shutitdown: taking one for the anecdote

Results tagged “london”

Life update

I'm going to Amsterdam this weekend for more italo and Holland electro. I'm such a glutton. Last weekend I went to the Bloc festival, which is this electronic music thing in England. They also had an italo day. I'm clearly far too old for this sort of thing, but as long as I have flatmates and don't have a mortgage, I might as well live it up.

I've been working on writing and have been skipping the gym to do it. As such, I'm fat and prolific. I should have an article on Splice Today tomorrow, and an interview on Infinite State Machine soon. I will post links when it all happens. I'm working on a piece (in my head still) called "Loving the Mix and Not the Man." This is to try and talk myself out of loving DJs so much. I need to stop. I don't know what my problem is. Why is it that I need to obsess over imaginary (or sort of real) people? Is this the ultimate proof that I have no real enthusiasm for other people, and as such need to project personalities onto them in order to feign interest? Things I think about has I head back to Holland to continue my stalking.

In other news, my slumlord has refused to fix our heat for 3 weeks. We've had no heat or hot water for three weeks. I've given notice and have to find a new flat, which will bring me to four in six months. London is really a lot like Dickens described it.

By Lina on March 20, 2009 12:19 AM

Stiff upper lips sink ships

I've been meaning to post about a headline I saw on one of the London papers the other day: 'Good manners sank Britons on the Titanic.' Infinitely irritating, right? Now, I'm not sure if I've mentioned it yet, but I'm starting to think that the English are mostly dicks. This is sort of embarrassing to admit, of course, because right now I'm in California and people keep asking me why I moved to London. It's started to become slightly shameful to keep giving answers like "well, when I was sixteen I had a major crush on Jarvis Cocker."

But since moving here, I've stopped noticing or liking the accents (except when they say literally, that's still hilarious) and tend to focus on the more irritating aspects of the culture. Case in point, the daily free papers that are strewn all over the train and the drivel found within.

Britons on the Titanic had less chance of surviving than their brasher American counterparts because of their good manners, according to research. While most of the British followed queuing etiquette, allowing women and children to get to the lifeboats first, American passengers pushed their way to the front. (Article, Article)

Luckily for the British, they've learned a thing or two since 1912. I've often found that a refreshing way to start the day is to be elbowed in the stomach by a banker in a bowler attempting to get a seat on the Tube. I try and pretend that this is indicative of a truly equal society--there's no evidence of the British "stiff upper lip" in play when they're pushing aside old ladies and pregnant girls in hopes of finding a place to sit. So go on, United Kingdom! You've nearly caught up with us--maybe the next time an ocean liner sinks you'll fare a little better.

By Lina on January 30, 2009 7:37 AM

A new flat in frosty London

London is a terribly lonely place. Every day I interact with at least a dozen people that are actively trying to remain indifferent towards me. The bus drivers yell at me here. Sometimes I try and chat up the waitresses when I order takeaway just to have someone to talk to. I'm sort of warming to the Big Smoke, though. This is mainly because I tend to embrace people and things that reject me and blatantly don't want me around.

"Why is this happening to me?" I asked my mother in tears the other day. My housing situation had taken a turn for the (even) worse and I was about to move to a hotel rather than sleep in the gutter. I suppose it bears pointing out that I have no friends to speak of, and my letting agent had ripped up my lease in a fit of letting agent-ness.

My mother then made loud, angry regurgitation noises over the phone and said sagely, "that's what London's doing to you." I'm not sure if she meant that London was just trying to evacuate me, or if it was actually chewing me up and spitting me out, but either way she's not far off.

Since then, I blackmailed my new landlord and moved into a flat that is an active construction site. On Sunday morning I woke up to three builders staring into my bedroom. Right now I'm sitting here, under the covers typing and I have goosebumps. Tomorrow, I've been told, they are planning on putting a hole in my wall to the outside. It snowed today. I asked if they could maybe finish it the same day as I wasn't particularly fond of camping. "Don't worry, love. The 'ole will only be about as big as this 'ere," the 'ead builder said, pointing to a packing box that was two feet tall.

But all that said, I get a kick out of the East End. I went to the Brick Lane market on Sunday and was pleased as punch to find a Japanese deep fried street food stand set up. Last night I had a curry with my new flatmate who seems remarkably sane and visited my new local (that means: the closest pub to my home) and found that they have a pretty decent jukebox. My flat is just above a Thai restaurant so no one is going to blame me for the stink this time, and I'm just a few minutes away from about fifteen Vietnamese restaurants. 'appy days.

By Lina on January 5, 2009 8:23 PM

Flatmates of apartments past

In the spirit of whinging, I've compiled a short history of some of my more memorable flatmates.

DJ Nizzy Nice: The time I moved in with an Indian man to prove that I wasn't a racist. Passive-aggressive notes ensued.

The punk drummer: I moved into this Williamsburg, Brooklyn with a man 15 years my senior. Joe was a drummer, but luckily didn't play at home. The kitchen was zebra striped, the living room was red with a giant chandelier draped in feather boas, and my room was purple. Luckily Joe and I got along very well, and he would regularly share tidbits of general knowledge. One fact that I've never forgotten is that brazil nuts are also known as "nigger toes."

My ex-boyfriend: While changing the sheets, once I found a stash of drugs under the mattress. Eviction (his) quickly ensued.

The French student: My first foray back into living with other people happened in Dublin last year. I lived with Bertie for a year. Bertie was miserable living in Ireland and stayed in his room 90% of the time. The other 10% of the time I berated him about never putting dishes away or cleaning the house. Bertie finally took up with another French student and had his girlfriend living in our house three or four nights a week and never introduced me to her. In retrospect, I feel sorry for Bertie. However, I also sort of feel like it's his own fault for not being very sound. He wasn't very fun.

Gooballs: Lived with me for a month while I packed for London. I was introduced to the fellow through a friend. The night that he moved in he told me, "I used to have a drug problem but I don't anymore, like. I learned that drugs are like people. If you don't respect them, they will fuck you over." Because he was from Cork, even semi-frightening statements such this still were amusing due to his outrageous accent. He broke a window and invited a lot of seedy characters over during his short tenure.

The Italians: My most recent flatmates. Sabrina and Lucio were "just friends." Within a week of me moving in, one of my friends asked me what was up with my flatmates. "What do you mean?" I asked innocently.

"Uh, they're obviously boning," she informed me.

As it turns out, this was true and they seemed to get off on the illicitness of the situation and used my presence as a prop for foreplay. When I would come home I would often find them on the loveseat (the only piece of furniture in the living room) making out. When I entered the room, they would try and pretend they hadn't been sucking face, and stare fixedly at the TV while Lucio adjusted his pants. I found this very uncomfortable-making.

Later, they evicted me for "cooking too much Asian food." The next day I told Sabrina that I thought her habit of falling asleep with her light on and bedroom door open in the hopes that Lucio would stumble in on his way to his room, was pathetic. I should note that said stumbling-in only occurred every few weeks, but Sabrina kept her vigil up on a nightly basis. Lucio later threatened to report this incident to the police as well as having me prosecuted for libel. I helpfully tried to explain that it wasn't libel since I had only said it. Now I suppose since I've written it on my blog it's actually libel. I'm sure this will please the Italians.

By Lina on December 30, 2008 2:50 AM

As requested: a depressing boyfriend post

Despite requests, I have no current terrible boyfriend stories to relate. I do have one on that backburner that I've been too lazy to type up...Oh fuck it. Here goes.

My ex-bf, known to many as the Swede, and known to others as that incredibly controlling maniac with no sense of humor, was certainly a thorn in my side. I can't deny that I was a terrible girlfriend, though. I was as far from being supportive as one can possibly be, and I still cringe when I think of the blank journal that he cut and pasted, ransom note style, letters rebelliously spelling out "Fuck you, it's art." It sends a shiver down my spine.

This was the man who famously--seriously--accused me of cheating on him. With my brother.

Anyway, as you might have guessed we had an acrimonious breakup. Within a month, he started dating another Lina. (Not, luckily, The other Lina). One of our main things we liked to argue about was his propensity for facial hair, and after taking up with the new Lina, he grew a full beard. I can't help but be pleased, as I'm convinced that this, and nearly everything else he does, is somehow in reaction to me.

He's also, apparently, gotten his first tattoo. As someone years into the tattoo removal process, I generally try and dissuade those that I'm sleeping with from getting tattoos, especially when those people are tattoo-less and in their thirties. So when he recently attempted to befriend me on Facebook, after years of silence and despite the fact that I thought we were mutually not on speaking terms, I was granted the limited opportunity to see his profile pictures and his new full sleeve tattoo. Getting your first tattoo in your thirties and going for a full-sleeve? Please. He is, as they would say in Ireland, a try hard.

I've written this in the hopes of keeping Brandy happy and of keeping all previously burned bridges burnt as my ex is also in London, with his new Lina, beard, and tattoo, and I don't want there to be any concern about small talk if I do happen to run into him.

By Lina on November 22, 2008 12:03 AM

In regards to the American election

It's not often that I'm proud to be an American--in fact, I've spent the last while trying neutralize my accent and hide the fact altogether, but today I really am. The cover of the London Metro says in 2 inch high letters 'The Day America Became a Little Bit Cool Again.'

To be honest, although a staunch Democrat, I sometimes shake my head at the way the party operates. It's as if they have the overwhelming desire to fail. Snatching defeat out of the jaws of victory, if you will. Take this election--we were basically guaranteed a win. So what did the Democratic party do? Have our top contenders for the job be either a black man and a woman. It was if we were destined to fail. And yet, we didn't. I love that the race didn't become about race and I love that I come from a country that still seems to have some sort of social mobility. I love that we did the right thing this time.

By Lina on November 6, 2008 7:41 PM

Election day

Although I'm too old and crotchety to stay up and watch the results, I can say that even from 5,000 miles away, I managed to throw a vote to Obama. My friend Rene has made a fantastic poster to show his support.

Today one of the free London papers had a cover showing a white Obama and a black McCain. Really bizarre and sort of creepy. One of the headlines read "it's a race thing." Maybe I'll feel differently once this is all over, but right now, from what I can see in Jolly old, it really feels like it isn't a race thing. At all. And I'm proud of Americans for that. Because based on some of the coverage here, to the outside world, it is a race thing. God bless the UK press--they've really made me feel less badly about being an American. Frankly I can't believe that I'm so bored that I've started blogging about current events. How often does that happen? (Dear god I've also started taking yoga)

By Lina on November 4, 2008 11:16 PM

On Americans

Tonight, as I uncomfortably watched one of my London pals squirm while an American friend gave a detailed monologue about circumcision and foreskins, I realized, proudly, that I'm becoming more English. Despite my contributions to said conversation, I was troubled. And yet, still proud of myself. For this discomfort, this repression, can only mean one thing. I'm assimilating.
By Lina on November 2, 2008 11:59 AM

The great pumpkin and city living

Today it snowed in London. I've been tromping around everywhere in a bright orange coat. Having a bright orange coat is a nice thing when you only wear it every few weeks. I didn't think about this when I packed, and ended up moving with only the bright orange coat. It's been so cold that I wear it every day, and looking sort of like the inside of a melted Butterfinger bar.

I've become citified again. No longer do I cross the street with mouth agape, staring in wonder at buildings more than four stories high. Already I sneer at those people, and know that stories is spelled storeys in this neck of the woods.

Living in a huge city is like having a big, fat scab. When I first arrived, I was like a raw nerve, the twitching whiskers of a mouse waiting to get trapped. (Incidentally, I know a lot about mice after living on Piccadilly Circus for the last few weeks.) The only way you can survive in a large city is with a substantial layer of scar tissue and a heavy set of blinders. If you ever stopped for even a second and thought about how you practically have your head in someone's armpit on your morning tube commute, you'd grow hysterical. If you admitted to yourself that a man less than 7 inches from you was picking his nose at 8:15 in the morning, or that you just stepped over a bloody pigeon carcass, or that you spend $10 a day to take the subway, or that your housing crisis has left you living in a room with no windows, you might just have to die in response.

By keeping quiet and not acknowledging that there's anything wrong, you become a member of the secret society of city dwellers. This gives you access to pissing away 40% of your pay on rent, but also a plethora of delivery food options. I think it's worth it.

"What are we all doing here?" my friend Jenn would ask dramatically when we lived in New York City. "Why are we doing this to ourselves?" It was her theory that living in New York was a form of masochism--we only did it because we felt that on some level, we deserved to be punished. Combined with a healthy dose of something to prove, and that's half of New York summed up. Otherwise, why would we have moved from our great suburbs, our roomy, new homes with affordable groceries and warehouse stores?

By Lina on October 29, 2008 12:11 AM

Flathunting and xenophobia in London

I have a book signed by Martin Amis. As I was getting in line to have him sign it, I debated whether I had the courage to request that he sign it "Pussies are bullshit." As it turns out, I didn't, and it just says something like "To Lina Love, Martin." During his talk, though, he discussed what an incredibly racist society Great Britain is. This didn't make much of an impact on me because at the time I was living in California, the land of political correctness and avocados. But now, after flat hunting in London, I'm starting to see what he means.

First, I learned that in my flatshare queries, there were certain things I should leave out of my emails. Like the fact that I'm an American. Like my grossly semetic last name. These are things that my housemates don't need to know until after I move in. Once they cop on to my accent and maztoh balls, they're going to be in for a surprise.

I had a relocation company ostensibly helping me with my home search. They were very eager for me to live in either Clapham or Islington, but not the place that my I had my heart and wallet set on, the East End. They finally agreed to take me on a tour of different neighborhoods to help me better decide where I wanted to live. As part of the deal, I was given an unrepentant racist as a tour guide.

Immediately after we started off on our tour, Stephanie said, "So you've been living in Ireland...how did you find the Irish? Are they as bad as everyone says?"

I wasn't really listening, so just assumed she was asking what everyone always asks "Are the Irish as friendly as everyone says they are?"

I started my usual response, "Yeah, yeah, they're real friendly" and Stephanie interrupted me.

"They're sort like how you feel about Mexicans in the States, aren't they?"

I still couldn't fathom that this woman would be saying something so beyond acceptable to a complete stranger, and assumed she must mean that both the Irish and the Mexicans have had a positive effect on the nearby dominating super power.

But later, when she started complaining about the blacks, muslims and Jews, I started to realize that Martin Amis was right, pussies are bullshit.

I spent four hours with this woman, getting driven around London hearing about how to best avoid anyone with a skintone darker than myself, and how immigrants were ruining the country. Probably not the best person to be doing orientation tours for a relocation company, eh. She complained about how Labour had put housing projects in nice neighborhoods, forcing real English people to live side-by-side with animals. (Her words, not mine.) "You can get a good sense of a neighborhood by seeing who lives there," she said, driving me through Bethnal Green. "Look! Blacks!" she said, pointing.

My favorite bit, which I actually recorded with my new snazzy phone, was when she did an impersonation of someone who might shop at Banglatown (crazy accent and all!). I kindly suggested to her that perhaps if Englishwomen were doing their part to keep up the British birthrate, perhaps her country wouldn't have to rely so much on those dirty immigrants, like me.

She wailed, at one point, "Where have all the English people gone?" as we drove down the main thoroughfare of Whitechapel.

"There are loads of them in New York," I kindly suggested.

Later, when I had nearly reached the limit of what I could tolerate and Stephanie was complaining about how dirty Africans are, she admitted to me that her husband is a UK immigration judge. God help this country.

By Lina on October 26, 2008 11:15 AM

Lina: Pig in the City

My first day in London left me chastened. Despite all of the dire warnings from the Dublin taxi drivers, ("You'll not like it there, love, everyone always in a rush") I was certain that London would be no problem for me. I've lived in New York, after all. New York has twice the population density of London, so I was confident that I was twice as tough as I needed to be to live in the Big Smoke. I was surprised, then, when I found myself being the sort of person that would stand still in the middle of crowded pedestrian thoroughfares, looking up at gigantic buildings, mouth slightly open, until I've been run into and yelled at by loud, angry Britons.

I'm still confused as to which way to look when crossing streets, and the added traffic of a major metropolitan city has me completely befuddled. I'm not yet familiar with the coins yet, so rather than holding up lines of people, I've been paying only with bills. After two days, already, I have a huge pile of useless change. I went to the store today to buy sugar and stood at the counter for a few minutes, desperately trying to figure out which coins to hand the woman behind counter. I was embarrassed and sweating, and finally the woman took pity on me and grabbing my hand, took the appropriate change out of it, and handed me the remains. Awkwardly I thanked her, trying to neutralize my accent, and trotted out the door.

Then yesterday, I decided to explore the cities Korean restaurants. My first stop (Korean Kitchen. 32 Windmill Street, Picadilly Circus, London, W1D 7LR) served me a bowl of soup with a hair in it. I showed the waitress, and she sent it back. I waited 10 minutes for another soup, and when it arrived, it had a black hair delicately balanced on top of a piece of tofu. Interestingly, I was not offered a free meal or anyone's firstborn, but they did suggest I wait for a third bowl of hairy soup. I left, and made my way to Jin Korean Restaurant, 16 Bateman Street London W1D 3A. As I was eating my lunch, a cockroach crawled out from the in-table bbq equipment and pranced across the table. He finally crawled back in, and I attempted to ignore the situation until a pair of antennae poked out and waggled at me, as if laughing. I put an upside-down plate over the hole, and mentally teleported to my safe space.

Last night I went to visit some friends in Whitechapel, in London's East End. When I left, I didn't take directions, confident that with the help of my A-Z I'd make it to the tube station. "It's Ay to ZED not Ay to ZEE, Lina. Yank."

Of course my ingrained sense of direction--my father calls me a topographical cretin--got me completely lost and as I wandered the streets of Whitechapel at midnight, I grew increasingly more terrified.

Lina stream of conciousness: I'm going to get mugged. That will be so humiliating. Wait, I know this street name. This is exactly where the serial killer Jack the Ripper stalked his prey! I'm going to get murdered here. Hang on, Jack the Ripper only killed prostitutes. I'm not a prostitute. I'm going to be fine. Oh shit. Everyone here thinks all Americans are whores. I'm so dead. I'm so dead. I'm so dead. Oh wait, there's the tube station. Yeah, I'm street smart. Phew.

So my first 48 hours left me feeling less cosmopolitan than I had hoped.

But then this morning, after having a crumpet and a cup of tea (seriously), I hit the streets and found a Chinese market, a Japanese market and a Korean market all within 7 minutes of my flat and I perked up. Even the local Spar (it's like 7-11) carries strange Asian snacks. After stuffing myself with a half-dozen Korean delicacies, I sat back, content with my new geographic position. I know that going to a couple of Asian markets and eating a little banchan doesn't sound like a big deal, but to me, it is. I'm so delighted to be back in a big city and to have access to all of the funny little things that one can't find anywhere else.

By Lina on October 5, 2008 9:06 PM

Shylater, Dubs

I'm at the airport, 122 pounds of luggage safely checked, waiting to move to London. It's almost two years to the day that I first arrived in Dublin, and for all of the things that I've complained about, for all of the abuse that I've taken here for my exotic accent, I'm really going to miss this crazy old country, so.
By Lina on October 3, 2008 12:31 PM

My pals on accents and slang

Frances: you know, you type like an irishman now
Frances: i mean, when i imagine your voice, it sounds irish

...

"Wait til they get a load of you in London with that big American accent on top of all of that Irish slang." Andrew, paraphrased.

...

Me, trying to understand Londoners: "Will they know what I mean when I declare myself sound?"
Aoife: "Yes, but they don't say 'deadly' which is a bit shit."

By Lina on September 17, 2008 10:25 PM

Rage against the dying of the light, or, the twighlight of my twenties

Last weekend I was standing in a muddy field with a couple of thousand Irish teenagers having mucky beers passed around me and wondered to myself if this was really how I wanted to spend the twilight of my twenties. Somehow I've gone from being the youngest in my crowd to the oldest, and I'm not sure if this is really how the future was meant to feel.

When I was 14, I was incredibly smug about the fact that all of the friends were seniors in high school and could drive me to Depeche Mode concerts and to off-campus lunch rendezvous at the nearest taqueria. When I was started dating, I daringly went for a man 10 years my senior thus making our relationship a violation of California penal code 261-267. I was so self-satisfied about this declaration of maturity--I couldn't wait to grow up and get on with my life. Now I'm so sick of getting on with my life that I regularly go clubbing on weeknights and have foregone a retirement fund in favor of traveling around Europe in pursuit of bangin' tunes.

I worry that I should be doing more constructive things; I should be at home planning my pension and having babies and focusing on my career trajectory, but the thought just fills me with melancholy. When I was a teenager I signed up for credit cards, took out the entire credit line in cash and then promptly forgot about them. I thought that I'd never live to see 20, so my credit line was something I'd never have to worry about. And now it seems that my credit line is something that I worry about endlessly. That is, when I'm not going to festivals or hanging around with people younger than those I was once paid to babysit. And of course I'm sort of ashamed of myself--this isn't the sort of person that I thought I would turn out to be. But I can't deny that it's pretty much worth it. Doin' it for the craic.

This weekend I'm heading back to Rotterdam to hear some of my favorite italo DJs kick out the tunes, and a week later I'm moving to London. I like to think I'm sort of like those surfers in the Endless Summer, traveling around the world as the seasons turn, chasing the never-ending summer. Chasing the endless buzz.

By Lina on September 17, 2008 9:30 PM

A (decent) proposal

The dance of an internal transfer appears to be coming to a climax--London has made me an offer. I've demurred, and am pushing for a larger dowry before I consummate the thing, but I looks like it might well actually happen. As London is the city in which I have the largest concentration of ex-boyfriends, I'm sure that I'm not the only one on the edge of their seat for this decision.

I'm still flashpacking through Bangkok now. And they really do ping pong shows here, god love 'em. What I like about Thailand is that the Thai people seem very indifferent to me. I find this reassuring. I still have not recovered my trip from Rome where I was either given a freebie or sexually assaulted, depending on your outlook on these sorts of things. Thai men are mostly ignoring me, which I much prefer. The ladyboys, though, thank god, gave me all of the attention (and photo opportunities) that I desired, so I can't complain.

I can't decide if the word "flashpacking" really irks me or not--I just learned it today so it hasn't had time to settle in. I just read a thing about flashpacking, though, and it's sort of what I've been dreaming about and half-heartedly plotting for a while. (Check out this blog) Traveling like a backpacker, but with a computer, paying extra for single rooms or non-hostels, eating quality meals, that sort of buzz. Which is what I'm doing right now. I'm staying in a hostel but have paid for 2 to get my own room. Last night I was in a 5 star hotel. Since my meals are average about €2 per day, I think I can handle it.

I really want to stop working and go travel for a year. Finish the effing novel already. Write a new one, maybe. Eat street food all over the world. Finally go to Korea. But I'm not sure if I could cope with traveling for that long. In my heart, I think I might hate traveling. I don't like being uncomfortable or lonely or hungry or anxious or lost. These are all things that will probably happen if I try and travel for a year. So London is still in the running. Instead of backpacking, I transfer.

By Lina on August 17, 2008 12:25 PM

Oh, my cheating career

I had my first formal interviews with London today. Initiating a transfer in a company is sort of like cheating on your boyfriend with his best friend. You don't want to leave your current one until you're pretty certain the next one is going to be better, somehow, because everyone is going to know. There's a mild flirtation at first, where you're both sizing each other up. Is this worth talking to my boss about? I wonder. If I do, and I'm wrong, things will never be the same between us again.

So I wait, and flirt, and he flirts back and wracked with guilt, I finally tell my boss. That's okay, she says, between clenched teeth. I hope you both will be very happy together. She shoots eye darts at me, and I know if this transfer doesn't happen, she will punish me for this. The thing is about me and London, we haven't even been together. Not exactly.

And now I've had my interviews, two hours of them, and I sort of feel like I've just slept with this guy but still don't know if this is what I really want. What I really want, I think, is to spend the next year traveling through Asia, not working at yet another job in what can only be considered a ridiculous career choice. And yet I can't stop myself from wondering obsessively, is he going to call? I mean, he may not be perfect, but he is pretty cute.

By Lina on July 22, 2008 11:57 PM

Cancelled gigs

Prince cancelled his Dublin gig this weekend. The message boards have been awash in anger and speculation. One poster responded to the thread of grieving fans saying,

This is what it sounds like
when Dubs cries

In other news, I (randomly) bought a ticket to go to Tokyo in nine days. I'm very excited, as I'm a big fan of ramen. However, this means I won't be able to see Morrissey when he plays here at the end of the month. Sigh.

Today I was talking to a friend of mine about places that would be good to live. He ruled out a few, and then I said "But what about London?" Pause. "Giddy London?"

"Ah Jaysus. Ya fookin' Yanks." It's really a shame that more people don't appreciate my sporadic interjections of Moz lyrics.

By Lina on June 11, 2008 12:03 AM

Repressed but remarkably dressed

My commitment and attachment issues aren't content to stay in the arena of male humans and has now extended to cities. After an eighteen month romance with Dublin, I spent this last weekend having a completely unforeseen and vaguely torrid affair with my old flame, London.

I was supposed to be in town just for the day on Friday for a meeting but after missing a flight and making a measured decision to be more spontaneous, decided to stay the weekend and come back Monday night.

I don't know what happened. I've always liked London, I've even loved London before. Over a year ago I secured a visa for myself, which was one of the hardest things I've ever done--it involved compiling over 100 pages of original documents and affidavits--and then never moving. It wasn't an easy breakup for me, but I thought Dublin was a more stable relationship; Dublin would appreciate me more.

But then after seeing London again, so dashing, so handsome, I've started to reconsider. Things haven't been going well with Dublin for the last little while. We don't have any serious problems, but it's those day-to-day issues that are the ones that I can't handle. It's the things that I initially loved that are starting to irk me. It's too small. It's too laid back. There's no Ikea. We're just not as compatible as I once let myself believe.

But then I start to wonder--is this about me or Dublin? Why haven't I lasted anywhere, settled down? Since leaving my parents' house at 17, I've moved to New York, to California, to New York, to California, to Dublin, to California, to Dublin. I've never lasted more than a few years each time. Is my inability to geographically commit an endearing foible or can I just not keep my wanderlust in my pants?

By Lina on May 29, 2008 12:01 AM

Joan Aiken, John Bellairs and Edward Gorey

When I was in elementary school, I found my two favorite authors the same way. Both of them had covers drawn by Edward Gorey, a gothic-style illustrator who is best known for his morbid work detailing the gruesome deaths of children. We had an anthology of his work at home, which I would pore over, aghast, and have since stolen from my parents.

John Bellairs and Joan Aiken both had Edward Gorey drawings on their covers, and I bought both of their books initially based on this fact. As a hopeful writer, this sort of frightens me, because I've been told that writers have almost no input on the covers of their books. Especially for youth, the covers are more important than anything else. John Bellairs wrote spooky mysteries about orphaned boys exploring gothic New England and there was a fair amount of magic involved, but spooky magic, not geeky magic. I re-read two of them while I was home, and they weren't as great as I had remembered, but were still pretty wonderful. I remember in around fourth grade that I used to come home from school and make myself a pot of Top Ramen and read John Bellairs. I had some theory about these two things going well with one another. Despite slightly matured taste in both literature and foodstuff, I can't say that I was wrong.

Joan Aiken was my favorite author as a child, hands down. So much so that when I was thinking of moving to London, I had a serious look at real estate in Battersea because of her book titled Black Hearts in Battersea. I'm not kidding. Aiken wrote fiction for children that imagined an alternate history of Britain under the rule of James II. As a California-educated tot, this was my first and practically only exposure to the English monarchy, and was very confused in later life to learn that the Hanoverians had won and that the Romans never invaded the Americas.

In retrospect, Aiken's books were so rich and wonderful that I'm shocked that so few people my age had ever heard of her. Maybe it's an America thing, but I've never met anyone that has read her books. In fifth grade I got a copy of The Stolen Lake and after hurdling through it, wrote on the inside cover, "The Best Book in the World" and my name with a flourish. I even went on our local radio station's book show, on the week that they featured kid's books to review The Stolen Lake. I remember having my mother coach me beforehand on the pronunciation of "Aiken" and "Dido Twite," the main character. In my head, I had been calling her Dee-do.

I've re-read Aiken's books, and I still love them. Just a few years ago she released two more in the same series, The Wolves Chronicles and somehow I found out and got them. I pre-ordered the last one. I didn't even realize that Aiken was still alive, but was delighted that more of these books were coming out. It was only this week, when going through my childhood books and doing some subsequent Googling that I found out that she had passed away before the book I had pre-ordered was released. This made me sad. I loved her books so much that I wish I had written her a letter telling her so, or sent her a recording of my radio plug for the series. Somehow I managed to write to Corey Haim and join his fan club, but not to Joan Aiken.

During my time-wasting, I also found a picture of Aiken, and she looks very different that I think I would have imagined, but absolutely perfect. She looks like a tough-talking, no-nonsense English woman who would write books for children that were absolutely beyond their comprehension and yet completely and utterly absorbing and thrilling. I'm going to read The Stolen Lake again, and then on to my next favorite, Dido and Pa.

I just looked up this series on Amazon and saw that although most are out of print in the US, they are all currently in print in the UK. Which is, of course, great news for nerds like me. Most interestingly, some of theme appear to be really popular on this side of the pond. The Wolves of Willoughby Chase is even taught in schools over here! The sad news? They've given them all new, matching covers and done away with the Edward Gorey drawings that had originally lured me into the series.

Links:
Wikipedia - Edward Gorey
Wikipedia - Joan Aiken
Wikipedia - John Bellairs
Guardian Article about Joan Aiken
Black Hearts in Battersea
The Stolen Lake
The Wolves Chronicles
Dido and Pa
The Wolves of Willoughby Chase

By Lina on May 12, 2008 10:47 AM

Fate...The Compilation

Check out my Valentine's Day Compilation. The theme is sort of like, reciprocal love. I'm totally into that. It's so hot.

1. I Will Follow Him - Little Peggy March
2. Obsession (Special Dub Mix) - Animotion
3. Every Breath You Take - The Police
4. Give Me Your Love - Junior Murvin
5. You'll Be Needing Me - Nino Tempo
6. Following - The Bangles
7. Climbing Up the Walls - Radiohead
8. The Stalker - Green Velvet
9. Dust (Rocque Wun Remix) - Recloose Feat. Joe Dukie
10. I'm Gonna Make You Love Me - Diana Ross & The Supremes
11. Run For Your Life - Nancy Sinatra
12. Never Gonna Give You Up - Rick Astley
13. Infatuation - Rod Stewart
14. One Way or Another - Blondie
15. You Belong to Me - Carly Simon
16. Need Your Love (Live) - Cheap Trick
17. Private Eyes - Darly Hall & John Oates
18. I'm Your Puppet - Jimmy London
19. You Belong to Me - The Duprees
20. All Strung Out - Nino Tempo & April Stevens
21. The More You Ignore Me, The Closer I Get - Morrissey
22. Fate (Tynneterje Edit) - Chaka Khan

By Lina on February 14, 2008 11:07 PM
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