is that they are full of people.
Everything takes ages to do - the simplest errand will take about an hour to run and you have got to circumnavigate your way around dozens of hate-filled, hygiene adverse, zombies who haven't completed their course of anti-pyschotics and other couple dozen angry professionoids who didn't get their latest pay rise or christmas bonus and can't wait to get back to their overpriced luxury 10m square studio apartment.
My friend Luke once said that good sex f***s with your head, it can make you think you are in love. Crass and crude but true. Big cities do the same thing - they have all the glitz, glamour, culture and look good when used as the backdrop for big and shoestring budget movies - or cheesy music videos. But they don't love you, and you don't love them. What you love is the way you feel when you get to tell your small time former high-school counterparts that you live in New York, or London and they live in Podunkville and have, at most, been there on holiday and seen the nice parts - not the parts you can afford to live in, thank god, or they would know how much better their life probably is than yours... as if, thier lives still suck more if they live in the same town they were born in.
Let that comforting thought keep you warm and fuzzy on your long-ass commute home.
Monday, August 13, 2007
Thursday, August 09, 2007
Gentrification
Signs of gentrification in your area...
A Waitrose or Fresh and Wild opens in your area.
Suddenly the name of your area becomes cutified by estate agents for example - Tooting becomes Tooting Village, and Mitcham becomes Mitcham Village etc., a sign that your area is all but gentrified is if the people living in the area actually think this is the real name of that area.
Couples with overpriced and aerodynamically ill-designed buggies are seen pushing their offspring around your local park.
Your local starts serving "organic" roasts on Sunday.
All the front doors are being painted shades of dove grey and sage green.
People spend as much time as is humanly possible at the organic cafe, outside, drinking and smoking.
Recycling bins are filled to the brim with wine bottles.
Churches are being converted into luxury flats.
Signs there is not gentrification in your area...
A new LIDL opens.
People in your area are excited about the new LIDL opening in your area.
You have as many betting shops as you do off licences as you do Bingo Halls and all of these outnumber the number of bookstores. It is a tricky caluculation but the higher the number of the first three the less gentrified you are.
People who obviously don't have children use baby pushchairs to carry home their shopping (from the LIDL).
The only additions people make to their homes are home-made sheds and shacks to house all of the plastic things they buy for their children to play with.
People spend as much time as is humanly possible in front of their house, preferably drinking and smoking.
Recycling bins are filled with lager and cider cans.
New Churches with names like "Centre of Strength and Power Church" or "Holy Jesus, Full of Christ the Worshipful" start appearing where convenience stores used to be.
A Waitrose or Fresh and Wild opens in your area.
Suddenly the name of your area becomes cutified by estate agents for example - Tooting becomes Tooting Village, and Mitcham becomes Mitcham Village etc., a sign that your area is all but gentrified is if the people living in the area actually think this is the real name of that area.
Couples with overpriced and aerodynamically ill-designed buggies are seen pushing their offspring around your local park.
Your local starts serving "organic" roasts on Sunday.
All the front doors are being painted shades of dove grey and sage green.
People spend as much time as is humanly possible at the organic cafe, outside, drinking and smoking.
Recycling bins are filled to the brim with wine bottles.
Churches are being converted into luxury flats.
Signs there is not gentrification in your area...
A new LIDL opens.
People in your area are excited about the new LIDL opening in your area.
You have as many betting shops as you do off licences as you do Bingo Halls and all of these outnumber the number of bookstores. It is a tricky caluculation but the higher the number of the first three the less gentrified you are.
People who obviously don't have children use baby pushchairs to carry home their shopping (from the LIDL).
The only additions people make to their homes are home-made sheds and shacks to house all of the plastic things they buy for their children to play with.
People spend as much time as is humanly possible in front of their house, preferably drinking and smoking.
Recycling bins are filled with lager and cider cans.
New Churches with names like "Centre of Strength and Power Church" or "Holy Jesus, Full of Christ the Worshipful" start appearing where convenience stores used to be.
Istanbul - We love it!
I stupidly read some popular history book on Instabul before going there. It gave gorey details about the deviant sexual lives of the sultans and a blow-by-blow of the ways in which the sultans had members of their families killed. You see, if you become a sultan, you need to kill off all of your brothers in case they decide to kill you and become sultan. The problem with this has to do with logisitics. If your father was a particularly virile sexual deviant he might have had 50 plus kids with his wives and concubines, so that is a lot of sibling rivalry to put a bloody end to. Then there is also the off chance that your mother might be in need of killing because, oh I don't know, she perhaps tried killing you once, who knows. All I do know is that they seemed to like to kill people and the closer the blood relationship the better. There is one touching tale of a sultan, Ahmet, or Mahmoud or Sulyeman, who knows, they like to re-use names and I lost track after a while, anyway, he didn't have one of his brother's killed because he was mentally retarded, therefore didn't pose a threat. What he didn't count on was someone or something else killing him and the feeble minded brother did, in fact, become sultan, not once but twice.
Enough of the history lesson, the point is that I had condemned the people of this fair country before having arrived. And why not? The whole of the European Union had as well, what with their talk of human rights violations.
So I was not surprised when the passport control man inspected my passport as if it was covered in something unpleasant and said something to me that I am sure was not Turkish for 'Enjoy your stay'.
My mother and I found a cab, wary, as we had been assured that they would try to rip us off. It was during this cab ride when I began to realise that the picture that the rest of the world is trying to paint of Turkey is very much incorrect. The cab driver did not try to rip us off, although he might have been considered a homicidal maniac by "western" standards in terms of his driving, he seemed pleasant enough - for a cab driver.
However, what impressed me straight away about the Turks was how industrious they were. All along the freeway, on either side, were merry makers, fishing, lighting fires, napping, and just generally enjoying their evenings along the Bosphorous. Even if this included walking on the freeway itself, casually ignoring the speeding taxis and lorries. It was nuts, if there was a patch of grass on the shoulder of the road it was being used, blankets spread out and bodies having a pre-dinner snooze. Areas of land that I had never thought of as an ideal picnic spot were all being used. The city is alive and this life is running through every collorary of the city - heaving with people doing, well, things.
When we arrived at the hotel, stereotypes continued to be quashed when we were greeted by a most handsome young consierge, who recommended a nice street to find something to eat. We set out in the evening to discover that Istanbul is one of the cleanest cities in all of Europe. There were no creepy, lurking men to make us feel afraid, and there were families out having meals (with children!).
Istanbul is obviously beautiful and there are so many interesting buildings of historical significance that it is overwhelming, you are tripping over the things. The food is fantastic, fresh and healthy and the people are nice. Unlike the carpet sellers I was warned about who would abduct me in their shops until I viewed every carpet ever made and purchased the most expensive one available on the pretext that it could, in fact, fly, I found the marketeers to be friendly and helpful. Dickering for the right price is not hard and I don't feel that I got ripped off once.
My feeling is that Istanbul is as interesting as its tourism board promises and surprisingly clean and friendly. I don't know why anyone wouldn't want them in the EU and after my experience in Greece, I think they should kick out the Greeks and let the Turks in.
Enough of the history lesson, the point is that I had condemned the people of this fair country before having arrived. And why not? The whole of the European Union had as well, what with their talk of human rights violations.
So I was not surprised when the passport control man inspected my passport as if it was covered in something unpleasant and said something to me that I am sure was not Turkish for 'Enjoy your stay'.
My mother and I found a cab, wary, as we had been assured that they would try to rip us off. It was during this cab ride when I began to realise that the picture that the rest of the world is trying to paint of Turkey is very much incorrect. The cab driver did not try to rip us off, although he might have been considered a homicidal maniac by "western" standards in terms of his driving, he seemed pleasant enough - for a cab driver.
However, what impressed me straight away about the Turks was how industrious they were. All along the freeway, on either side, were merry makers, fishing, lighting fires, napping, and just generally enjoying their evenings along the Bosphorous. Even if this included walking on the freeway itself, casually ignoring the speeding taxis and lorries. It was nuts, if there was a patch of grass on the shoulder of the road it was being used, blankets spread out and bodies having a pre-dinner snooze. Areas of land that I had never thought of as an ideal picnic spot were all being used. The city is alive and this life is running through every collorary of the city - heaving with people doing, well, things.
When we arrived at the hotel, stereotypes continued to be quashed when we were greeted by a most handsome young consierge, who recommended a nice street to find something to eat. We set out in the evening to discover that Istanbul is one of the cleanest cities in all of Europe. There were no creepy, lurking men to make us feel afraid, and there were families out having meals (with children!).
Istanbul is obviously beautiful and there are so many interesting buildings of historical significance that it is overwhelming, you are tripping over the things. The food is fantastic, fresh and healthy and the people are nice. Unlike the carpet sellers I was warned about who would abduct me in their shops until I viewed every carpet ever made and purchased the most expensive one available on the pretext that it could, in fact, fly, I found the marketeers to be friendly and helpful. Dickering for the right price is not hard and I don't feel that I got ripped off once.
My feeling is that Istanbul is as interesting as its tourism board promises and surprisingly clean and friendly. I don't know why anyone wouldn't want them in the EU and after my experience in Greece, I think they should kick out the Greeks and let the Turks in.
Cuttlefish... Isn't that what tried to kill Captain Nemo?
Don't order the cuttlefish.
If I were to write a guide to Athens, this would be the opening line. 24 hours later and an equal amount of trips to the toilet, or after the 8th, just using the wastebin in the hotel bed, I had learned a valuable lesson about cuttlefish.
I decided, at that point, that the Greeks are a bad people and that when I am in charge of the world I am going to take the Acropolis and move it to Turkey out of spite. "It can't be done", you say, ever been to the Parthenon in Berlin? Admittedly, the Nazis had a determination in spirit that is hard to replicate.
The doctor was called, my bottom was injected and I was informed by the doctor that Exarchia is generally to be avoided on the grounds that it is "no good". I disagree, it is still an awesome neighbourhood but Barba Yanni's is on my shit (and puke) list from now on.
An interesting aside, I have read that at least a third of the population in Greece work for the government, so that is pretty big, right? Well, after informing my doctor of the offending restaraunt I assumed that one third of Greece would be investigating this environmental hazard and shutting the place down, in fact when the doctor asked me where I had eaten the cuttlefish, I assumed it was to report it and get the wheels put in motion to bring the owners to justice. Turns out she was just making conversation. Most disappointing.
So my trip to Athens was mostly disastrous, spent finding the hotel, which involved wandering through the district that had (I hope) the most hookers per non-hooker resident in Athens, and I am sure the ugliest, staying in the hotel afraid to leave due to hookers and only going to one restaraunt, as described and then on the train back to the airport. The train was airconditioned though - and more spacious, and cheaper than the tube, so I had begun to forgive the Greeks.
If I were to write a guide to Athens, this would be the opening line. 24 hours later and an equal amount of trips to the toilet, or after the 8th, just using the wastebin in the hotel bed, I had learned a valuable lesson about cuttlefish.I decided, at that point, that the Greeks are a bad people and that when I am in charge of the world I am going to take the Acropolis and move it to Turkey out of spite. "It can't be done", you say, ever been to the Parthenon in Berlin? Admittedly, the Nazis had a determination in spirit that is hard to replicate.
The doctor was called, my bottom was injected and I was informed by the doctor that Exarchia is generally to be avoided on the grounds that it is "no good". I disagree, it is still an awesome neighbourhood but Barba Yanni's is on my shit (and puke) list from now on.
An interesting aside, I have read that at least a third of the population in Greece work for the government, so that is pretty big, right? Well, after informing my doctor of the offending restaraunt I assumed that one third of Greece would be investigating this environmental hazard and shutting the place down, in fact when the doctor asked me where I had eaten the cuttlefish, I assumed it was to report it and get the wheels put in motion to bring the owners to justice. Turns out she was just making conversation. Most disappointing.
So my trip to Athens was mostly disastrous, spent finding the hotel, which involved wandering through the district that had (I hope) the most hookers per non-hooker resident in Athens, and I am sure the ugliest, staying in the hotel afraid to leave due to hookers and only going to one restaraunt, as described and then on the train back to the airport. The train was airconditioned though - and more spacious, and cheaper than the tube, so I had begun to forgive the Greeks.
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
Relationship Therapy
I think London and I need couples therapy. We are drifting apart, I am feeling resentful and if we aren't careful there is going to be a nasty breakup.
It isn't entirely London's fault. It is my fault too - I have changed, we both have - going our separate ways, hanging out with different crowds.
My overly santised upbringing in salt lake city doomed our relationship from the start. Things I found cute and quirky at first, like the chicken bones scattered in the street and the scizophrenics on the bus, are the very things I hold agains London.
London is now officially the most expenisve city in the world - according to UBS. I read it in the Times (don't ask & don't judge - I usually buy the Independent). This would explain my distinct lack of disposable income. I work in a city I cannot afford to live in. It isn't that I am bored of London and bored of Life, I am broke in London and can't enjoy life.
When I first came to London, on holiday, I found it thrilling, dirty, busy and amazing. I saw my first herion needle in Charing Cross station - how alluring and mysterious for a 15 year old girl from Utah. Fast forward 8 years, living in a basement flat in Islington (don't get too excited - Hackney was directly across the street) that was prone to flooding, paying more in rent than my parents pay on their mortgage for a 5 bedroom house in an affluent neighbourhood, finding heroin needles was no longer a shocking thrill but an annoying weekly occurance. We kept latex gloves in the kitchen specifically for the task of picking them up from our stoop to throw away in the public bin by the bus stop.
Londoners are slobs - a half eaten pear eaten is casually discarded on the seat of a bus, a bite of an mealy apple spat on the floor of the tube train, spitting has crossed the gender barrier, men and women do it (one point for feminism in London) and it is customary with chicken, once eaten, to scatter the bones around bus stops. I haven't figured out if this is part of a religious ceremony to pay respect to the chicken or a way to keep tourists away.
I now own a flat in the outskirts of London. I don't even get the cache of living in London because whenever I have to give my address to someone "London" doesn't even feature into it and I am asked why, if we don't live in Croydon, do we have a Croydon postcode? I explain that it is how we keep the house prices down, heaven forbid that we get our share of market growth. Just trust me - it is still London - more so than vast swathes of so called West London. Upon moving there - to a neighbourhood that is predominately non-white and definitely non-affluent, my husband's aunt asked us how we were enjoying the "diversity". I had previously never heard the word diversity used as an indignity.
I won't lie, I loved the effect that our new home had on the woman who I take to be the sole representative of the Tory Scumbag Bougie South East but the reality is that it isn't particularly diverse. Almost everyone in our area is deprived apart from the few of us who have paid far too much for the privelege of being a home owner in the area. It doesn't matter what colour anyone is - if everyone is poor that is not diversity.
This is the crux of my problem with London, everywhere you live you are presented with the uncomfortable juxtaposition of abject povery and contemptible wealth. The middle bit that should be there to cushion the stark contrasts has all but been squeezed out of London by a ridiculous housing market and lack of committment on the part of people like me.
It isn't entirely London's fault. It is my fault too - I have changed, we both have - going our separate ways, hanging out with different crowds.
My overly santised upbringing in salt lake city doomed our relationship from the start. Things I found cute and quirky at first, like the chicken bones scattered in the street and the scizophrenics on the bus, are the very things I hold agains London.
London is now officially the most expenisve city in the world - according to UBS. I read it in the Times (don't ask & don't judge - I usually buy the Independent). This would explain my distinct lack of disposable income. I work in a city I cannot afford to live in. It isn't that I am bored of London and bored of Life, I am broke in London and can't enjoy life.
When I first came to London, on holiday, I found it thrilling, dirty, busy and amazing. I saw my first herion needle in Charing Cross station - how alluring and mysterious for a 15 year old girl from Utah. Fast forward 8 years, living in a basement flat in Islington (don't get too excited - Hackney was directly across the street) that was prone to flooding, paying more in rent than my parents pay on their mortgage for a 5 bedroom house in an affluent neighbourhood, finding heroin needles was no longer a shocking thrill but an annoying weekly occurance. We kept latex gloves in the kitchen specifically for the task of picking them up from our stoop to throw away in the public bin by the bus stop.
Londoners are slobs - a half eaten pear eaten is casually discarded on the seat of a bus, a bite of an mealy apple spat on the floor of the tube train, spitting has crossed the gender barrier, men and women do it (one point for feminism in London) and it is customary with chicken, once eaten, to scatter the bones around bus stops. I haven't figured out if this is part of a religious ceremony to pay respect to the chicken or a way to keep tourists away.
I now own a flat in the outskirts of London. I don't even get the cache of living in London because whenever I have to give my address to someone "London" doesn't even feature into it and I am asked why, if we don't live in Croydon, do we have a Croydon postcode? I explain that it is how we keep the house prices down, heaven forbid that we get our share of market growth. Just trust me - it is still London - more so than vast swathes of so called West London. Upon moving there - to a neighbourhood that is predominately non-white and definitely non-affluent, my husband's aunt asked us how we were enjoying the "diversity". I had previously never heard the word diversity used as an indignity.
I won't lie, I loved the effect that our new home had on the woman who I take to be the sole representative of the Tory Scumbag Bougie South East but the reality is that it isn't particularly diverse. Almost everyone in our area is deprived apart from the few of us who have paid far too much for the privelege of being a home owner in the area. It doesn't matter what colour anyone is - if everyone is poor that is not diversity.
This is the crux of my problem with London, everywhere you live you are presented with the uncomfortable juxtaposition of abject povery and contemptible wealth. The middle bit that should be there to cushion the stark contrasts has all but been squeezed out of London by a ridiculous housing market and lack of committment on the part of people like me.
Citizenship and Crumpets
It's official - I am British.
I went to the Register's Office, swore allegiance to Her Magesty the Queen and became one of "them".
I thoroughly enjoyed the experience but don't you think that become British ought to involve the drinking of tea and perhaps the eating of crumpets or at least a scone? The spread consisted of two pitchers of orange squash, one pitcher of warmish tap water and a plate of stale biscuits. Hardly the open arms I expected Mother Brittania to offer her newest subjects.
Nevermind - back to the ceremony. Everything was fine and dandy, those who belived in god said and oath and us sinners said our affirmation (Just to clarify - I come from the school of thought than an affirmation should be something along the lines of "I am a strong and capable woman and I will achieve what I deserve in life" - this was not one of these) then we went up to collect our certificate, my home state was misspelled but I was too blissfully happy about being British to let that spoil anything.
Unfortunately, the Algerian man sitting next to me had other ideas.
"What a load of crap." he declared.
I tried ignoring but he wasn't the sort to pick up on such subtle social tactics. "Why do people want pictures? Why have they brought their families?"
"Maybe it is important to them." I suggested to him.
"To who? Who is this crap important to?"
"Me." I hissed.
Thankfully his name was called and he left directly after collecting his wins.
This got me to thinking... At first I was irritated that I had to take a citizenship test. I even called the home office and asked if my Masters degree from a top British University would mean that I was exempt from taking it. The operator laughed at me and said that the only people are exempt are not the kind of people who could do a Masters degree at any Univeristy, let alone a top one. I felt like a twat and bought the citizenship book from Amazon.
I took the test in less than 90 seconds, the test invigilator hadn't even finished logging all of us into the computers. I paid my £32 and thought - wow! what a little money spinner that is!
After my encounter with my fellow "British citizen" at the ceremony I have to say, I have changed my mind. Citizenship is important and the ceremony was meaningful, not just for me - there were 20 of us there and although I expect to see my friend on the front page next time they find and arrest would-be terrorists in South London, we were all happy to be there. Our families came, we posed for pictures and some of us even cried but most importantly we can now all choose to wait in the shortest line at the airport.
I went to the Register's Office, swore allegiance to Her Magesty the Queen and became one of "them".
I thoroughly enjoyed the experience but don't you think that become British ought to involve the drinking of tea and perhaps the eating of crumpets or at least a scone? The spread consisted of two pitchers of orange squash, one pitcher of warmish tap water and a plate of stale biscuits. Hardly the open arms I expected Mother Brittania to offer her newest subjects.
Nevermind - back to the ceremony. Everything was fine and dandy, those who belived in god said and oath and us sinners said our affirmation (Just to clarify - I come from the school of thought than an affirmation should be something along the lines of "I am a strong and capable woman and I will achieve what I deserve in life" - this was not one of these) then we went up to collect our certificate, my home state was misspelled but I was too blissfully happy about being British to let that spoil anything.
Unfortunately, the Algerian man sitting next to me had other ideas.
"What a load of crap." he declared.
I tried ignoring but he wasn't the sort to pick up on such subtle social tactics. "Why do people want pictures? Why have they brought their families?"
"Maybe it is important to them." I suggested to him.
"To who? Who is this crap important to?"
"Me." I hissed.
Thankfully his name was called and he left directly after collecting his wins.
This got me to thinking... At first I was irritated that I had to take a citizenship test. I even called the home office and asked if my Masters degree from a top British University would mean that I was exempt from taking it. The operator laughed at me and said that the only people are exempt are not the kind of people who could do a Masters degree at any Univeristy, let alone a top one. I felt like a twat and bought the citizenship book from Amazon.
I took the test in less than 90 seconds, the test invigilator hadn't even finished logging all of us into the computers. I paid my £32 and thought - wow! what a little money spinner that is!
After my encounter with my fellow "British citizen" at the ceremony I have to say, I have changed my mind. Citizenship is important and the ceremony was meaningful, not just for me - there were 20 of us there and although I expect to see my friend on the front page next time they find and arrest would-be terrorists in South London, we were all happy to be there. Our families came, we posed for pictures and some of us even cried but most importantly we can now all choose to wait in the shortest line at the airport.
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