Conversations with Abuela

1st December:
"Abuela, Jesus is already in his manger"
"Yes, he was premature".

Recently, I noticed my grandmother has a tendency to sprinkle her vocabulary with magnificently butchered English words. After some time I realized it's not just abuela who has this habit but pretty much everyone around her, friends, family and employees included. No wonder some anglophones believe that English is endangered. Our conversations are always in Spanish, and my grandmother doesn't speak much English:

20th December:
"What are we going to do with the grafe?"
"Hmm? What do you mean?"
"The grafe, should we peel it?" Mary points at grapefruit.

24th December:
"Abuela, what are you doing with that electric saw?"
"I'm cutting the turkey in sly"
"Sly?"
"Si, sly". Aunt Gina enlightens confused niece by indicating with a horizontal hand motion.
"Ahh, slices", and a whole conversation about sly cutting procedes to take place between Aunt Gina and Abuela.

27th December:
"Y alli concluye nuestro eevening tourr. Como te gusto el sy sitting?"
"...You mean site seeing?"
"Si! Sy sitting. See, you understand".

So as you can see, a pattern is already emerging here. I plan on investigating further and keeping an ear out for any more borrowings other than the already commonly accepted ones such as wachar (to keep a look out - observar), parquear (to park a car - estacionar),  and maybe even do a very informal sociolinguistic survey based on observations. Maybe.

Christmas - Tamales

'Tis the season to be jolly and eat like nobody's business. Already tummies are starting to swell with contented pies and cookies. Turkeys have been distributed (although this is really a North American tradition that has been adopted by Salvadorans), fragrant spices and oranges bought, festive pupuseadas organized, and pre-ordered tamales collected. The freezer has been filled with chilaquilas and chancletas alike, and various new years gifts, including calendars, cookies and pomelo fruits have been distributed to friends and family. I have yet to see mariachis though.

Traditionally, Christmas - although the more I think about it the more alien the concept of Christmas, the turkey, the presents, the pine tree, becomes. I seriously doubt the Pipiles, the Cacahuiles and the Lenca celebrated Christmas. They probably celebrated the end of the year though, much like the Maya did by building a fire pit to bid farewell to the old year and welcome the new dawn with a fresh bed of pine needles, rosemary and incense. But back to food and El Salvador. Sadly, not very much is known about the traditions of the indigenous people of El Salvador and traditional Christmas means nothing to me. I do know however that before the turkey revolution, it was customary to eat tamales.

Tamales come in various shapes, sizes and flavours. Each central american country has a version of its own, with its own unique combination of flavours. Generally though, a tamal consists of some sort of corn dough wrapped in a large leaf. Mexicans and Guatemalans enjoy dry tamales wrapped in corn husks. When unwrapped the inner dough is very bready and delicious with cream or cottage cheese. They make a great travel snack and are easily portable.

Salvadoran tamales are decidedly juicier. They take two days to make, and tamaleras - women who make tamales, are known for their upper body strength needed for the continuous mixing of the corn masa over an open fire. As well as the masa and the banana leaves which need to be prepared in advance, a chicken broth flavoured with tomatoes, potatoes, chickpeas, green olives, capers and raisins  is cooked on a low heat overnight. Then with a process also employed by pupuseras, the dough is skillfully shaped to resemble a canoe, filled with delicious broth, bits of chicken and vegetables, sealed, wrapped in banana leaves and finally, boiled for 30 minutes. The end result is a type of congealed pie filling nested within a packet of banana leaves which can be enjoyed on its own or with a side of tortillas.

Now, you might be thinking, "Salvadoran food is not very vegetarian friendly" and you would be right. It is not. However, the tamal offers one of those rare instances where a vegetarian option is available in the form of tamal de chipilín, chipilín being a little local herb I haven't quite got my head around yet. Although it is widely used in Central American and Mexican cuisine and has a pleasant enough taste, it is almost instantly forgetable. I could not, in fact cannot describe its flavour. Nevertheless, chipilín tamales are tasty and suitable for all except vegans. That's another story.

1932 peasant uprising

It's incredible the hidden historical and cultural gems that are buried and completely disregarded in this country. On the one hand it's a completely unique and unadulterated experience, walking through the heavy wooden doors that machetes hacked away at with animus intent, to explore the historic interior completely free of any supervision. On the other it's alarming and saddening to see such beautiful historic buildings such as Casa Barrientos in Izalco, literally crumbling to pieces before your very eyes.

In December of 1931 civil unrest peaked due to the collapse of coffee prices on the international market. Full on fighting broke out on January 22, 1932, led by communist insurgents, and the peasant revolution which pretty much anihilated all of El Salvador's indigenous communities, began. Angry peasants and farmers gathered in front of Casa Barrientos Frankenstein style with machetes and pitchforks, yelling in protest at the unjust conditions and results of the agricultural reform. Military forces intervened and the rest is history.

Today, not much has changed. As a result of that war, many legal property titles were lost or destroyed and the ownership of these properties was reassigned to members of the Salvadoran military.  Farmers who for generations have lived off the land, since 1932 have been forced to pay a portion of their proceeds to those in power. After talking to agricultural farmers in Nahuizalco, it seems that these farmers will be forced to relocate once again to undisclosed location in January 2013.

Beans

I like to think of El Salvador as the land of beans. The bean, particularly the Salvadoran red bean, is a very important staple in traditional Salvadoran food. It is a food which can be served as a side, a main, a dessert, and even a condiment to the ever popular pupusa. So the local saying goes "you can take away a poor man's meat but you can't take away his beans". At a first glance the trusty bean can even be said to be part of our national flag, the centre of Salvadoran peace and glory, the epitome of much love and adoration which has been bestowed on this staple food:

There it is, the heralded red bean, highlighted by the glow of the setting sun, underneath the pro-gay rainbow of peace. This however is just my personal interpretation. In reality this "bean" cap is actually the gorro frijio (not frijol), a Phrygian cap also known as the cap of liberty represented in Delacroix's Liberty Leading the People, and more popularly worn by the smurfs. Yes, a smurf cap features at the centre of my country's national shield. I prefer to think of the cap as a liberty bean. The bean that fed and supported the leftist guerilla movement 30 years ago. But let's not get political here.

Over the past month I have eaten green beans, white beans, black beans and best of all red beans. I have had them stewed, boiled, fried and blended, for breakfast, lunch and dinner in soups, tacos, rice, pies and salads. The abundance of beans in this country and its great nutritional value is one of the main reasons why the population remains so well fed and rotund. And my favorite bean combo to date? Bean puree fried with garlic and coriander served with a side of plantain. Trust me, it's delicious.

Death of a Moth

One of the things that I find particularly interesting about the people and culture here is how superstitious they are. Everyone I speak to has their own personal encounter to relate, whether it be with a ghost, a spirit, the devil or a shape shifter. Normally I would say this is all a bunch of tosh, but I think in this case Roque Dalton may have a point with his reference to the indigenous massacre of 1932.

Ser salvadoreño es ser medio muerto, eso que se mueve es la mitad de la vida que nos dejaron
"To be salvadoran is to be half dead, all that moves is half the life that we were left with"

It's almost natural that a population which has suffered from so much death, such as the civil war (1979-1992) and the mass genocide (1932), should claim such proximity with supernatural beings. Even I have had my own personal 'encounters' with spirits here being the non-believer that I am. This is leaving me decidedly suspicious of the supernatural world.

The most common sightings are those of cadejos, old women in lace, and moths. Depending on the circumstances, a visit from any of these in the dead of the night can be considered as an omen or a promise of good things to come, but they communicate a message to the 'half dead' of what is to come. Bearing in mind that this is not your regular closet moth, it is common belief here that moths are bad omens being the reincarnated spirits of the dead. If a moth visits your home in the night it is a sign that bad luck will soon come a'knocking. If someone close to you is severely ill, the visit of a moth indicates the proximity of their death. The moth in question is the Black Witch moth, dark brown with a pale leafy pattern, large enough to be mistaken for a bat.

Cadejos in contrast play the role of the guardian angel/demon in the form of a dog. There are many different versions of the role they play in various myths and legends, but from what I can gather, there seem to be two differnt kinds. The white cadejo is good, and if you encounter him deep in the forest he will accompany you and lead you to safety. The black cadejo however is bad and likes to play tricks on people and will lure the unsuspecting down the wrong path to their unfortunate death.

Finally the old woman in lace seems to represent all of those who have since passed. She wanders alone in the dead of the night lamenting the violence and the suffering of her people. She is often seen sitting and waiting, although nobody seems to know what it is she is waiting for.

I leave you with the rest of Roque Dalton's poem:

"Unámonos medio muertos que somos la patria
para hijos suyos podernos llamar
en nombre de los asesinados
unámonos contra los asesinos de todos
contra los asesinos de los muertos y los mediomuertos."

Let us unite half-dead as we are
So that our children can call us
In the name of the dead
Let us unite against our assassins
Against the assassins of the dead and half-dead. - Own Translation

Pupusas, empanadas, and quesadilla

I love food and I harbor a deep mistrust for anyone who doesn't love or even appreciate food. How can you be dismissive of the very substance that feeds your body? So on that note here's a blog about Salvadoran food. Please excuse the phonetic nerdiness, it's been too long since I've had the chance to use my phonetic keyboard.

Tortilla - [tortiʝa] Corn is the foundation of Salvadoran cuisine and it is most consumed in the form of a tortilla. This is not the same as a an American or Mexican tortilla who given the popularity of TexMex (American-Mexican fusion) have switched over to the over-sized, bland flour tortilla found in most supermarkets today. Traditionally Mexican tortillas are small, thin, yellow, unleavened flatcakes made out of a mixture of yellow maize flour, water and salt, usually about the size of a tea saucer. Salvadoran tortillas on the other hand are made out of white maize flour, are still about the size of a tea saucer but much thicker, at just under a cm. They are usually eaten on the side with beans and plantain, or on their own with a dollop of fresh cottage cheese. Funnily enough, they taste just like white corn.

Pupusas - [pupusas] A bit of a boring word phonetically but it is the most typical Salvadoran dish, so tasty and delicious other Central American countries have tried to claim it as their own. Colombians and Venezuelans have something similar which they call arepas [aɾepas], but these are by far (at least in my opinion) inferior to our cheese stuffed tortillas. Even calling them calling them mere 'cheese stuffed tortillas' is a travesty on its own. Their most popular flavour is cheese and loroco, but other flavors include, red bean, pork, plain cheese, ayote (acorn squash), or a mixture of any of the above. For those with corn allergies, rice flour pupusas are also an option.

Shuco - [ʃuko] Another corn based food, this is an atol - a smooth, thick drink/soup. Shuko is generally made out of fermented black corn which gives this drink an unappetizing muddy purple appearance and as a result is often called chuco, the salvadoran word for 'dirty'. I won't lie, this is not a dish which I particularly like, but I have been told that it is one of those foods that taste better the more of it you eat/drink. It is usually drank out of a calabash bowl with a side of white bread to mop up the sour, fermented broth.

Empanadas - [eɱpanaðas] A bit of phonetics first, the [ð] = 'th' as in 'the'. Unlike its South American counterparts, Salvadoran empanadas are not pastries filled with beef, chicken or vegetables. Rather, they are more like plantain sausages stuffed with refried beans or custard. Delicious, but incredibly rich.

Poleada - [poliaða] Whereas empanadas can be considered as both a side and desert, poleada is definitely a dessert. It is made out of cinnamon and vanilla infused thickened milk and eggs. Once set, it is sprinkled with raisins and cinnamon and best eaten when still warm. This of it as a sweet but surprisingly light, vanilla-cinnamon mousse.

Quesadilla - [kesaðiʝa] Finally! something you recognize, but this is not the world-famous Mexican quesadilla which is basically a Mexican version of a grilled cheese sandwich. In El Salvador, quesadilla is a dessert, a sweet cheesy cake with sesame seeds, not to be confused with the American cheese cake. The quesadilla is sponge made out of a combination of parmesan, sour cream, eggs, sugar and flour and best enjoyed fresh out of the oven with a cup of strong coffee.

Día de los Muertos - China Style

So my current adventure of interest is to celebrate Day of the Dead with my Chinese relatives. This usually involves 8-9 of my chinese relatives all crammed into a pickup truck from six or seven in the morning touring the various cemeteries where our recently (or not so recently) deceased are buried. Whiskey is handed out freely and either drunk or sprinkled on the graves of our ancestors, cigarettes smoked, and incense and paper money burned as an offering to appease the spirits. Mind you, I have had more than my fair share of interaction with supernatural beings recently.

To date I have not actually attended one of these gatherings since no matter who I called nobody seemed very interested in actually doing what you're supposed to do on the día de los difuntos. What kind of crazy person wants to go party at the cemetery when you could be partying at the beach? Who in their right mind would want to spend a morning paying respects to the dead, even in the traditional catholic way with fake flowers, cotton candy, atol (hot sweet maize beverage), elotes (corn on the cob) and all that? Cemeteries basically turn into fair grounds. It is the one day that thousands will flock to burial grounds to gather and be merry, visit family as well as of course pay respects and remember the dead. It is the Maha Shivaratri of Latin America, but unlike Maha Shivaratri, I was unable to participate. Clearly, I associate with the wrong circle of friends here.

At one point my grandmother took pity on me and we compromised. So instead of going to Ilopango and visiting Mama Amable (Mexican great-grandmother) and three of her Chinese sons with a whole parade of relatives like I wanted, we went to the Chinese restaurant round the corner for lunch. Not the best of compromises, but like a good Chinese merchant's daughter, Abuela drives a hard bargain.

Happy day of the dead. 

Sonsonate and San Antonio del Monte

Sonsonate is a great little city. It's like any other typical Central American town, with its bustling street markets where you can buy anything imaginable under the sun from fresh fish brought in from La Libertad to machetes, electronics and other necessary household utensils. Saturday is market day pretty much wherever you go and this is no exception.  The open air bit offers a wide and varied selection of fresh fruits and vegetables, and this time of year mobile vendors walk around with dried and fresh beans on offer. A pound (450g) of dried red beans for 60 centavos - local currency is USD - a bushel (as much as you can carry on your head) of fresh unshelled beans for 2 dollars. Although who would want to pay such exorbitant prices when you could just as easily pick them yourself for free from the fields? Further along, the open air market gives way to covered stores and fast food joints like La Bomba! and Pollo Campero, who in the spirit of market day plug their best salesmen into a set of speakers and have them rattle away their deals of the day.

Despite it's vibrant market scene which I obviously loved, (who doesn't love the smell of chicalín* and the distorted sound of a clipped sales pitch at full volume?) most people travel to Sonsonate for religious purposes. A short walk over the hill away from the market will lead you to a colorful but quiet square, one of the few places in El Salvador where you can still find adobe houses. They are old and discolored, but still standing after countless storms and earthquakes. As you walk down the hill you will see the white arches of the iglesia San Antonio del Monte, host to a tiny sliver of bone which is said to have belonged to the late saint. We arrived in time to see a procession of nuns reverently filing out of the chapel, a great contrast to my grandmother who went to give the good saint a piece of her mind.

The church itself is a large white structure with heavy wooden doors. The decor is simple but nice with but one mural of St. Anthony himself and his followers dressed in green. Women sell artesanias all along the left-hand wall of the church, but on a quiet day like Saturday when everyone is living the life at the market, there is not much business to be had. Despite the deceptive calm of the day, I am told that people travel far and wide to visit this site to thank San Antonio for his miraculous deeds. 

After paying homage to the saint our little troupe of non-believers shuffled back to our pick-up truck and headed back through the market crowds, Caluco, fields of sugar-cane in flower, and fields of molten lava and headed back to San Salvador, following the 205 bus and chasing coconuts and bundles of fresh red beans along the way.

*Chicalín is sun-dried shrimp often used to add flavor to soups and rice. It is not particularly appetizing but there are worse smelling things in the world. In El Salvador, nearly all markets smell of chicalín.

San Salvador

San Salvador is a rather ugly city covered in black diesel and petrol fumes, so grimy and sooty that not even torrential tropical rains and earthquakes can shake off grime. Imagine a city that experienced an American commercial boom on a limited budget through the 90s paired with the effects of an incompetent government whose primary interests since the end of the civil war have been to maximize personal economic gains - the impact this has had on the city's infrastructure and public mentality. This is our capital city. A materialistic commercial whorehouse with bad roads, bad traffic and terrible drivers. It is a monster that is slowly but powerfully expanding, engulfing our beautiful Quetzaltepec, completely disregarding and stomping all over its natural beauty and biodiversity.

The trouble is that my grandmother's house is a little oasis at center of it all. Up until recently this area was mostly a residential zone, with steep meandering roads and overhanging trees and bushes. I am told that at one point it was even possible to walk across fields and monte all the way to the mouth of the volcano. But this was way before my time. Today, it is a web of pot-holed roads, offices, and congested traffic, but sitting in my grandmother's garden it is easy to filter out the chaos and focus on the colorful vegetation and exotic fruits and flowers. It is a garden that has remained virtually unchanged over the past 25 years, with the same white, iron-lace garden furniture, strategically positioned and permanently discolored stone cranes and an impeccably kept array of tall wild orchids, hanging orchids, geraniums, flowers of paradise, galan de noche, and countless other flowers I don't know the names of. So when I venture out from my personal Garden of Eden for the daily errand run it becomes particularly frustrating when I find myself stuck in a knot of black-fumed traffic.

My grandmother at one point while driving, looked at me and asked, "Como ves San Salvador?". "Sucio". Polluted like no other. I'm probably experiencing a type of culture shock, which I suppose is understandable but difficult to accept. At least winter is round the corner which means lots of tropical thunderstorms and earthquakes which means cleaner air and rivers and hopefully more environmentally-friendly, political decisions due to seasonal fears. That and I will be completely distracted by the excitement of thunderstorms, earthquakes and the numerous new streams and mini-waterfalls.

30 hours

For the first time EVER, my travel bag is packed a whole day in advance. I don't know if it's the fact that I love my new rucksack, the fact that I'm really quite excited about this trip to El Salvador, general boredom, or a combination of those things. I started selecting and laying out my clothes yesterday. A systematic folding process followed and little piles of carefully selected and counted outfits emerged, all of which were eagerly rolled and stuffed into a 60L orange rucksack.

I think it's a good time to go. I'm blogging about packing of all things and the cats and I have a reached a new level of understanding with each other which means they are quite happy to use me and any part of me (including my face) as a bed, pillow, washbasin, strategic vantage point, fort and full on war-zone. In case you are not familiar with the Dohle cat situation, not that you should be, the two cats hate each other but currently love me. Thus they very often engage in 'en garde' situations with me blissfully slumbering in between completely ignorant of imminent danger. Lots of hissing, growling, scratching and yelling later one is banished to the outer confines of my room while the other is allowed to stay. But enough about cats.

In 30 hours I will start my journey.  

Urban Nautical Adventures

Paddington Basin

pat...pat...pat...

Is the first thing I hear when I wake up in the morning. That and the soft murmur of voices sharing an early morning gossip before heading their separate ways to conduct their daily lives. The first is the sound of joggers on their morning runs, a surprisingly peaceful way to wake up compared to the ...STOMP...STOMP...STOMP of commuters at Paddington station. The stress of commuters bounces off the tall glass buildings and settles into your dreams during the night until you are abruptly awakened by the harsh metallic clang of the footsteps of urban civilization. I am generally ambivalent towards Paddington, but I never want to live there on the canal again.

Morven making breakfast

 Boat life suits me greatly. It's impossible to be stressed out on a boat and as a person who likes to juggle a million things at once this is a great benefit. Unless you are living in Paddington basin of course. Otherwise, it's great. After being gently summoned from the deep recesses of sleep, you fling the curtains, windows and doors open and you're outside. Fellow boaters are probably having breakfast and coffee outside as well, the occasional cat will blink at you vaguely for having interrupted his own private sleep. You learn to ignore non-boating folk and greet your neighbors cheerfully and they smile and nod back contentedly. Back inside you make yourself and your fellow marinero a fresh pot of coffee and breakfast and watch other narrow boats pass you by as they make their way towards new adventures. You're always meeting someone new on a boat, whether it's a neighbor or a tourists staring gawp eyed at you trying to save a flailing boat in a windy thunderstorm.

But back to breakfast. Definitely a cosy affair which requires excellent timing otherwise you end up with burnt toast and coffee paired with hardboiled eggs instead of runny centers. Five steps and you're outside again in the 'dining' area, or a further two steps and a hop and you're on your rooftop garden enjoying the view and sun. 20 minutes of sun and food later and it's time for your day to start, get dressed and go. Close the windows, lock the doors, make sure the mooring ropes are secure and you're set to go. You glance back at the boat you call home and start humming the theme tune of the day. "I've been dreaming of you since I don't know when..."

Hackney

Windhagen

The windy hills of yonder, the sheltered forest, the land where cows are your neighbors and frogs are your friends. I wouldn't call myself a city girl, but I certainly felt like one the first time I was confronted by a moo and a croak in my own backyard. Now three years later, this is the place I like to call home and enjoy exploring.

Take this morning for example, a rather late start to the day but the whole valley was still covered in thick white fog, yet all I wanted to do was jump into the still whiteness and disappear into the forest. It took some time to get out of bed, fed and washed - the cats received their quota of attention for the day as well - and I embarked on a short walk past the fields towards the babbling brook. Each journey is always different no matter how many times I've walked down the same route. There's always a new hidden path to explore, a new shortcut to be found and different farmers to annoy and I always end up trekking up some hill or other. What starts off as an intended 20 minute wander towards the edge of the forest often turns into a 40+ min hike.

I took my camera with me this time. The fog was already clearing but there was still plenty of pretty dew on the ground. You can tell autumn is just round the corner.

Joys of travelling

After a totally groovy and beautifully relaxing - as relaxing as it can be while you're writing your MA thesis - month travelling around London's backwaters on a boat, I started missing nomadic life again. Travelling from place to place, discovering and observing the curious behavior of resident natives, meeting people, drawing and listening to new music. Boat life brought on a wave of mixed feelings toward my already uncertain future, but these were cast aside to enjoy the present. I found myself singing again like I haven't since I was a child, and felt like writing again. All because I was on the move once more. I decided the life for me must be the life of a traveler.

Sure the toilet and shower situation was not ideal, but I quickly discovered ways around this. A flicker of doubt stirred when I was confronted by an enormous mound of possessions I had left at a friend's house, but these were resolved by purchasing a cheap transportable suitcase. It was annoying having to transport my life on foot the weekend that London decided it had had enough of summer and opened up the heavens to welcome torrential rains. It also wasn't terribly comfortable sleeping on friend's floors and couches, but wasn't until a the mother of all dilemmas that I finally remembered: I hate travelling. I had missed my flight.

The two hours prior to a flight are the most intensely stressful regardless of whether you make the flight or not. This is particularly the case if you have fallen out of touch with stress of flying. Neverthelless, everything happens for a reason and I have emerged if just a tiny bit wiser.

Things I learned in the process:

• It is VERY important to check your flight details a day in advance.
• You can pay for as many bags as you like on an easyjet flight, but the sum weight of all bags must not go over 20kg (21kg if you're extra simpática).
• If you have excess baggage it is cheaper  to get it shipped rather than paying the airline for the administrative manpower to process said baggage. These admin positions must be the best paid jobs ever. Furthermore, all airports have such shipping areas, you just have to ask for them. 
• Old ladies at check-in desks will say and agree to virtually anything to get over-inquisitive young whippersnappers away from their counters. "Can I get a refund for my unused baggage allowance?" "Of course!" "Can I get it after the flight?" "Most definitely!" Do I have to do this online?" "Yup!" "Is your website the most deceiving, uninformative, useless website ever?" "Uhu!" thanks. Harassed men at ticket sales desks are much more honest.
• The security metal detectors select people at random regardless of the amount of metal or sharp objects they have on them. You might as well wear whatever you want.
• Lady Gaga's first scent smells exactly like Britney's.

Things I already knew:

• Airport food is ridiculously overpriced and bland
• WHSmith books are ridiculously overpriced
• Perfumes are ridiculously overpriced
• Airport travel is the most annoying and stressful activity ever, yet this is the preferred medium of travel?!
• Departure screens are shameless liars.

So the decision I came to after all of these important life lessons? I am going to buy a boat.

Endangered Languages Week 2012 podcasts

Today is the 2nd May and my blog in 2012 has remained decidedly bare. Much of my time has instead been spent studying, exploring back alleys of markets, and discovering new foods, but for the most part, it has really been all about linguistics so far. This is not to say it hasn't been fun. Here are the most recent fruits of my labour, the production of podcasts to promote Endangered Languages Week at SOAS.

Enjoy!

Facts for Newbies
Language Landscape Web launch
Sand Drawings of Vanuatu - Mike Franjieh
Palatography - Jenny McCarthy
Scissor Dance of Peru - Jose "Pishtaco" Navarro

For more podcasts, visit soasradio.org

Columbia Street

Post-travel blues are a real thing, something which I've been trying to recover quite unsuccessfully from with a succession of various activities such as copious amounts of socializing, eating, drinking, sports, studying, sleeping, and tv watching. Some of those things don't necessarily go together, but there you have it. Finally today, I threw myself at the mercy of my flatmates and went out into the world to discover, gasp, London.

What a refreshing breath of vibrancy. The ultimate goal was to get to Columbia street, the flower market "at the end of Brick Lane". Lies. If it hadn't been for the mass migration of hipster hoo haas and young professionals making their way to and from Columbia Street, we would never have found our way through people's back yards.

I ended up buying myself a plant, a lovely cheerful little thing, with tiny little red buds making up cone shaped pom poms.