Lost Mouse Found

Red Muck

2008-02-22T12:14:00.000-08:00

One word to describe how you're feeling: confident. Confidence derived from an odd sense of serenity watching the QFC globe's onward rotation. Slowdown, counterclockwise, stop. But instead I am your center as you spin away... out of control. So let it go. How long had it been since I played on a merry-go-round anyway?

Even with the trust in the unknown (actually, a downright love of the unknown) I still have to finish university. I still have to play in the system a little longer. However, it's something that I can savor at the same time: seven more months. But come September, my sandbox will be too full of sand. And I don't mean kitty litter.

The Empty Pedestal

2007-07-31T11:26:00.000-07:00

During the last two months I have been disillusioning two long standing illusions. This is no easy feat as it required me to actually partake in them. The first called for me to backpack Europe. For the second, it was necessary to travel to a no-horse-town (unless mosquitoes are horses, then there would be forty million of them) in the backwaters of the Baltic.

I have had some experience in disillusioning recently with my exploits in London. While it took me four separate occasions over five years to expose London, these last two were much easier and faster. In fact, I only have 40 more credits to complete before I graduate from sorcery school as a Disillusionist (or was that with a marketing degree?).

Please don't misunderstand as so many people have, I completely enjoyed my experiences. But I enjoyed them for what they were, rather than for what they were not. So after eight years since I began dancing, Herrang has been found out. And after countless stories, including "National Lampoon's European Vacation", Europe has been exposed for the place that it is (especially the south of France). Now that these are real places, I will definitely be returning.

But I will not be returning next week. I have another task ahead: recreate my life in Portland. Hopefully this will include my impending graduation from university, but no one but Chaos knows if that'll happen. Perhaps I should go pay her a visit.

Save It For Later

2007-05-05T13:35:00.000-07:00

Many things have happened since I last wrote. Many. And because it seems that my last few weeks in London have been occupied by lists of things I should be doing, or at least by lists that I should be writing, I find it appropriate that I make a list of the many notable things that have happened over the last two and a half months. (Yes, this blog entry is one item on a list I should write.)

Chrono-illogically:

Spent a weekend searching for sheep and lions in Edinburgh.

Won* a choreographed team Lindy competition having only practiced the routine for four hours the week before.

Visited Cambridge. Finally admitted to myself that I would not beat Pitt for the award of "Youngest Prime Minister".

Got assaulted by a deranged woman (See previously unwritten blog entry, "2am in Vauxhall").

Received first class honors (A+) on a team presentation for Approaches to E-Business.

Received a lower second (C- if I'm lucky) on a team presentation for Organisational Behaviour.

Became the one of the first people to dance Lindy on the roof of Parliament.

Was forwarded a notice implying that I would be one of the last people to dance on the roof of Parliament.

Embarrassed myself at a supermarket in Nantes, France.

Almost drank enough cider at a Lindy dance camp in the French countryside.

As this part of my hunt comes to a close and the stress builds anticipating the next, I have come to a number of realizations. Why don't I make another list?

I have a new appreciation for Portland Beer.

I have had a massive and positive life changing experience.

I don't want to live in London.

My disillusion with academics extends beyond national borders.

Subscribe to my TRRS feed for further realizations as they occur. However, I'll have to save most of my reflection for a later date as I am too busy thinking about making lists for things I should be doing.

* We were the only team that entered. Our team name was "The Last Minute Special".

Who knew I was prophetic?	Range Rovers ARE that old
Next president of France?	(Image removed to protect the guilty.) I certainly would never have predicted this!
I graze at the peril of others	Neat statue in front of the lion

The Wrong Trousers

2007-02-18T15:24:00.000-08:00

Course work for university has really picked up as of last week. I didn't have much time to relax because I refuse to give up being social, and especially dancing. After all, I didn't come here to work. So after a long week, I was greatly looking forward to 6 hours of dancing on Saturday night. This was to be a combination of two dance events, one after the other, and was scheduled to end at 3 am. I was secretly hoping for some slower Lindy (dare I say Blues?) towards the end of the night. Needless to say, I was quite in the mood to dance.

Luckily, Heather lives only a few minutes away, so we travel to dances together. It is significantly less frustrating to get lost with someone than by oneself. So we met last night at 8 pm to catch a bus to Camden Town. I have said before that is often more pleasant to take a bus than using the tube, but at 8 pm on a Saturday night, traffic was not much better than morning rush hour. Regardless, we arrived at the first dance at 9 pm. Once we got to the venue, we were informed by one of Heather's friends that there was no need to grumble about the rush hour traffic. It turns out the dance was an hour late setting up. (It was supposed to begin at 8 pm and we had planned to get there at 8:30.) Heather and I were already starting to get the impression that perhaps this dance was not quite worth our trouble or our money. I had been to this dance the previous month and it was good, but the same dancers were not there. So we made the executive decision to ditch this venue and head to the next dance earlier than planned. Luckily, the other dance was to start at 9 pm anyway. We caught yet another bus headed to Angel without more than a minute wait at the bus stop. We took our good timing so far in the night to mean that perhaps it was best the evening was unfolding like it was. We would get to the next venue by 10 and still have 5 hours to dance tonight.

As a quick tangent, this bus from Camden Town to Angel was not one of more pleasant rides I had experienced. Soon after the stop that we had embarked onto the bus, a herd of rather loud and rather old British women boarded the bus. They obviously had just had a late night drinking out on the town and it was their bed time. Two of them decided that the seats behind Heather and me looked particularly comfortable. One of the women looked at the other and slobbered incoherently, "Maybe resting in the bus seat will rid me of this persistent cough." It did not. Now a cool evening breeze is enjoyable on the bus, but a drunk old woman's cough is not. Every time this woman coughed I could feel it on the back of my neck. This caused no less of a reaction than my neck hairs gagging and expelling the poison down my spine. I did not turn around in fear of exposing my face, but I could only imagine that a warm mustard cloud was starting build up behind me with the power to curl the hair on the back of my head. They came to their stop in a few minutes and removed themselves from the bus. I took this opportunity to discuss with Heather the nature of the English to avoid confrontation or making a scene. I did not know it at this point, but I would soon be suppressing my American tendency of doing quite the opposite.

Once we got to Angel, we did not have too much trouble finding the place. It was 10 pm when we arrived. Just inside the entrance to this venue stood a rather large and well dressed black man with some creative dental work. Heather went in first and I followed. I looked up at the man and probed the look on his face for his thoughts. "Oh come on, please just..." But it was too late. He said exactly the thoughts that I had read half a second earlier. "Excuse me, sir. No denim." My cheeks sunk. "It's trousers and shoes minimum." I looked down at my jeans as if I didn't know what I was wearing.

Earlier in the night I had considered perhaps wearing my black pants. After all, the noticed I received said that this was a nice venue and suggested that those nice rags should be dragged out to look nice for this. However, my black pants were too long for my dance shoes so I went with my jeans. Here I realized the difference between London and the Northwest. In the Northwest, this kind of message means that dressing up is optional and than jeans and a jacket IS dressing up. In London, this message means that there's a dress code and that you will have to go home and change if you want to get into the venue.

So despite my half-attempted arguments with this formidable bouncer, I was left little choice but to mutter some choice expletives. Then I decided that perhaps I should think about what to do outside and out of earshot. I told Heather that she should go on ahead. She was wearing a large overcoat so there was no way that someone could know what she was wearing. I, however, did not have this option. In fact, the only option I had was to make the trip back to Lambeth and put on some "trousers".

This trip took me 45 minutes each way via the tube and I was booking it in frustration. I decked myself out in a dress shirt, black pants, a jacket, and even the one tie that I brought. I wasn't taking any chances.

I returned to the venue at 11:30 pm. Now with 3 hours to dance. I was not in a happy mood. I realized at some point on the way back to the venue, that I was carrying a bag that would not be considered fashionable, not even for a gym bag. But I was prepared this time, I had a line in mind. If he questioned my bag I would glare at him and snap, "What, is my bag required to wear a tie as well?" This would make him laugh and he would let me in because of my wit. But this was not necessary. I simply entered, looked at him, and questioned, "Better?" "Just fine," he replied. Then two second after I walked past him he stopped me, "Excuse me, sir? We have a policy against stripped jackets." I glared away for a split moment then turned and gave him a genuine smile, "Indeed." He smiled and gave an amused chuckle. "One more thing," he said seriously, "There are some people with jeans in there, but they're just work staff." "Thanks for letting me know, otherwise..." I smiled. He nodded.

Finally I got it in, although in quite a frustrated state. I did not want to pay 10 pounds for 3 hours when I thought I was going to pay 10 pounds for 6. I didn't have a choice. Heather found me to deliver some more good news. She told me that soon after I had left, another American in jeans was let in. Apparently, Judy, one of the influential dancers in the scene, had to make a bit of a fuss about it though. Regardless, this did not contribute positively to relieving my frustration. It was not much longer though that two other guys walked in wearing jeans. These were not work staff. In fact, the staff was dressed nicely. No, these were dancers. Buulllshhit. I decided that I would just have to try to let it go and enjoy the time I did have to dance. Although, I was contemplating having a word with the doorman after the dance.

The dance was enjoyable and worth most of the trouble. The DJing after the band was not for dancers though. It was a bit fast for 2 am and the tempo did not vary for more than one song. Nonetheless, there were some exceptional dances had.

At the end of the night, Heather was urging me to hold my tongue. I did want to say something, but I did not know if it was worth the effort. I had little to gain but a little satisfaction. As we walked out, the doorman said he appreciated my patience and thanked us for coming. The hairs on my neck gagged and I bit my tongue. I gave him a look to convey that I appreciate the situation he has and his humor, but that he should understand the situation I had. I hope that he could read my face as easily as I had read his.

The Missing Link

2007-02-01T08:23:00.000-08:00

I have enjoyed grocery shopping recently. Now that I am well situated with the means to cook a meal, I have the freedom and leisure to explore the foreign shelves for tasty ideas not available in the States. Of course, I also learned recently that Sunday afternoon is not a choice time to casually wander through the aisles of food, as this is the time when every mother, father, their children, and odd pairs of old ladies do their weekly shopping (and chatting).

Last Monday I went to a store called Iceland where they sell a lot of frozen food, but also have good prices on a limited selection of fresh food as well. Tempted to try my hand at cooking with a more British flair, I picked up a package of Cumberland sausages. I didn't want Mash(-ed potatoes) with them though, so I would cook them with rice and onions. So last night, I dedicated an hour and a half to caramelizing onions, shallow frying sausages, and generally relaxing and enjoying my meal. I have to say, for never cooking this kind of banger (sausage) before, I did a bang-up job. Very tasty. Six sausages came in the package, but after two (as well as some salad and rice) I was full. I packaged the remaining four sausages and onions in plasticware and placed the leftovers in the fridge. Not only had I been successful in cooking a delicious and filling meal, but I had done it all for about $2 (considering I would be having the leftovers as meals in the coming days). I have actually found that when it comes to food, I do not have to spend that much more than I did in the States. Quite proud, I finished with some mint tea and plain chocolate digestives (cookies that are not called "cookies" to make them sound healthier).

Today after my mid-day class, I was looking forward to coming home and revisiting my scrumptious leftovers for lunch. I retrieved the container of rice and the separate container for the sausage from the fridge and opened them to serve onto my plate. It was at this point that I noticed oddest oddity that I have encountered here yet. There were three sausages in the container. I did a full stop. I stood their for a moment as if I were trying to figure out the time difference between England and Romania. There were four sausages here before... right? I did the math in my head. Someone just told me that 6 minus 2 is 3, duh. No, that's not right. Go ahead, read the previous paragraph and tell me if my math is wrong. No, it's not. And there are three sausages. Did I eat one? No, I remember last night specifically, and I was certain that I was full after two. This only left one conclusion for me: someone had eaten one of my sausages! How... weird. At first I was a bit upset, I had worked hard on cooking those and that sausage cost me... 25p. But I just couldn't get over that it was just so funny. Who goes through someone's leftovers (not restaurant leftovers, mind you) and eats a quarter of them. I just couldn't comprehend it. Like you come back to your car in a parking lot on a sunny day and notice that the left windshield wiper is missing. I guarantee your first thought would be, "What the hell? Windshield wiper gnomes?" No human would do something so strange.

Nevertheless, some human had. Now I've had two of my eggs gone missing from the fridge before, but I figured that was an honest mistake considering my name wasn't on the carton. But I don't think it's possible for someone to think by accident, "Oh, here are those sausages I cooked last night!" This one I cannot give up. I don't really care that someone ate my sausage, after all they were delicious! I would like to find the person and let them know that if they eat my leftovers in the future, I would at least like a comment card filled out.

Please rate 1 (worst) to 5 (best)
How was the flavor of your meal?:

The night bus and the good beer

2007-01-27T10:20:00.000-08:00

Last Tuesday I attended my favorite regular swing dance in Balham. There was a live band and good dancers, but the highlight of that evening was the night bus.

In an attempt to locate the elusive blues dance scene, I had contacted a girl on a social networking site, facebook.com, asking about the possibilities of this scene's existence. While not offering much good news about blues, she said she was going to the swing dance in Balham. I met her there; she was nice and British. It turned out that she lived less than a ten minute walk from me, so instead of taking the lifeless tube home, I accompanied her as her "bus buddy" back home. Confident that she had a better understanding of London's bus network than I did, I thought this would be a good opportunity to save a quid and get more comfortable with using the buses. Upon boarding the bus, I immediately took up the "poll position" (top and front on the double decker bus). This position has the advantage of the illusion that the bus takes up more space on the road than it actually does. Consequently I was overly thrilled with the feeling of squishing small cars and the occasional wayward pedestrian. The girl I was with, Heather, invoked the scene from Harry Potter of the night bus squeezing between traffic, dodging taxis, and in the rare case leaping over stopped cars (or was that last one from Inspector Gadget?). She went on to suggest that J.K.Rowling must have ridden in this position at some point. I was too enthralled with the leaning sensation of the driver testing the full extent of the double-decker's handling while racking up point flattening drunks who found themselves caught in the headlights to register anything more that she said.

Since that night I have been inspired to take the bus whenever possible. Thursday night, I took the bus from the university to my residence. I was sorely disappointed that this was one of the routs that employed one of the few non-double-decker buses. Despite that, it was much more interesting riding on the bus through Picadilly Circus, Trafalgar Square, and over the Westminster Bridge, than staring at the advertisements on the inside of the tube cars.

So far in London, I had not had a quality "cask ale". Today I was determined to change that. I had picked up a Time Out that boasted on the front cover, "50 Best West End Pubs". It cost $5, but I was determined (luckily it came with a voucher for a free pint, so it was not money wasted by any means). So I planned my day. First I would visit an exhibit of antique maps of London, then I'd finish off with a quality beer at one of the listed pubs.

Of course, I took the bus to the British Library where the map exhibition was. The exhibition (http://www.bl.uk/) was much better than I was expecting and was quite incredible for someone who had once worked in an antique map shop. I spent nearly three hours just staring at the old maps. While some people there were excited to find that where they live now was just a field in 1687, I was excited by the history. I was especially impressed with how small London had been for nearly all of its history (relative to today). I could walk in 15 minutes the length of the walled city without as much as a need to stop for a beer. However, after staring at maps for three hours, I was in need of a beer, a quality beer.

I had mapped out the pub I would attempt before leaving the residence halls. It was called "The Lamb" and they supposedly served a good seasonal ale. It was a short walk from the library. The fact that I walk fast (especially when good beer is on the line) made the walk considerably faster. My first impression of the place was good. Their main taps were not the dribble that I had previously encounters. They sported Young's Winter Warmer, which I asked to try. Indeed, I had found quality. "A pint of that, please!" The bartender was enthusiastic about the beers on tap; always a good sign. But as she pulled the pint... it ran out! Even she looked like she was disappointed. She offered that her next favorite was a combination of Young's two other beers. "Sounds good to me." And it was. Finally satisfied, I settled down with a quality pint, a plate of chips, and my Consumer Behaviour textbook. There was something about relaxing with a local beer and studying in a warm pub that felt culturally satisfying. When I finished shortly after turning dark, I took the bus home and grinned as I squished unsuspecting pedestrians from above.

Tim Tam Slam

2007-01-16T17:11:00.000-08:00

There are times when I wander around the city at night. It's an old habit from when I was here last. There is imagery that I would like to capture, but I have to experience it as it happens. However, I do make the attempt to invoke some of the experiences though my rudimentary photography. And so I have adopted this practice of night photography. The essence is loneliness. Places outside of the parts of the city with a lively nightlife are in the shadow of a sleeping titan.

Tonight, however, was nothing like that. Tonight I had my first Tim Tam Slam. While grocery shopping a few days back, I came across something called Penguins. The biscuit, not the bird. These seemed familiar to me and I instantly remembered, and hoped that I was correct because I did not want to buy the bird, that these were the British versions of Australian Tim Tams. They were only a pound and it also included 100% more free! I couldn't resist. Even if I was buying an endangered animal, at least I was getting two times the amount. Last Spring, Nadia had told me of this delicious Australian ritual called a Tim Tam Slam. This specifically involved these steps: 1) biting of both ends of the double-decker milk chocolate covered biscuit, 2) dipping it in the tasty hot beverage of your choice, 3) sucking the liquid through the biscuit, 4) shoving the biscuit into your mouth before it fell apart into your beverage thereby ruining it. Knowing this, I was wishing even more that I was not purchasing something that I would regret biting both ends of.

Now, I didn't have all of the necessary equipment to attempt this feat. I first needed tasty hot liquid, and second a mug to put it in. So I went to Tesco and bought some mint tea, my favorite thing to dip chocolate things into. Next I went to Woolworth and spent a good five minutes trying to find a suitable mug. I found a rather cute one with a tiger on it. I figured that if it was indeed chocolate covered antarctic wildlife that I had back in my room, that the tiger would eat it first. No, I didn't seriously believe that, I just liked the tiger. So now I was prepared to experience my first Tim Tam Slam.

After I had dinner, I prepared the mint tea in the tiger mug and lined up three individually wrapped Penguins. I was prepared with a bowl in case there was a mess. I waited for the tea to cool while I read how Gordon Brown is setting himself up to take over as the second most hated politician in the UK. My tea had cooled, so I unwrapped a penguin, bit off both ends, and stuck it neck first into the hot tea. I sucked cautiously at the other end and then with more intensity as I encountered the chocolaty mint tea. As I felt the biscuit start to give away between my fingers, I shoved the saturated mass into my mouth. I realized that was the "slam" part as soon as the sensation of warm mushy chocolate reached the top of my spine, knocking me back up against the microwave. No, that's not serious either, I am sure I just looked pleased. However, I quickly became conscious of how I must actually look should anyone have come in at that moment. I had melted milk chocolate covering my fingers and my face like some four-year-old who discovered how to open the jar of jam. I didn't really care that much, after all, I had just successfully completed my first Tim Tam Slam.

I promptly followed the experience with two more that were still individually wrapped. This is something that I will be sharing with other people I meet while I'm here, as long as I can get 100% more free!

I also had my second of four courses today. This course, or "module" as they are called here, was Building and Developing a Commercial Website. The lecturer was a rather old and rather large man, not unlike Santa Clause, with a slight German accent. He has a serious sense of humor and I found myself wanting to argue every point that he tried to make about web design, fairly frustrated that he was convinced that he was right in all cases. So naturally I am keeping this course, even if I am not sure how it will transfer back to Portland State.

Yesterday I met up with the Danish girls and the two French guys after class at the student bar. I took this opportunity to re-learn and even write down the French pick-up line I had so recently forgotten. And tonight while dancing, I met a girl from France. I left my notebook at the dorm where the magic phrase was written, so I will have to try next week, but obviously things here are coming together rather nicely.

Foot in Mouth Disease

2007-01-12T11:27:00.000-08:00

Last Monday I went to a bar where a number of this semester's international students were meeting. It was a 2 for 1 night, so the number was far more than the little bar was designed to accommodate. The beer was the mass produced drivel that is found in too many of the pubs here. The room was smoky and as warm as it was crowded. This was not my scene. I had my two drinks, a Guinness and a sub-par G&T, said goodbye to a few friends that I had made and headed for the door.

As I was saying goodbye to a girl that I had met at the University of Westminster orientation earlier that day, I got caught up in a photo-op and conversation with the group she was sitting with. They turned out to be three girls from Denmark. Well, it wasn't so smoky and they weren't American, so I struck up conversation. They spoke excellent English and we compared cultures, politics and so on. After some chatting, a Brit broke into the conversation. He asked where we were from and the girls replied Denmark. He gestured at me, "and you?" he asked. "Denmark as well," I replied.

He went on to talk mostly to the girls, but I didn't feel much of a need to engage. After all, he had gotten the notion I was Danish and I didn't want to disappoint him. He complemented our accents, mine included. "The Danes have such beautiful accents," he said. Inevitably the topic turned to Americans. He noted that a good number of the international students were American and that he didn't particularly like that fact. "They're very loud," he said. I chimed in enthusiastically, "I know, especially in restaurants and on the tube!" He agreed and proceeded to unknowingly fit his entire right foot inside his rather large mouth. Although I was mostly amused, I did feel a little guilty for being so deceptive. But not guilty enough to stop him.

When I had said that I was Danish initially, the other girls smiled, but did not correct me. However, they did make reference to me as an American throughout the conversation. This Brit did not seem to be listening very well, otherwise he may have at least saved himself a big toe to snack on later.

He did get full eventually and made his way elsewhere not realizing that he had just eaten an American sized portion of foot.

The night proceeded and I stuck around with the real Danes to chat more. Soon we were joined by two French students. I impressed them with my three French phrases. After I made my impression, they seemed determined to expand my vocabulary, so we taught each other tactless pick-up lines. One guy seemed rather serious about his and guaranteed it would work on any French girl. It's a shame that I can't remember it now as I would rather enjoy being laughed at by any French girl.

We ended up staying until the bar began to close. They headed towards their own hall of residence and I took the tube home. Maybe if I am lucky, I will run into that Brit again before I leave.

Delayed

2007-01-03T06:36:00.000-08:00

My flight has been delayed. I should be leaving at 8:30 am now. This will give me a little more time to disbelieve that I am flying to London today. Instead of leaving under the cover of night, I will watch one more sunrise in Portland over the tail of my docked, but broken, Boeing 757. The tune this morning will be a kind Japanese voice over the intercom stating that Northwest flight 57 has arrived.

I do not yet understand that I am leaving. But like many things that I do not believe in, such as an orbiting tea pot, I will soon realize that the reality of my departure does exist. Perhaps this realization will come to me before I arrive at London. Probably not.

Finding Lost Mouse

2006-12-14T18:09:00.000-08:00

This is the first blog post. I will be posting on this blog starting in 2007 as I have adventures in the Land of Monty. In the mean time, enjoy this pretty yellow flower. There will be none where I am going. These yellow flowers have a thing against bitter cold climates so they usually migrate south or wear a tiny hat to cover their peddles. No really, I've seen it. It's very cute. The hats aren't cute in themselves, it's just the juxtaposition of delicate flowers wearing these husky hats that one would expect to be worn by someone much more fitting, like caribou. Or are they made out of caribou? I can't remember, but they are very warm and furry and can be found at your local Macy's for $124 (approximately 122 pounds sterling).

Feel free to leave comments.