Curry Up and Eat

It is a fact universally acknowledged that a young lady in London in possession of a fairly tight dinner budget must be in want of cheap Indian food. The kind that skimps on the price but not on the spice. An inexpensive kick in the mouth. A real bang for your buck (or pow for your pound?).

I'm sure this is exactly how Jane Austen, while dreaming of cumin and coriander, imagined her timeless Pride and Prejudice would one day be interpreted. Well, I can wait for my Mr. Darcy but I cannot do the same for the curry. Which is why I've eaten it four times in the past almost two weeks.

If you want good Indian food, I suppose you go to India. But if you want really good Indian food, you roam the serpentine streets of London, following the ginger and cardamom breeze as it wafts from street side carts and through restaurant doors. Or, you find the highest rated places on Yelp and work your way down the list. What did we do before Yelp? Forage?

Of course, word of mouth from long time Londoners and locals is equally as helpful, and perhaps even better.

Just a few blocks away from my classroom building on Gower Street is a relatively large cart called Simply Thai that sets up around lunchtime and dishes out red, green, and yellow curries with chicken, beef, or veggies on a plentiful bed of white rice. I ordered the green chicken curry- a classic. It's quick and cheap, with a rich coconuttiness that is balanced nicely by the tangy sweetness of ginger and a kick of spicy chili, which delivers a slow, subtle burn that starts on the tongue and works its way through the sinuses, lingering for only a few minutes after the last inch of the bowl has been licked. The serving size is just right for lunch- it's definitely on the heavier side, and too much more would require a nap, in which the satiated consumer experiences trippy, curry-induced dreams. Lucy in the sky with turmeric. So far, this is the second best curry I've eaten while here.

But the best curry I've eaten, to date, in my entire 21.25 years of existence was served to me right before closing by the kind folks of the Gujarati Rasoi stand in the Borough Market. Maybe I'm biased because it was my first meal after sitting through nearly six hours of Britain's economic policies during the Thatcher years/the dangers of neoliberalism and, delirious from the pangs of an empty stomach, was desperate for some hearty nourishment to revitalize my wary soul. But the warmth of the cardboard container in my cold hands combined with the silkiness of the golden-brown sauce on my palette and the warm smolder of spices in my stomach was enough to melt Margaret Thatcher herself, I believe. Gujarati Rasoi is a vegetarian place, but the abundance of lentils, peas, and potato made the dish (a combo of everything they had left) hearty and filling. Cumin, cloves, cinnamon, turmeric, a bit of ginger, and probably other spices I can't recall because I was too busy raving about the deliciousness in my mouth, flickered harmoniously in a comforting culinary symphony. The veggies were tender but not mushy, and a healthy finishing garnish of cilantro and onion added a refreshing crispness to each spoonful. Add in a swirl of their tangy yogurt sauce, and I was in curry Nirvana. Cur-vana.

As I returned to earth from my out of body experience, I reached for a tissue to blot my nose (clear sinuses post curry are always a good sign) and my eyes, which now shone brightly with a single tear of gratitude and a curry-kindled eagerness to return to the bustle and blend of the London nightlife. Perfection.

If this sub-par picture isn't doing it for you, please purchase a plane ticket to London now and I will gladly guide your spiritual journey to the mecca of masalas. 

Stay tuned for my upcoming take on a British classic with a culinary twist- Spice and Prejudice. Or maybe Great Ex-spice-tations. A Tale of Two Curries? Okay, I'm done.

My Dinner with Annie

Or rather, late lunch.

Yesterday, I ventured to Wapping, a town in East London with a clear view of the sleek financial district just across the Thames, which is much less intimidating and simply serene from afar. It reminds me a bit of the meatpacking district in NYC, with a very chic renovated industrial vibe. Quiet, tucked away- an endearing blend of old and new, converted warehouses huddled against gusts of river wind around curvy cobblestone streets, steely bridges, and stony docks. I went to see the Women: New Portraits by Annie Liebovitz exhibit, which made its debut in the Wapping Hydraulic Power Station, characterized as a "power station turned art gallery."

It was supremely cool.

I stood in line in front of two women with photography careers of their own. One was getting married in July, and extended an informal wedding invite to her friend, who immediately checked her calendar to ensure the date didn't conflict with a different friends wedding in Italy, a friend she had met when living in Afghanistan. They discussed the logistics of setting up a high profile photoshoot a la Liebovitz herself while sipping flat whites courtesy of UBS.

Inside, vivid portraits of Cate Blanchett, Jennifer Lawrence, Ellen Degeneres, Misty Copeland, Ruth Bader Ginsburg, and the Queen of England herself glowed brightly against the warm grays and burgundies of the industrial interior. Their unique eyes, mouths, muscles, and wrinkles formed gleeful smirks, elegant poses, tired postures, electric action shots, warm embraces, bursts of laughter, solemn stares, and every associated emotion in between. Some were glamorous, some raw, but all were striking in their richness- of skin tone, fabric, texture, and emotional response.

Obviously, it was inspiring. But even beyond that, it was comforting. Tucked away from the wind in a bastion of brick and steel, surrounded by some seriously badass ladies from all kinds of backgrounds, hometowns, and educations. There is room for everyone in this world to come together, and it happens in unlikely places. Converted hydraulic power stations or 300 year old pubs, like the one nestled just across the street.

Tomorrow I'll be seeing my first show in the West End- Simon Stephens' Herons. Right now, I'm praying for the Patriots while intermittently checking recaps and denying a growing sinking feeling in my stomach. Apparently, the Super Bowl and American football are gaining popularity here, and it would be wicked cool to watch New England play in the championship over pints of hard cider in the UCL student union.

One Week So Soon?

I've officially been in London for one week and it makes my fingers tired just thinking about how much writing it would require for me to recount the whirlwind of the past seven days. Whirlwind is such a cheap descriptor for this kind of experience, but it's also the most accurate.

Classes started on Wednesday following a brief but immersive orientation which required a mini (but equally competitive and just as high-stakes) Amazing Race scavenger hunt around the city, in which I suffered a minor trauma on the platform for the Central tube line at Westminster station but was touched by the concern of my fellow Underground mates when they helped me collect my scattered belongings after wiping out in a panicked dash through the closing door of the train. Not nearly as graceful as it sounds, but if I imagine it as an outtake from an adrenaline fueled action film that follows a high-stakes chase through the subterranean landscape of London, I feel less like a clumsy tourist and more like an extra from a Bourne film, which is a step up.

Day one involved touring through London at rapid speed; seeing the sights without allotting them the proper reflection they deserve. Which only means I'll have to go back and revisit them. Since then, I've delved into the Parthenon exhibit at the British museum with my Art and Architecture in London class, spent a morning running along the Thames and weaving through Chinatown and Trafalgar Square, and past Big Ben and Parliament on my journey, cozied up in one of many pubs in Leicester Square, journeyed to Muswell Hill and through a foggy wood to the charming household of my petite but fiery theater professor, and boarded about six different buses only to ride about a kilometer down the road, realize I'm going the wrong direction, get off, turn around, and reboard from the correct location.

The beauty of this program (programme?) is that we're all thrown into London life so quickly, that it's nearly impossible to feel homesick, or to think about what's going on at St. Lawrence and whatnot. And it's amazing how one adapts to a new environment so quickly. When I get frustrated, I'm frustrated for about a second until my brain resolves the problem and moves on. There's no time to stop in the middle of the sidewalk while everyone else moves around you. You take a deep breathe and move with them.

And then you detour for a pub.

Things I Love:
1. The massive, open markets.
2. Indian food everywhere, By the end of this trip, curry will be running through my veins.
3. Camden Town. Makes me want to put on my Dr. Martens, develop a spiritual affinity for the Sex Pistols, stop showering, wear strictly leather, and drink milk straight from the bottle. Then I'll only be one facial piercing away from punk rock stardom.
3. Free museums!
4. All the daily papers, from the Evening Standard to the Guardian, there's never an excuse not to be reading something. A great way to de-stress while on the tube.
5. Lots of parks and nature reserves.

Things That Are Less Great:
1. It turns out that, when London was first becoming a thing, no one guy sat down and said "Hey, it would be great if we utilized our organizational skills and made this city easily navigable for posterity and maybe not have one street with seven different names or eighty streets with the same name." London is a bit disorganized in that respect. It's sometimes hard to tell where one street begins and another ends, or which street is which, etc, even with the help of Google maps (or my new love, Citymapper). Luckily, public transportation is great and super easy to navigate.
2. Pickpocketing paranoia. One hand in my pocket, and the other protectively clamped in a death grip around my backpack/purse.
3. Lack of filtered coffee. It's all Americano. Although, the surplus of tea is a nice change for my body, probably, which is usually buzzing with caffeine.
4. Tube sweats. What happens when you layer up for the rain and wind, and then enter the Underground sauna at rush hour.

Also, I found where I'm going to live today. It's called Wapping. I ventured to this riverside retreat and saw the Women: New Portraits by Annie Liebovitz exhibit (which launched in London and is only going to 9 other cities around the globe) at a renovated hydraulic power station. Very chic, and very empowering to be surrounded by amazing women of all shapes, sizes, colors, backgrounds, and careers in the greatest city in the world.

Now Boarding

Well, almost.

About five years ago, a young Olivia White hopped across the pond on a high school class trip. She made the mistake of sleeping exactly zero hours during the flight and spent her first day schlepping through London with a group of approximately 25 other students and dosing off in public places, including a park near Buckingham Palace and the steps in front of a museum. Though she later redeemed this poor tourist behavior and would go on to see Hamlet at the Globe (on opening night... on Shakespeare's birthday), spend a lazy afternoon at a quaint pub in the countryside somewhere near Stonehenge (where she witnessed her principal drink a beer and was dumbfounded), and romanticized a life of disciplined academia through the stony archways of Oxford University, her sampling of English life was yet incomplete.

Four years later, she is sitting in an Intro to Poetry class in Canton, New York, just a few miles south of the Canadian border in the oldest building on the frozen arctic landscape that is the St. Lawrence University campus in the winter (and spring). She reads a Wordsworth sonnet ("Composed upon Westminster Bridge") about the sun rising over the city in the hazy morning hours. It's a moment the poet savors in several stanzas, and it's simply lovely. In the early time before people stir and bed sheets are pushed aside and feet shuffle through a daily routine, the morning is Wordsworth's. He keeps company with the Thames and the rising sun. Olivia is comforted by his awe of what is really relatively ordinary and feels a vicarious security in his contentedness. She wants to go there. She also, apparently, in this profound moment of contemplation, adapts the pretentious tendency of referring to herself in third person*, which indicates a victory for the flowery liberal arts agenda.

In any case, maybe I won't find the serene privacy of Wordsworth's London in it's current 21st century bustle, but I'm excited to discover a similar charm and perhaps find a bit of personal space in my own moments of awe.

I'm boarding in about an hour for my return trip across the pond. I hope to learn from my previous mistake of not sleeping on the flight over, though I have a feeling the nerves come complimentary with the boarding pass.

Anyway, cheers from (almost) across the pond.

*This is the only and last time I will do this.