on the necessity of excluding hot chocolate from a lenten sugar fast

I woke up on the loveseat this morning knowing that it was going to be a dismal day. It wasn't because I slept on the couch, fully clothed, since that's where I sleep more often than not. But there's waking up on the couch and there's waking up on the couch, and this was definitely the latter. It wasn't that I was angry (though there have been moments today when I've been furious, at all the usual suspects). I just knew I'd be miserable. That I wouldn't get anything done, once again. That the whole day would be suffused with a sense of dread and heaviness.

It's probably because the sun was out today.

Anyway, after forcing myself down to the library, I finally realized after staring out the window for a few hours that I should just give up and head home. And so I dragged myself down the stairs and began the 4.5-mile trek home.

It turns out that once you manage to dodge all the tourists and the shrieking, carefully sullen eye-linered teenagers populating the blight that is Camden, head up the very long and gradual hill of Kentish Town, skirt by the last of the die-hard British punks as they carry their amps into the Boston Music Room, and begin the penultimate leg of your journey through a motley jumble of off-license shops, take-outs, and cozily wall-papered pubs (at least through the windows), you happen upon a tiny slice of dairy heaven on Fortess Road. Sidestep the babbling toddlers and the enormous prams (takes only two to fill up the minute storefront), and order a hot chocolate. It will seem ages until the cheerful but slightly harassed-seeming (the toddlers are loud) girl brings your chocolate out, but that gives you plenty of time to lust the salted caramel ice cream and the blood orange sorbet (or is it the rhubarb ice cream and the lemon and cardamon sorbet?). And then she finally brings it out and you take a sip and it turns out that the whole thing is nothing but melted chocolate--no milk, no sugar, just gently melted straight chocolate, for less than starbucks' burnt-coffee-insult-to-humanity--and as you make your way through Archway, pausing every three steps for another glug, suddenly the moments don't feel so excruciating after all.

And then you stop at the charity shop and find nestled among the trashy romances and pseudo-historical novels a copy of mimesis in danish, which strikes you as hilarious.

shop of the day (oxford edition)

sun of a beach tanning.

moving day (in which it is discovered that london is not, despite most appearances, flat)

as i staggered up the hill to our new flat tonight on my third moving trip of the last 24 hours, i was trying to decide whether pushing or pulling the bulging food cart was less likely to shred my insistently protesting tendons. of course, having been duly reared on the children's songbook, right on cue 'some must push and some must pull' leapt into my head, accompanied by its faithful companion, pioneer-guilt: 'at least you aren't pulling a handcart.' but then, in a moment of inspiration, i finally hit upon a successful counter to the 25-odd years of generational shame born of my inescapable physical, emotional, and spiritual enervation in comparison to my ancestors' indomitable fortitude:

the pioneers didn't have to take the tube.

yes, they did face the wyoming hinterlands. but the northern line at rush hour, pack-muling all one's belongings in various contrivances that insist on encroaching on others' personal space and then making a run for it? when standing at the bottom of 3 flights of grimy, slightly fetid stairs as one lurches through london's labyrinthine bowels, nebraska sounds awfully refreshing.

on a more positive note, i can actually hear a bird outside my window. i think it might even be a nightingale. we're obviously not in whitechapel anymore (i'm in mourning for rinkoff's.).

continuation

after sating ourselves at a local tea house, then we drove around wales a bit and tried to go to a very old church, but felt it would be a little rude to intrude on the funeral. so we headed north to spend the night in ilam. we decided that before we called on mr. darcy, we should actually get out and do some hiking around the peaks, which were gorgeous, and for which we most definitely were not appropriately dressed. we made it about a mile, but realized whilst i was standing in my chacos in a mixture of frozen mud and sheep feces while the rain was hurtling down in sheets that hiking in britain is very different from hiking in utah, and the scenery was very nice when viewed through the car window. so we headed back to the hostel, changed into some semi-dry clothes, had some hot chocolate, and then headed on a very meandering path to lyme park.

ilam (missing from all these pictures are the school children who were rambling around the county park, considerably better prepared for the elements):

view from the hostel window, overlooking another wing of said hostel.

not an eleanor cross, but still not too bad.

ilam town centre. 

ilam church graveyard.

windshield view

in case you're wondering whether lyme park is worth hunting down, either because you're not a bbc p&p fan or you think it's a bit over the top to go hunting down the filming locations, the answer is yes. it is. you can slip around in the mud while ogling the scenery and dodge the rambling deer and clamber to the top of hills and get some pretty phenomenal views.

case in point.

ditto.

some other visit highlights:

oxford. not shown: the little kids at rugby practice. kee was swooning.

turning on the christmas lights is a serious event.

for which you must be well hydrated.

greenwich.

free range AND free spirit.

i feel this way about greenwich too.

i have yet to pull myself out of my post-kee funk, though i'm trying my best to bludgeon my despair with as many christmas concerts/carol services/markets as i can afford (which is not many. but i did get in a goodly number of samples at a cheese evening at borough market the other night. you just have to sneak in through the throngs and grab quickly, then sneak back out before anyone registers how much you just took.). good thing ixoj and t-rav are coming in a mere 6 days and e in 13. spass und faszination indeed!

schwesterfest pt. ?

after that downer of a post, on to more exciting things (though still depressing because: 1. kee isn't here any more; and 2. i'm pathetic and haven't finished up this post and i'm not going to do her visit justice anyway because i'm just going to put up pictures and not tell you all about all the fabulous things we did. i'll give you a hint, though: ginger beer float. utterly mind blowing.) like kee's visit. here, in abbreviated form, are some of the things we did once we picked up our car and gps at the airport and made it out the parking lot (after ascertaining that, indeed, the rear view mirror was supposed to be angled in such a strange manner).

we skipped stonehedge and then did an impromptu stop at avebury, where you can hang out with the sheep grazing around the rocks. then we headed across the border to wales and disembarked at tintern abbey.

turns out we do look alike--it's all in the furrowed brow. 

view of the wye.

not too shabby.

because i don't have internet access at my apartment, my knowledge of world events tends to be pretty eastern hemisphere-specific (particularly those things reported in the evening standard, when i can get my hands on it while i'm walking home) and early-in-the-morning us events. this can be somewhat disorienting, especially when i get to the library in the morning and check facebook (admittedly an entertaining way to get a good recap of nd football games).

anyway, last night i went to a shadow puppet performance of one of the cheerier winter stories, the little matchgirl. this particular performance was conceived as a passion, so there was lots of bach at parts, as well as a melding of the anderson text and the crucifixion account--deeply moving on a number of levels. afterward i walked home through the former slums of east london, thinking about the incomprehensible vastness of human suffering, the pervasiveness of systemic violence. i didn't find out about what happened in connecticut (on the heels of the attack in china) until i got to the library today, after eating my oatmeal and stopping at costa for tea and getting my hair cut and browsing around for a coat. i don't have any pithy comments to offer up, just that, once again, while there is much that is good and beautiful in this world, it is also a place of unfathomable cruelty and pain and trauma, and it is important to remember that in tandem with the examples of goodness we seek in part as proof that all is not lost.

a tale of two schwestern

according to a myriad of insidehighered and chronicle of higher ed articles, as well as a plethora of blog posts and books, the way to get progress done on your dissertation is to write just a small nugget of it a day. most people recommend two pages. i have yet to put this no doubt excellent advice into practice on my own dissertation (especially since i'm currently full of angst and crisis over it, having realized that i really just want to write about diagrams (it'd be fascinating, crossmyhearthopetodie), and thus am throwing a mental temper tantrum every time i consider the monster hiding under my bed/in my closet/ lurking around every corner dissertation), but it struck me that it might be an admirable approach to blogging, not just kee's visit, but this whole london thing generally. you can consider it a haphazard and completely unreliable advent calendar, of sorts, which i suppose negates the idea of an advent calendar, since reliability does seem to be one of the relevant characteristics.

so, in short, kee came to visit. and it was divine, as proved by this visual evidence:

kee masquerading as cindy lou who.

her friend sara came up from paris for the first two days, and we did things like walk through brick lane market and eat delicious food, attend an organ concert at westminster, and stop off at a christmas market which promised to be all germanische which means that it had very expensive wursts. i managed to convince them that it would be nothing short of delightful to walk back to my apartment from westminster (although at a slightly more relaxing pace than the one i had taken on my way to meet them at westminster, since i realized partway through that there was no way i was going to make it on time, but during the weekends they have this particular habit of shutting down entire tube lines for maintenance. i might have outwalked even chules.). it was, undeniably, the correct decision. there was even a convenient wagamama right by the globe to quell desperate protestations of numbed toes and fingers.

Of course you would dress up like a star so that someone could film you in the graveyard of Christ Church, Spitalfields.

kee, heading south over the thames. 

christmas market, from the bridge.

yes, please.

Tower Bridge from the south bank, walking back home.