Lisa at Southbank

The Southbank Centre is a group of horrible concrete buildings that really just remind me of communist-era architecture; but what I love is crossing the footbridge across the river as you approach it from Embankment station. There are always buskers around and I feel like dancing. And the view of the City, oooh the view of the City makes me want to dance even more.

Last Monday, I went to see Lisa Hannigan's concert there. What is it with Ireland and singer / songwriters these days? They seem to be producing many: Glen Hansard, Damien Rice ... and of course Lisa. Watching her, you can really feel and see that true musician's soul; she's a tiny girl with such a delicate frame, yet she is the one firmly in charge of her band. When she sings, she gives it everything she has and she swings back and forth with her whole body, arms and hips and hair moving about. There's so much pain and feeling coming out with every sentence and you can feel her soul shaking with every vibrato. And then there are the lyrics, which are so lyrical and clever that it hurts and makes you smile at the same time.

And what I like about her is that she does her music and that is that; no pointy-boob bras or fishnet stockings, no poledancing and fireworks and leopard-print nonsense. No attention seeking. Delightful.

Sorry there are no photos, because I don't always feel like smuggling my camera to these things. The trouble is, with concerts and stage events, I really need to use my 70-300mm telephoto lens, and when you mount that monster onto a Canon DSLR body, it's impossible not to be noticed. People around me always start asking which newspaper I am from and it just gets too weird, because I'd much rather be invisible, especially when I'm going out on my own.

But as a consolation prize, here's one of Lisa's songs:

Buddha Bar

My friend P. is on a mission to visit all the Buddha Bars around the world. In April, she dragged us all to the Little Buddha in Vienna, which I liked. It was quiet, with great decor and good sushi. This weekend, P. was visiting me in London and of course Buddha Bar was on the menu. I had absolutely no expectations, knowing that the reviews for this place are pretty bad. Most Londoners think it's an overpriced, overrated tourist trap. Well then, to be diplomatic, let me say I am glad that I went and saw it, but probably won't be coming again. The decor is nice enough, the coctails were okay (with a selection of Asian-style coctails, which I like), the food was tasty but portions were definitely on the smallish side. (At least in my book, it's really a strech to call a quarter of a cut-up tomato "a salad".)

Now for the main flaws: the place was absolutely dead on a Friday night. Nobody there. And they played super-loud music, so you could not hear a word, even when talking to the person right next to you. (Just as well, because the guy I got stuck next to was a dumbass.) But there's no dance floor anywhere, so I couldn't quite see the logic. But here is my theory: this is a place for models and the men who buy them salad. OK, I stole that line from SATC, but really, this is a great place for super-rich bankers (yes, it definitely is overpriced) to take their supermodel dates. Now, not only those poor supermodels won't have to worry about being fed excessive quantities of food, there will also be no need for them to fire up their three braincells to try and hold a conversation, since no one can hear anything anyway. Genius!
Moral of the story: Our lovely city offers something for everyone. But for the rest of us, a more pleasant coctails & Asian food lounge experience can be found at Cocoon or Kingly Club.

Pin-Up Girl

Optimism is my new thing. Really, I'm trying: looking at the bright side of things, expecting the unexpected (or expecting too much?), seeing the good in people, etc. Positive thinking, Lucie. Positive thinking, I keep reminding myself. In autumn, I bought the cutest umbrella in order to cure myself or Rain-Hate. It's see-through (Japanese-style) with a pink handle and little pink hearts. I no longer hate rain, because I look forward to every opportunity to show off that cute little thing.

Now, by natural deduction, I figured that there must be some way to stop myself from hating the English winter so much. Those long days of no daylight get on my nerves a lot. I even bought one of these natural-frequency lightbulbs that supposedly combat seasonal affective disorder. (It broke after a week. Great. I'd recommend it to everybody. Spot the sarcasm!!!) But there's one thing left that I do like about winter: I can wear pretty coats. And in a quest to make them even prettier, I went hunting for coat accessories at the weekend. Here are my new sparkly treasures, purchased at Portobello Road.

The man I bought these from had a really huge selection of vintage broches, and I wanted them all! Ah, don't I just like to indulge my girly side ... but hey, it's much better value for money than those bloody Androv Medical lightbulbs.

P.S. If you like this, here's a blog you might also like: Decor Amor

Today's Twin-up: Chewing the View

There is a blog I came across some time ago, called MetroTwin Mumbai. It's mostly about Mumbai, but they have expat bloggers from London who do these twin-up articles about a place in Mumbai and its "soulmate" in London. Like the Gateway of India and the Tower Bridge. Linking Road and Oxford Street. Or Malabar Hill and Hampstead Heath.

Copying their idea, here is my twin-up for today.

Place One: Fast Food Restaurant, View-n-Chew at Jungle Hut, which you will find somewhere between McLeod Ganj and Bhagsu in Himachal Pradesh. I didn't stop to eat there, but I liked the name. So while I can't confirm anything about the quality of their fast food, I can certainly confirm they are not lying about the view. Is there anything more soul-pleasing and calming than the serene grandness of the Himalayas? No wonder the Dalai Lama lives here. If I woke up every morning and saw this kind of a landscape from my window, I'd find enlightenment a little more attainable too.

Place Two: An unlikely twin in London, the riverside branch of Strada. This is where I went to view and chew on the eve of my birthday last month. In front of you - the Thames, on your right - the Tower Bridge, on your left - the City, with the Swiss Re building and St. Paul's Cathedral. So much viewing to distract you from the chewing! Normally, you'd pay an arm and a leg to eat in a location like this; but with Strada being a chain, it's affordable.

A Girl's Heaven (Victoria & Albert Museum)

It's raining a lot these days. And the forecast? Rain, more rain, more more rain. Besides staying at home and blogging, here's what I like to do on a rainy day in London: visiting the haute couture collection at the Victoria & Albert Museum in South Kensington. It's heaven. I could stand there for hours, admiring the perfect silk and the shiny crystals and the slim cuts designed to make the most of the female body, and the lace, and the detailed embroidery...

I stand close to the glass cases and every time I see a dress I like, I can't help but clasp my hands together and go all Oooooh and Aaaaah and isn't that pretty. So what. I'm a girl. My star sign is Libra. We Librans love beautiful things. I'm not buying. I'm just looking. It's okay.

And that ... was my short vacation in Heaven. Back to the rainy streets.

Expat Life Continued ...

Heavy stuff last time, don't you think? But my soul-searching continues. Here is my humble translation of a poem we read in my German class about three years ago. It seems very appropriate now.

In Between

(Alev Tekinay)

Every day I pack my suitcase
and then I unpack it again.

In the morning, when I wake up,
I plan my return,
but by midday I get more used
to Germany.

And every day I travel
two thousand kilometres
by my imaginary train
there and back,
undecided between
the wardrobe
and the suitcase,
and in between
is my world.

and the German original, in case you'd like to read it:

Dazwischen

(Alev Tekinay)

Jeden Tag packe ich den Koffer
ein und dann wieder aus.

Morgens, wenn ich aufwache,
plane ich meine Rückkehr,
aber bis Mittag gewöhne ich mich mehr
an Deutschland.

Und jeden Tag fahre ich
zweitausend Kilometer
in einem imaginären Zug
hin und her,
unentschlossen zwischen
dem Kleiderschrank
und dem Koffer,
und dazwischen
ist meine Welt.

I promise to write about something more uplifting soon. Until then ... bye.

Where is my home?

Today I am going to talk about the Czech national anthem. No God Save the Queen nonsense. No, no, no. Our anthem starts with the words, "Where is my home?" And I think it's very fitting. I ask myself this question every day, in my best singing-in-the-shower voice.

Time passes by and I forget more and more Czech words. Every evening, just before bedtime, I apply anti-wrinkle cream: prevents signs of ageing. I hope it will slow down the progress of my forgetting. And every morning, I wake up and shower and sing to myself: "Where is my home?"

Where the fuck is my home?!

At some point, back in the deep darkness of history, someone decided to take a ruler and divide the world into countries. I don't like those borders and I don't care about them. I hop and skip on the map, across the border and back. I kick the Border Line with my muddy boots until it bends. I test its limits. I spit and shit on it until it's all covered up and you can't see it any more. I cross it with my eyes closed. I come and go and I joke with immigration officers.

Good morning, officer.
What is the purpose of your visit?
I'd like to live here, officer. But before you say anything, let me just tell you, I'm not an immigrant. I'm an expat. I refuse to adopt my new homeland, thank you very much. I will not assimilate. I'm borderless. And I don't care much for your profession, Mr. Guard of the Border. Aren't there more important things to do somewhere in this world?

I refuse to be defined by my passport and I refuse to apply for a residence permit. I don't need no approval and stamps from anyone. I belong nowhere and everywhere and I belong to this world. Hop and skip and there and back.

And ...

where the fuck,
is my home?

In London. Now.
But later. Who knows.