Fasten your seatbelts, we are going to East. London.

You might have noticed that I’m not a massive fan of postcodes beginning with E. There are several reasons for this: I live in west London, so east is far away, inconvenient and diametrically opposite to what I’m used to – landscape-wise, people-wise and every otherwise. But in a way, it’s a shame I don’t visit more often … it could be nice to get away from my neighbourhood full of Ralph Loren strollers and the stuck-up mums who push them; it would be nice to get to know some cockneys.

Last Saturday, my friends from the yacht club invited me to come along to the Boat Show at ExCeL, so I got up bright and early (despite going to bed at 3 am the night before, ooopsie); I jumped on the Docklands Light Railway and headed east. It was a beautiful sunny day with that crisp winter air that we don’t get too often in choky, smoky London. Here are some photos I took from the train window …

East is not so bad, who would have thought?

Pepa: my pet fish, my dinner.

The Czechs don’t eat turkey for Christmas, no no no. It’s much more interesting than that. Every year, we buy a carp from these vendors on the street. The vendors will happily kill and gut the fish for you, but in families with small children, the carp is usually taken home live and allowed to swim in the bath for a few days. I have fond memories of playing with the Christmas-dinner carp when I was little. My mum told me there have been occasions when the carp accidentally died of “natural causes” before the dinner, but as kids we never noticed. I guess my parents managed to quickly rustle up a new one from somewhere? Or maybe we just ate the dead one? Who knows.

Many people give a name to their carp – “Pepa” is a popular one. Often, people form such a strong emotional bond with their carp that they are then unable to bring themselves to kill it and eat it. Every year, Czech TV stations urge people not to release their carps back into the river because the temperature shock caused by going from a warm bath at home to a cold December river usually kills the carp anyway.

Our carp is usually fried in batter and eaten with potato salad. Choking on a carp bone is a common accident on Christmas Eve in the Czech Republic.

What the British say, what the British mean, what others understand.

My friend P. showed me this wonderful little “translation guide” which perfectly illustrates how the English love to beat around the bush. Cut it out and keep it in your pocket.

A bittersweet goodbye, Czech-style.

How does a Czech patriot honour the memory of their former president who recently passed away? According to my friends, the right thing to do is to drink black beer. And so I obliged, ordering a pint of black Kozel after a very cultural evening spent at the State Opera in Prague on Wednesday. If there is one thing I love about my fellow Czechs, it has to be the dark sense of humour.

From Wednesday to Friday this week, the Czech Republic declared three days of official state mourning after the death of Václav Havel, who had been the first president of  democratic Czechoslovakia and, later, the Czech Republic.  Havel was one of the few politicians who had actually earned genuine respect from people. He had been a playwright and had a certain way with the words, being able to express the nation’s mood and to inspire us to be better people, year upon year. During the Communist days, Havel had spent many years in prison for repeatedly speaking up against the regime; this was a man who was not afraid to make immense personal sacrifices for the freedom of his country, a man who stood up for what he believed in:  “Truth and love will win over lies and hatred.”  To me, personally, he represents this kind of hope that’s almost extinct in our society today, this hope that you don’t need to screw someone else in order to get ahead.

>>We thank you, Václav. <<

So on Thursday, me and my friends continued mourning, this time at Café Slavia, where Havel used to be a regular guest. The café is located right next to the National Theatre, and is a famous hangout for actors and anyone connected with the arts. The café was full of TV crews recording interviews with anyone and everyone who remembered Havel coming there, including the lady who works in the cloakroom. We ordered a Czech dessert called “rakvičky” -- I think it was translated on the menu as sweet caskets, but it literally means little coffins. It’s basically coffin-shaped meringue served with whipped cream. We stuffed our faces, we mourned, and we laughed. It all felt so appropriately Czech.

 

>> “Hope is not the belief that something will turn out well; hope is about believing that something is worth the effort regardless of how it will turn out.” A poster remembering Havel in the centre of Prague. <<

>> In Wenceslas Square, hundreds of people came to a light a candle for Václav Havel by the statue of St. Václav, the patron saint of Bohemia. It was all quite poignant, really, and I never use words like poignant.  <<

Make Love Not Porn

I came across Cindy Gallop in a Czech newspaper today and I just had to share her funny and daring TED talk. Cindy is an older woman who dates younger men. Her mission on the Internet is to spread awareness of the extent to which hardcore pornography affects young men's perceptions and expectations of sex. While dating younger men, she has noticed that many of them seem to think that what you see in hardcore porn is the way you have sex. How very true. Haven't we all come across a guy who expects real women to act like porn stars? Cindy has taken it upon herself to start a discussion about what is real and what is healthy when it comes to sex. I think she's a legend!

http://makelovenotporn.com

Chilling like ice cream filling … or how about ice skating.

On Saturday, I met up with my friend S. for ice skating in front of the Natural History Museum. The temperature outside is a bit too high right now, so there was quite a lot of water on the ice -- falling down on your bum could have seriously wet consequences. But S. and I did so well! Neither of us fell, despite the fact that we had each drunk a pint of cider before.

Of course, ice skating isn’t enough to keep two grown-up girls satisfied on a Saturday night, so we revisited the bars from our College days: first Eastside, then Metric when Eastside closed at 11pm. Both places are perfectly open to gate crashers, but unless you studied at Imperial College / Royal College of Music / Royal College of Art, then you probably don’t know about them. Eastside is quite a grown-up bar, but very cheap for South Kensington, plus it never gets too crowded.  Good place to get drinks and food if you’re bored after visiting all those museums around South Kensington.

Metric is Imperial’s nightclub in the student union. The name is a bit of a world play. For the less serious students, the union shop sells coffee mugs which say: “Imperial? I’d rather be in Metric!” They were having some kind of a music night on Saturday, which, as far as I’m concerned, is just a great chance to chat up many, many boys. Who doesn’t love an opening line like: “Are you with the band?” Hoooo hey, I was just drunk enough to have the confidence. And I was bored. And I’m young. And I’m single. And life needs to be enjoyed.

Land was created to provide a place for boats to visit.

Yesterday, I ran away to the sea again.  If this continues, I will have to rename this blog from “Lucie’s London” to “Lucie’s Many Attempts to Escape from London”.  The weather was lovely; we sailed from Portsmouth to Cowes on the Isle of Wight and back. Our yacht club has some new members this year, and they are all a good bunch. 

Among other news, last week I was offered a job in the south of France and now I’m standing in front of a big dilemma: to move or not to move. I’ve written down the list of pro’s (good weather, beaches, mountains, good food, cheaper rent) and the list of con’s (lack of city life, the hassle of moving all my stuff to France, plus I don’t speak French …), but it hasn’t brought me any closer to a decision. I wish I could split myself into two halves: half of me would stay in London, half of me would move to France.

The old, well-known quote by Mark Twain comes to mind: “Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn't do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbour. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.”

Maybe I should go???