the day london rained pure magical bliss down upon me, part two

Friday, September 11, 2009 -- London TOWN!  -- The Tate & Borough Market

I remember distinctly, I was the antithesis of incognito, wearing my red hat that I got in Scotland at Armstrongs.  Erin picked it out actually, me having said, after I saw a girl on the street the day before wearing an Ameila Earheart sort of Red Baron hat, that I wanted one. It was red and black and zipperey, I had to have it.

Minus the zippy flap:

The Scottish Hat will make its local debut shortly, as the weather becomes less tropical.  As I was saying, I remember distinctly that I was wearing the red hat while I roamed around the Tate alone, experiencing simultaneous internal philosophical, spiritual, and emotional awakenings.   I was in my own world.  A group of teenage girls walked past me and started laughing uncontrollably, and I nearly burst into tears.  It fascinated me that I felt so vulnerable as if mortally wounded in the heart by these girls.  Strangers.  Were they laughing at my clothes?  At my hat?  Why did I care?  They may not have been laughing at me at all.

This incident led me on another tangent of thought as to my personal issues with giving a shit about what people think.  On the occasions where I am able to achive a sense of inner poise and outward confidence as to truly existing in the realm where the statement "I don't give a fuck what you think!" is true, it is the single most liberating feeling in the world.  Alas, just like the times I have reached the "place" in meditation where everything disappears and I am truly in the moment, it seems to evaporate once I discover I am there.  Why does consciousness have to include self-consciousness?  Why are we so concerned with what everyone else thinks of us?  Do our own opinions of ourselves not matter?  Are we not all living in a constant state of fear, self-loathing, doubt, and shame?

And then I got it.

No one can see through me.  People are critical because we are socialized to take the attention off our own flaws by pointing out flaws in others.  It's easier to relate to someone who is more fucked up than we are.  You can say to yourself, "Well, I'm better than she is."  A result of capitalism surely, the constant need for more, to look better, be thinner, have nicer things.  It's the ruler by which we all measure ourselves.  See the popularity of tabloid magazines and celebrity culture for additional evidence of this.  We build people up so we can tear them down. Usually if someone is hateful about something, it is the very thing they themselves are insecure about. So, I decided that the teenagers were not only jealous that I had obviously discovered and become the owner of the most perfect red hat in existence, but they also wished they were cool enough to walk around a museum with a red Sharpie, a Moleskine notebook knockoff, and my perfect sense of self-absorbed oblivion. 

After confirming that I indeed do not give a fuck, my thoughts turned immediately to tattoos.  Specifically the imagery I am interested in getting permanently affixed to my body through a series of incredibly painful sessions where a person with a loud needle stabs me with it a few thousand times until I bleed and ask for more.  I like the idea of an anatomical heart on the sleeve, an owl, mushrooms, forests of bendy, achey trees, and possibly some type of Russian or Cuban poster art inspired design.  Although I was warned when talking about this that maybe it's not the best idea to get a bunch of Commie tattoos.  To that, I say please see the paragraph above.  I find myself thinking a lot about tattoos when my feelings are hurt over something to do with my appearance.  I don't like to think that it's that I want to hide myself, but that is a possibility.  After getting my most recent tattoo done twice, I have a new found respect for people who are tattooed.  It hurts.  A lot.  It is permanent.  It is a major statement about who you are as a person, at least at the time.  It is still considered a major taboo in many places.  I adore tattoos and I want many more.  Say it with me:  "I don't give a fuck what people think!" I define my own worth, and tattoos are beautiful and magical and sacred.  Not to mention incredibly hot.  And a pretty awesome way to carry art with you.

Back to the art:

Francis Bacon was an Irish painter who lived mostly in Paris and London during his time as a prolific artist.  His work is surrealist in nature, very dark, mainly focusing on themes of sexuality, violence, homoeroticism, confinement, and crucifixion imagery.  There were a few of his paintings in the gallery, and one struck me particularly, Study for Portrait on a Folding Bed.  In delving deeper into his life and background, it has become even more intriguing.  Bacon was certainly one of my favorite artists at the Tate and I was bummed I didn't get to catch the retrospective they had up earlier in the year.  It was showing at the MOMA in NYC up until August 16th. 

"We are born with a scream; we come into life with a scream, and maybe love is a mosquito net between the fear of living and the fear of death." - Francis Bacon

As if I wasn't smitten enough, I went next to the ARTIST ROOMS exhibit where Robert Therrien's Red Room was showing.  Anyone who has known me for five minutes is usually at least peripherally aware of my obsession with all things red, and this was just the pretty red ribbon on the present that was my day at the Tate Modern.   

 Just...  Jesus, man.  Thrilling. 

After I bought 80 pounds of books in the gift shop, Erin and I headed over to Borough Market. Stopping off at Vinopolis on the way, a giant wine warehouse where I promptly lost my shit in a tizzy of delight.  Wine in London was cheap and fucking quality.  I bought three really nice bottles (£19 - about $30) to take to our dinner party later that evening, and only slightly regretted it later when my hands were turning into claws from carrying that and the bag of books all afternoon.  Possible retire to be an expat wino in London? Yes please.

London's oldest food market, Borough Market is akin to the Garden of Eden, but with beer and cheese and curry and the best bread ever made.  It is foodie heaven and was so much fun.  Not to mention delicious.  Photos better describe.

Beermonger where Erin found Innis & Gunn and I got Tim 'Beers of the World' magazine, yet ironically, no beer.  No room! Too many books!

Vat of delicious curry.  For you, Anthony Bourdain.

Detail of Anthony Bourdain's Street Curry That Went Into My Face:

Erin's new favorite thing of life (I did not love it.) - Turkish Delight:

Italian Cheesemongers.  Cheese Made and Sold By Real Italians.  FUCKING DELICIOUS CHEESE EVERYWHERE!

Today would mark the beginning of my obsession with European dogs.  English pooches have curly coats and keep their noses to the ground in Borough Market.  Smart.

The Ginger Pig, a butchery where you can watch the workers cut up entire animals right before your eyes.

I think what I loved so much about Borough Market is the obvious care with which food is treated.  The Slow Food movement is alive and well here.  Animals are not hidden away from the public, but honored as they are made ready for consumption.  Butchery is an art. These animals live their lives in small groups on healthy farm meadows with sunshine, clean water, and good food, are humanely and quickly killed and then carved by The Butcher.  I like that you can see where your food comes from, that it is an Animal that was Alive and not some disambiguated fleshy parts that came from a factory farm through a slaughterhouse and then wrapped away in styrofoam and plastic.  It is close, you know what you are eating, and it tastes so different and amazing because there's Love in it instead of Pain. 

On our way out, we got some cheese straws from this bakery that made my toes curl.  Cheese straw =  Well played, London, well played. Also, proper English muffins that were three inches tall, and of course baguette.  And more cheese and Spanish meats.  Oh dear God, the cheese.

While Erin used her Captain EO navigational prowess to get us to the right Tube station:

I watched the scenery:

 Maybe it has something to do with English Football and Rugby and Cricket, but I really wish American boys would embrace the whole "Roaming Excitedly in Large Gangs Whilst Wearing Posh Sport Coats and Looking for American Girls to Drink With" philosophy.  Seriously, UK boys, when you come to Austin for SXSW next year, make yourselves at home.  Roam as freely as hooligans in the night will.  We like it.

The Underground is Ace.

I am The Bag Lady:

We went home to get dressed for our dinner at Paul's flat in Islington.  Paul was also in The Needles with John and stayed with Erin during SXSW a few years ago.  It was in the same general area as Peter and Kate's, but in a kind of fancy part overlooking the canal.  Here's the view from the rooftop terrace where we had dinner.

The Homemade Bangers and Mash that was possibly the best thing I ate the entire trip.  Well played, Paul.

So Paul and his girlfriend Anna live with another couple, Nic and Alex, who is American.  Their flat is three stories plus the rooftop and they all share one bathroom. It's very snug but lovely and they seem to all have plenty of room.  It's amazing what you can get used to doing without when you don't have unlimited space.  I am accustomed to small spaces, myself living in a 400SF apartment.  But my refrigerator is four times the size of theirs.  It's just a culture of popping into the shop down the street every day or two to get food rather than buying all your food at huge markets and then keeping it for weeks.  Much more efficient, well done UK.  I think that exists in bigger cities in the US as well, just not in Texas.  Sigh.  Here are some photos of their lovely flat.

Alex, Paul and Anna on the Rooftop.

 

Teeny English sink shared by FOUR people.

Me in one of my awesome outfits, feather courtesy of Alex.

Of course they have a music room.  Priorities, yo.

Anna and Paul

Stairway to the kitchen on the third floor.

Paul used to do DJ gigs, so there was a lot of vinyl action as the night wore on.

Nic.  Adheres to a regimented tea schedule, also pictured below.  Pretty much the best thing anyone wrote in my book the whole trip.

In case you're wondering, a Heteropolitan is apparently somewhat of a synonym for Metrosexual.  A chap who likes to look dashing, use products, wear nice clothing, and yet likes vaginas.  Linguistic win.

We continued getting drunk on black russians, wine, and conversation until the wee hours whilst listening to Rick Springfield on vinyl.  This is Paul's Rick Springfield stiff wrist impression.

Tea time is real serious around here.

The mess we made.

 

And that, my friends, is how you tear it up in London.  BEST DAY EVER!  Also, we got slightly lost on the way home and developed our new "throw money at the problem" philosophy which netted us a 6 block ride in a Blackie.  Oh yeah.