carb coma of Syrian sweets & mint tea, smorgasbord of meats and spreads. I also plan to singlehandedly introduce Ru Paul's drag race to English gays. Prepare yourselves.

Babylon in High Kensington was ridiculous, with Salome and I exiting the lift to immediate coctails, platters of fresh seafood, risotto, cassis cocktails. And I even left with little fingerless gloves as the five-man band sang and played Lady Gaga.

There's a theme here, since the next day was more drinking, though this time on the tax payer's dime since it was in the House of Commons. A pint of Guinness, steak & kidney pie, and a side veggie cost me less than a fiver, I believe. Definitely coming back to watch some parliamentary action, even if the security team gave me so much shit for not taking my belt off and for carrying a dangerous combination lock. Why do they have machine guns by the way?

It took me a little wander by Great Portland Street to find Pall Mall Barbers, but the cluster of people outside with alcoholic iced tea was an easy totem once close. I was taken down steep stairs into an alcove, offered a manicure for one hand. Can't tell the difference but girls seem to be able to, so I have one pretty hand, one with messed up climbing nails. Right when I was starting to get shaggy and contemplating growing it out to be a hip Asian (not really), I also picked up a voucher for a free haircut, so this will be the fanciest cut I've had in at least a decade.

Yakima Red afterwards with Ben, with cresting waves of fried balls of macaroni, chicken wings. Late night chats, and then I'm up at 3 am reading Half of a Yellow Sun since I can't fall asleep.

Finally made it to Kernel Brewery for the clusterfuck of hipsters under the Bermondsey tunnels. So many huge beards, and the kind of hipness that makes you think the place is a really posh soup kitchen for alcoholics. Export Stout was delicious, so Citra on the menu next time. Fresh sausage roll handed over with bloody change from the butcher, perfect flakiness over a girthy round of fresh porky pork.

I loved the five hours of gays playing board games in Central Station, a pub with a hidden rooftop patio, speed-putting on colorful hairties on our fingers. I should have realized the Cards Against Humanity here would be the UK edition, so an interesting experience playing cards with no idea why they're offensive, and I'm still figuring out the subtleties of British humor. After a closing trio of Avalon games, I spotted a laksa joint, and filled myself post haste with plenty of spicy coconut milk carbs. Tempted myself with a picture of 9 and 3/4 Harry Potter time, but King's Cross will always be there.

I can check Natural History Museum off my list after blasting through it with Zorah. Harkirit joined us for Hyde Park picnic, and we were starving by this point, so Sainsbury was raided.

Shamelessly had a giant chicken tikka with an equally massive steak pastry pie. Actually, no shame, no shame. Few hours of wan sun, mockery of the chair rental civil servant, and before falling into the inanity of Speaker's Corner, we grabbed a pint for the road at the Greene King.

I can now say I spent a whole night just eating endless little baskets of chicken wings, arranged in increasing order of spiciness. Not sure I would usually take the trip out to Hackney for Randy's Wing Bar pop-up in The Star, but the freeness and sociality of Yelp beckoned, and it's a rather lovely neighborhood.

Apocalypse wings made people claw their eyes and run for the windows, so I'm glad I only nibbled and broke the skin. My Scoville threshold is RIGHT there, and I can only think of Thailand as having ever ravaged me for that.

Probably my fifth glass of sparkly sparkles at this point.

Copa de Cava was an endless spree of Spanish sparkling wine. And by endless, I mean there were fifty of us, and four waiters kept pouring eight types of cava over and over whenever they saw empty flute glasses.

Cava, meet face. Face, meet cava.

The big green olives and jamón ibérico really didn't soak up much of it, and yet I didn't wake up wanting Mummy. I already want more of that smoked octopus.

Anna and I just after high school in 2004 (left); Anna and I this past Wednesday (2014)

I hadn't seen Anna in ten years since economics leadership camp (woo, nerdy apex!) as she pointed out, and sure, the first thing we decided to do now that we both live in London is to put on masks and wander an immersive play set in a four-story abandoned post office. The Drowned Man is totally worth the price, and there's nothing more lovely than wading through sand dunes and being in a trailer in the forest while you're indoors. Gave me Burning Man nostalgia palpitations. That and all the actors are very much on the sunny side of attractive. I may or may not have watched a scene twice that involved wet shirt changes in front of a panoply of rusty mirrors.

And somehow there was a surprise four-day weekend, and even while ill, I went to a 16-person Pakistani dinner, albeit with the sorriest samosas. Tesco wines, and a spicy biryani later, I'm really getting into a Greek beatbox dubstep duo at the Castle before I realize I really can't track them down later because it'd be embarrassing to listen to it.

Won another set of play tickets, so youth theatre time with Ade at Digital Ghosts/Children of the Revolution. Then it was time for circus cabaret with Kitty Bang Bang at the Hippodrome Casino off Leicester Square, but not before an amazing exchange with an Australian aerialist with ten-pack abs. I had a ringmaster drag queen with perfect legs yell at me, a Russian ballerino rub make-up on me, and then I was dodging drunk tourists to get on any bus that would take me south of the Thames.

Morning recovery in East Ham for Kerala cuisine at Thiru Anathapuram with Julia & Paolo, and that whole fish, dosa, and butter chicken totally made my day. Hour-long chat with Kenyan lady before catnapping and buying my own set of home weights. Somehow I've lost five pounds with all the walking around?

Weekend ended with me museum'd out from the British Museum (how much gorgeous stuff can you fit in there?). And I was a little kid again with all the Egyptian mummies.

A little girl threw giant handfuls of cherry blossoms at me on my block, screamed, "How is this all so fun?!"

I know, girl, I know. 

"Have been unavoidably detained by the world. Expect us when you see us."

(Title is a closing quote from Gaiman's excellent faerie yarn Stardust)

I've found my neighborhood pub, and it goes by the handle Simon the Tanner. Cozy little free house that apparently also does pub trivia on Tuesdays, live piano on Wednesdays. And the beers are crafty and cheap, which made me feel so much better after the awful £££ city pubs by work, only frequented by bankers in bespoken suits. I did end up party fouling by toppling my pint at the bartender, but she took it in good stride. "Come back here and clean it up. I'm way too pregnant for that." I haven't been on my hands and knees in the back of a bar before, so *check that list?



I pretend I'm a literate kitty flopped on my windowsill with a paperback, watching the orange storm clouds eat the city, discount (£1.50!) shrimp & rocket sandwich from Sainsbury in hand. I just managed to beat the drizzle coming in after a day of wandering the Tate Modern. For a country that gets inundated so often, it's strange how crappy the umbrellas are. I tried out a few at Argos: two popped off upon opening and one bit my finger. Ow, and I guess I'll have to bring back some Yankee parasols in June.

Not actually the Mondrian I saw, but I'm also not a plastic figurine person.

Is it strange that Piet Mondrian now makes me want colorful cake? I spent a few minutes just staring at a half-room in the Tate full of his pieces and gnawing on a pear.

Froze my tuckus off outside St. Paul's trying to find a way in, cajoling and ninja-ing to no avail. I ended up sheltering inside the cafe to warm up a bit, chatted up a nice Dutch couple with cutest twin girls ever.

You're not allowed to take pictures here, so I'm not sure how this happened.

Chilly outside St. Paul's

I lazed around in the big sunbeam that toasts my room in the morning until around 1 pm before hopping on a double decker towards the National Gallery. Westminster really is gorgeous, and every shaggy head on the bus kinda shifts to the left a significant number of degrees when you cruise past the English minaret.My lovely flatmate threw me a housewarming where the centerpiece was a big pot of feijoada, farofa, chouriço de sangue, with plenty of hot sauce and orange wedges. Also, brigadeiro and a hillock of tiramisu for dessert. With one actual Brit at the party and the rest of us from all over the place, we verged on the edge of it being a Racism Rally, but the heavy lawyer count did mean people who like to bicker for sport. And smoke. Our kitchen was a tobacco rally, and gusts of it made me think of lung cancer from the living room.

I got off early since I was so excited, and realized that I was just in time for evensong, which is apparently an hour-long mass that's all choral all the time. More importantly, it gets you free access inside this cavern of wonders (not even kidding), though you do sit through an Anglican sermon on Zionism. Otherwise, visits inside Westminster Abbey will run you about $30 USD, and there ain't even Disneyland rides inside. Tombs upon ornate tombs, and the buttresses just keep going and going. The National Gallery paled in comparison, sorry Van Gough and Seurrat.

Chinatown was disappointing, though I suspect its location just off Leicester Square accounts for all the "Oriental Food!" signage and how every restaurant serves gooey battered protein. I did find a noodle house filled with fellow Chinese folk for some 刀削麵 (handmade knife-cut noodles) with a big pot of chili oil to spice up the beef stew. Toddled my way back to Bermondsey while catching another glimpse of Westminster during Golden Hour.

This city is growing on me.

I now see the appeal of fish & chips and consequently want to stop by every chippie I walk by. Why in the world do American places serve Styrofoam sticks in place of half a codfish? Drown me in malt vinegar, and yes, god yes, to mushy peas with mint. My first hit of this fish crack managed to take the edge of the worst human rights circle jerk I've ever had to bear witness to, so there's that. I hate audience questions that are monologues with a lilt. Doesn't quite masquerade the shit poor analysis as an interrogative.

Glad I made it to the Gay Geeks meet-up after a day of reading all about alien conspiracies in Australia, such that I no longer want to believe. Mulder, I don't know how you keep up your little green men quest-energy. No visible sign outside Retro Bar, so I let a small Scottish beardo chat me up for a while until I saw people slinking upstairs with a purpose. I keep getting told how friendly Americans are, and it's rather lovely realizing how far I've come from uni times when I basically couldn't hold up a conversation if my life depended on it. Now I'm more than willing to hold you down and talk your ears off. Also strange to get splashed as the American rather than as Chinese, though that does sound right.

Worked from home on Friday upon waking up with a pulsing head cold, and I must say, blanket forts and some tea and PB&J crumpets work wonders. Banged out a few writing projects for work, and by nightfall, I was bushy-tailed again for weekend shenanigans. 

Glad I was rested since I circled London on foot from about 10 am to 9 pm like touristy sojourns are my other job. The Hunterian museum is ridiculous, and inside the Royal College of Surgeons, every nasty thing that can happen to our squishy fleshbodies is on display, and I don't think I can move on from the shelf of mangled testicles and placentas. Sir John Soane's house was a good next stop, and there is so much I would steal from that place (hello, MI5), namely that 3D-printed pitcher involving a bee, shells, and a tortoise (that they actually scanned as it pattered around alive). Friendliest guidese on each floor, and I wanted to use all the Roman geegaws as climbing holds from the basement with the sarcophagus to the Shakespeare niche. The mustard-colored sitting room will be mine one day, along with the Italian otter who wore a piss-colored jumper to match. He and I became hopelessly lost in the house, but we bungled our way out without the £5 map. Relief fist bump farewell, and then I was off to Lincoln's Inn Fields for some mellow sunshine and translucently pale menfolk. Dolores Park this is not, but I did spot some gay beach-level leering sightlines (Quis custodiet ipsos custodes indeed?).

A redhead barista handed me a giant slice of orange polenta cake as I was sleepwalking out of the park, so hello free food is always a bargain. There are definitely little tranches of London that disorient me into thinking I'm in the Mission, and this little cafe off the park definitely has the chalkboard menu and beardy tatted look down pat. Lunch was at Bone Daddies, where I got dropkicked into a wall of pork bone broth so rich that it was like piggy custard hiding noodles. The nitamago egg halves, mm, I don't think I'll ever get sick of them. Currently thinking about whether you could make an egg salad sandwich with 'em. Be nice to add that to my shortlist of things to schlep to dinner parties.

And why would you pay £17 to see trains at the transit museum? 

Sleepy garden time, but once the daytime heat steamed off, I dashed into Gosh! for some Tom Gauld-loving. Berwick street is lovely, and I don't even own a record player, but these stores have such musical presence that I couldn't not walk in. Snagged a poster or two from the usual discard bin, so my tiny Bermondsey nest is looking more and more bower-birded for mates & mates. Ended the evening at the Barbican for a surrealist Italian play (Le voci di dentro) with Ade. Surtitles and not speaking Italian kinda suck for appreciating dark comedy, but post-war Italy and the human condition yada yada. Were eight curtain calls really necessary? Jugging Hare for some fruity beers, and then Vauxhall for the night. So jealous of massive chamber-rooms filled with gin, though I'm still liking how close I am to work and groceries. 

Hungover and walloped by time springing forward an hour, I basically just put my face into some fried eggs & rye toast with raspberry jam before even thinking about going out for a run. Really missing rockclambering, but I want my middle digit to be totally healed before I mangle it in crimps again at the Arch. In the meanwhile, I'm pushupping and crunching like I'm getting ready for a knockdown prison fight, or it's that I want to gain about five muscle-y pounds again.

Currently planning on a five-day Netherlands trip in April to meet Talia (and mayhaps Tristan) in Amsterdam, what is this life?!