Sleepy Suffolk

Euston station, a few minutes shy of eight o’clock. The station bustling concourse is slowly quietening as rush hour City workers have already made their way home. Still, passengers conglomerate here and there in groupuscules of 2 or 3 echoing the ‘cinema seat’ theory. The cinema seat was a metaphor used by my 10th grade Physics teacher to teach his daft students how atoms’ electrons would settle around its nucleus. Firstly individually, then in pairs…
I’m on my way to one of the Northermost cities of the United Kindgom. Only hours ago, I could gaze out the fifth floor of my office building and just about make out Port of Felixstowe’s cranes swarming down on newly arrived cargo ships. Now, as I look up from the Britannia, a typical train station pub perched high up on the second floor of the station, I can glance across the station hallway and watch travellers make their way to their trains. Outside, the grisly January day has made way for a pitch black night.
I am off to Inverness to be a judge on a children’s IT competition (see here). The train - the Caledonian Sleeper - is one of the perks of the trip. It is possibly the longest and lengthiest passenger train in the United Kindgom. Leaving London Euston shortly after nine PM, it reaches the outskirts of Inverness well after 8AM and trawls its way through England and the Highlands in no less than eleven-odd hours. A bit of googling has taught me the way is scenic. Well not sure how scenic it will be on a January the 26th by night. I sure won’t be spotting any black bear on a black background at midnight. Inverness will be my last trip of the month, but rest assured, more is to come.
In the meantime, I sip a half-pint of Chiswick, a local English ale, in a reference to a small ‘village’ in Western London where Laurine lived for the better part of 2008. It is relaxing to not have to run about, change trains, jump on a tube, struggle past turnstiles. Speaking of which, Euston’s toilet facilities (washrooms if you please) are heavily guarded by a long row of mastodonic turnstiles kindly inviting the traveller to deposit 30p into a slot before being granted access to toilets - far from being the cleanest of all England. But it won’t dispute the title of worst toilet in Scotland branded in Irvine Welsh’s ‘Trainspotting’. Thank God for my sudden nature urge, I did have 30p on me in change and managed to dash through the turnstile to deposit the contents of my discontent bowels.
It is now eight sharp. Vincent, a fellow Frenchman friend & Londoner is about to join me for a pint, an au revoir before I embark on a journey that may well see me face to face with Britain’s favorite monster, Nessie.
Until then, I bid you farewell.

Last night approached the surreal for my little suburbian life for which the most adequate has to be tranquil if not sleepy like the county where I have settled in.
Last night we hit town, the big one with a capital C as in City. Last night we went to London’s northern borough of Camden to attend a concert like no other in a venue grand in name and feature, Alexandra Palace. The boys on stage were none other than the four fellows from the brisky country anchored out in the midst of the Ocean, Iceland, a country that has reached unparalled heights of publicity with the economic crisis in recent weeks. But to be fair to the ebullient island, it is also famous for its singers namely Bjork and Sigur Ros, two groups / singers who have severely redefined the aural landscape.
If it hadn’t been for a late night talk with a new colleague of mine, Jia-Yan, I wouldn’t have been aware that Sigur Ros were in London for a couple of nights reciting their favorite Icelandic chants. I had discovered with Laurine a couple of years back in her room in the ‘German Mansion’ along with Coco Rosie and Iggy Pop.
As the big handle flirted with IIII on Ipswich’s redundant church’s clock, JuanLu dropped me off at the station where we caught up with Jia-Yan and Alex who’d only just arrived. The journey went eventless though we did manage to lose two friends who were to catch up with us in Colchester but up to now it still seems they caught the wrong train or failed to see us in the coach. We listened to a few tracks of music, including work by a very new artist whose name I shall keep hush; and eventually in spite of signalling trouble at Ipswich Station (the Indian must have fallen asleep in his tipee) and congestion at Liverpool Street, we eventually made it to the City with a good thirty minutes of delay.
In a matter of minutes, we sped to the Central line, oystered our way through the gates and stepped onto the escalators which swallowed us down the underground tunnels. A couple of changes and a jolly enjoyable ride on the Northern Line (Bank Branch) later, we made it to Highgate. Taking the underground can be fun, entertaining, even pleasant. But when one is lugging more than two bags (i.e. in hands full mode), taking the tube can reveal itself to be an interesting challenge. London TFL does make it simpler with sidegates avoiding the overloaded mule a tourist can be the trouble of extricating one’s way through the revolving gates. Nonetheless, carrying several bags on a moving train could often be compared with an equilibrium exercise a doctor might have recommended his ill patients in a XIXth century sanatorium in the Swiss Alps.
Travelling all the way to Highgate, then the following day around London and the woeful Paris underground with its sinister RER felt very much like a trial of balance.
Back to our bag of beans. After dropping off our luggage at Clare’s pad (a selfless friend of Alex’s), Alex and I hailed a cab to go to the venue. The concert was due to start at 9 and by the time we reached Alexandra Palace, it was a good few minutes past 8. By then of course, and as very often, I was penniless having ditched my queens and shields (colloquially called quids) for some Mariannes and Belgian Kings (aka euros) ahead of my trip to Paris the following. As such I had to rely entirely and solely on the very broad shoulders (and wallet) of Alex, my English friend. Being English and averse to gluten, he invited me to a platter of chips which in the sudden cold unforgiving temperatures were like golden raindrops of warmth sent straight from Heaven (rather than fried potatoes from the fields of Norfolk). We munched on these fishy chips (they slightly tasted of fish) as we progressed through a very orderly queue - as one would expect in England.
Alexandra Palace is in fact no palace but it does commend superlative adjectives to one’s mind. Such are its dimensions, grandeur, and style that the novice is very much overtaken by the archways, the slightly oriental stuccos, the voluminous rooms, and of course the sound. We were indeed greeted by a rhapsodic ruckus as we entered the main music hall where the start up band was warming the waiting crowd. Alex, displaying his speleology skills spaded his way through a tightly packed sea of fans to Jia-Yan with me tagging along with a Canadian student in his wake of crowd wrath.
The Canadian Girl, Maria, having lost her friends in this hive of fans, buzzed around with us and even offered to share her snack with her: asparagus. Yes indeed, asparagus. Well to be precise, chocolate asparagus. You needn’t look bewildered. She wasn’t carrying a hoe, wicker basked, and gardener’s apron either.
And finally the concert kicked off. There are no words to describe what I felt then. I guess one would have to read Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and bite into Dahl’s imaginary vocabulary to come anywhere close. My hair stood straight up, it almost felt as if I were floating in ether, and there was a rush of cool air blowing our minds away. It rained confetti on the dazed crowd; it plain rained too between the stage and us. There were movies projected on the curtain of water. Magical! To some extent it echoed in my mind what I imagined whilst reading Locus Solus, Raymond Roussel’s whimsical opus.
Once the concert was over, none of us were truly in a talkative mood, as we were all awed by what we’d heard and seen. And so after parting with Jia-Yan and her friends, Alex and I walked home and shared a nice little chinese dinner in Clare’s dining room.

London Saint Pancras - The train is due to leave at ‘five past eight’. It’s nearly 7:30PM and still no sign of Theo. The fellow made a desperate dash from his home in Colchester at six and if anything he should be arriving in a couple minutes. Surely enough, I soon receive a phone call and down the main hallway of the newly renovated train station I can make out the man’s familiar silhouette. Spot on time.
While I was waiting for him, I strolled around the station stopping at a bookshop (Folger’s I believe?) for I had forgotten a book I had bought for my niece in Ipswich and wanted to make it up to her by getting another. I found the perfect nugget in a nursery rhymes book illustrated by the very same illustrator as the ‘Gruffalo’ series. At the same time, I also picked Bram Stoker’s notorious ‘Dracula’. During the following two weeks I would share Harper’s and Seward’s trek throughout England and Europe against the fiendish Transylvanian Count.

It’s finally 8PM gone and rung at London’s main belfries, the last Paris-bound Eurostar is slipping away past the capital’s cityscape. Soon we reach the eurotunnel (which would be more interesting had it been equipped with windows and been built on the seabed rather than under. I’m sure engineers will disagree on that point so would perhaps aquaphobic passengers) and after having downed a glass of red Merlot along with some spice-stuffed olives, Theo and I eventually set foot in Gare du Nord. We talk of upcoming meetings & work while he nervously puffs away on a cigarette. I stare at Mercure’s Hotel Terminal wondering whether this is where they filmed Hotel Chevalier, a short starring Natalie Portman. No time to check. Duty calls. Theo throws his stub in a nearby bin and we make our way to the underground. Line 4. Purple line if memory serves well. I truly don’t know why we took the regular underground. We had to stop by what seemed like every single station in central Paris before actually making our way to Denfert Rochereau. Those more familiar with the ins and outs of Paris metro life, will know that in fact Gare du Nord is merely a handful of stops away from Denfert provided one takes the RER fast train which runs on a special track and only stops at certain major stations.
Nonetheless, once our touristic deambulation ends in Paris, we make our way hastily to the hotel. It’s nearly midnight and although September is barely starting, the air is fresh with a pungeant automnal scent - a mixture of fallen leaves with night dew.
The hotel is a five-storey XIXth century building typical of central Paris. Its elevator is so minute we’ve difficulty fitting the four of us together (Theo, myself, and our suitcases) but at least the porter found our reservations, gave us our keys, and even provided us with free wifi access codes. To IT professionals, a free WIFI access code is like free candy to an eight-year old boy. It’s not often and always well appreciated.
Unfortunately, as we were to find out soon enough, the said wifi wasn’t all that good. Free, yes. Functional? Not quite. That - now - is a bit like finding a sour candy in your stack of sweets. It takes another three lollypops to wear off the taste.
That didn’t matter for my room, though minuscule, had a view on the flat across the street: a top floor apartment tucked under the rooftops and with bookshelves spanning the whole width. Whoever lived there must have been a literary person. One might have thought in a lurid fantasy that I would have started telling the tale of the neighbor, some tall blond French lady, slipping seamlessly out of her clothes, to shyly exhibit herself to any onlooker such as myself. But unfortunately, this sort of mishap (for the subject) only happens once a week - on TV only. And it’s pay TV too. Not that I’m an expert of course. It’s just hearsay.

The London City

With Kai’s departure to London at the end of last month, Mario’s arrival couldn’t have been timelier. Mario? Who’s Mario? Well let’s jump back in time some nine years to summer of 1998. At the time, I went over to sunny Mexico for a month and stayed in a family - Mario’s family to be precise.

And now, nearly a decade later, it’s my turn to welcome Mario into my «family», i.e. my fellow German roommates. Goodbye kartofen, hello hello pimiento! Guten tag y comó estás?

Mario landed on Saturday in London after a tiresome ten-hour flight from Mexico DF (Federal District) and had to struggle his way through Immigration as her Majesty’s subjects were not so keen on letting a pulque-drinking, tortilla devouring man on British soil. To be fair with the Immigration officers, Mario had forgotten my details back home and couldn’t provide. A fifteen-minute interview between a charming lady and myself soon resolved the issue and moments later, a few minutes shy of 3PM, Mario came strolling through the opaque automatic glass doors into the airport arrivals hall.

From there on, we kick-started a wild tourism chase through London, its parks and monuments scorning the rain, taxis and wild bus drivers.We eventually ended up a few yards away from Nelson Square, in a British pub, where Mario enjoyed his first pie (chicken ‘n bacon) along a pintful of cold refreshing French beer. French beer? Well yes, French beer. Ale will have to wait for its own turn. And a pint of Nelson’s Revenge might have been quite a shocker after a nearly sleepless night.

To be continued…

Saint Paul at dawn, reflecting upon the Salvation Army, Saturday Oct. 7^th 2006

London Bridge is falling down? What of Saint Paul? It nearly entirely burnt down during the Great Fire of 1666. But survived nonetheless.

In this snapshot, however, it does seems Doomsday has arrived as the majestic cupola slants downwards in the eerie reflection on the façade of the Salvation Army’s glass-walled building. It was about 8AM when I took the picture, the sun was slowly rising above the Thames, eclipsing Tower Bridge. Not a soul was to be seen in the empty streets of the City and the Millenium Bridge had but company, the relentless waves of the Thames incoming tide.

They put me high up as if my spirits needed an extra lift. Eleven floors, some 40-odd meters, and a view over south-eastern London. I can make out all four chimney stacks of the old Battersea power plant. The sky is a crisp blue, this distinct cold hue of fall afternoons, a premonition of the ominous winter.

It’s not my first time in this part of London. As a matter it’s been exactly a year since I first discovered what even the most cautious observer would dub Franceville. The clean, wide avenues, lined with tall four-storey-high white houses, make way for many a Frenchman: students going to the nearby lycee, or perhaps diplomats jogging to the neighboring consulate.

South Kensington seems to be cut off the rest of the world, not unlike a remote island in a vast ocean with sole link to the outer world the underground. It takes but two stations to reach the outskirts of this monde à part and return to Tottenham Court, Victoria, or the banks of the lazy Thames.

It is now night. I’m afraid my cellphone can’t quite grasp the essence of the darkness. I’ve still given it a shot - pun aside. 

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This weekend, for the first time ever, I met up with friends from my Porto Erasmus experience. Cristina and her boyfriend flew over from Valencia, Spain while Pilar (aka Pili) came from Plymouth in the British Far West ( I reckon they call it the west country but one must admit it sounds more glamorous to be from the Far West). We were supposed to meet on Saturday at Victoria Coach Station main entrance at 1PM. Supposed to because in fact I showed up nearly one hour late. As Laurine and I hastened out of Victoria train station we bumped into Vincent, a French friend with whom we were supposed to meet as well.

Now one might think we were late due to poor train service but I’m afraid One Anglia wasn’t to blame on this one. Rather, my poor notion of London geography, its neighborhoods and streets had the better of me. When Laurine and I arrived a couple hours before our planned meeting up time in Liverpool Street, we decided to walk our way to Victoria Station. Those of you familiar with London will know that the way should roughly be due west till Saint Paul then along the Thames. However, when we reached Saint Paul, I felt the sudden urge to show Laurine BT Centre, the headquarters of the national Telecommunications company, and from there on to walk on straight out west thus ending up at Picadilly Circus.

Need I say it was too late when I realized our mistake? We then had to rush from Picadilly to Victoria. Lord Nelson sitting high up on his column was but a blur, and Buckingham Palace too far away to be noticed. That was a good start I must say…