Curry Mile

One of the things most often associated with England is bad food. Now I may not be the most discerning critic--given my unforgiving nature towards food--but I can't say I agree. Mind you, I really am not the most discerning critic; in other words, food is a serious passion of mine and I'm always willing to give it the benefit of the doubt.

Except for meatloaf.
Sorry to meatloaf lovers, but there is just no way I will ever enjoy it.

What is it supposed to be anyway?

But that's for another blog. Fortunately, I haven't come across any meatloaf here. But it wouldn't surprise me if England is its country of origin. Meatloaf has many of the characteristics a lot of British food has: few ingredients, greasy and heavy.

By observing the eating habits of my house mates (six of whom are English), I've gotten a pretty good idea of the British diet. Some essentials:

• Gravy. I come from a family where gravy accompanies special meals, like turkey dinners and expensive pot roasts for which the grandparents are invited to dinner. But here, gravy is as common as a bowl of Wheaties. In fact, almost all of my house mates have instant gravy pellets in their cupboards.
• Chips. Not potato chips (those are crips), but French fries. Chips in England accompany almost ever meal. Again, most of my house mates have a bag of frozen chips in their freezer bins. Restaurants too.
• Beans. Yeah, I thought 'ew' too. But they have really grown on me. Beans & Chips...only in England.
• Pasties, which are essentially various forms of pot pies: Cheese pasty, onion pasty, stew pasty etc.
• Fruit juice. All of my room mates have a 2L bottle of fruit juice in their fridge--a popular flavour over here being Blackcurrant. Breakfast, Lunch & Dinner is juice time ...I mean, breakfast, tea and ...tea, or is it supper? When in doubt, refer to "tea."
• And without further ado, the most popular meal in Britain...

Curry.
I never would have gussed it, and the first time I was told about curry's popularity among Brits I was skeptical. But there is no doubt. Curry has taken Britain by storm. Curry Mile is the area in Manchester with an endless row of "curry shops" along both sides of the street. I visited it last week for the first time to find that it can be described as "the English version of Las Vegas...on curry."

Neon lights and flashing signs decorate every restaurant, where managers stand outside the doors to beckon you into what they promise to be the finest curries around. I decided on Lal Haweli, it turned out to be the same place someone had recommended to me, but it was really just its impressive light display that won my attention.

The whole curry phenomenon is all very new to me. I had never tried a curry dish before arriving in England, but I'm hooked now. It all seemd so foreign and spicy. And spicy. But it was really the spiciness I was shying away from.

I can confidently report that I'm a reformed spice-wimp. But I'm still really wimpy. Just an adventurous wimp.

A curry is any of a variety of distinctively spiced dishes. I always associated it with Indian cuisine, but it is a common occurence among Thai, Malaysian and South Asian menues as well. And apparently it has been adopted into all of the mainstream cuisines of the Asia-Pacific area.

The popularity of curry in the UK encouraged the growth of Indian restaurants several years ago--Curry Mile being a Class-A example. And the British culture has gone on to influence what was originally a very Eastern dish. For example, one of the most familiar dishes served in British restaurants, Chicken Tikka Masala was apparently invented in the UK by Bangladeshi chefs. It has since gone on to be referred to as the "British national dish" over the past decade.

British curry has taken on a life of its own, and some British variations are now reportedly exported from the UK to India. British-style curry restaurants are also popular in Canada, so I hear, among other places.

A curry dish is essentially rice topped with a sauce, flavoured with spices and containing ingredients like chicken, beef, lamb and other vegetarian alternatives. Below are the few curry dishes I've become accquainted with over the past few weeks:

Chicken Tikka Masala - a tomato-based sauce with beef. The most popular, and the one I first tried in London.

Chicken Korma - mild, yellow in colour, with almond and coconut powder sauce. It's very sweet, which is difficult to imagine for a curry--at least I thought so. But it's great, particularly for spicy-food wimps like myself.

Rogan Josh- a tomato-based sauce that is considered a medium curry. I almost passed out.

Vindaloo - always classed as the classic "hot" restaurant curry--but apparently a true Vindaloo doesn't specify any particular level of spiciness. I wouldn't dare try it. Even the name sounds spicy....vindaloooooooooooothaspicy

So curry is the flavour in England. I recommend it to everyone who has yet to try it--except for those who would likely be taking me out for a meal..if you could wait for my return, it would be much appreciated. Bon appetite!

An argument

My time here is fast coming to an end, being less than five weeks left before I return to Canada and leave everything here behind--including my bed linen. I'm sure my house mates will be thrilled at the treasures left for them to scavenge.

- A nearly-used box of Soft Touch laundry detergent with Aloe Vera.
- A comforter and two pillows --"to the highest bidder" would make me a few quid no doubt.
- Two towels and a roll of quarter-ply toilet paper.
- A dwindling bag of sugar and what will be a few kernels of couscous

And perhaps most coveted: cupboard and fridge and freezer shelf space. You have to make six eggs, four apples, half a cube of butter and a vanishing bottle of soya sauce look as generous as a Chinese buffet or you will lose your shelf-space before you can restock it.

My freezer bin was taken over while I was in Dublin. I stole someone else's. I've mastered a few the tricks of the trade during my stay: like always take your keys with you because the security at Castle Irwell takes great amusment from making locked-out Irdwellers wait for long periods of time before letting them back into their cells.

...And, if you're going to lock yourself out of your room--best do it in your pajamas or in a towel after having a shower because then Castle Irwell security is quick to please.

And I've all but mastered the transportation system. Okay, strong word. But the thought of planes, trains, busses, Metro Links, Tubes and (when in Ireland, horse-drawn rickshaws) does not stike the fear of anything in me anymore.

But all these things I've realized are just a part of my everyday life, and I decided I was torn between declaring homesickness and wondering where my time in England went.

The case for wondering where the time has gone:

1. The thought that I won't see Ireland for a long time, if ever again, isn't something I can easily shrug off. And then I think, "so how feasible IS moving to Ireland?"

2. I panic because my ability to impersonate the English accent, and its innumerable varieties, is sub-standard at best. And then I set out practicing right away: Liverpeewwl, you alriiight, errmm, hiya...

4. I tally up the five assignments I have due in four weeks.

5. I realize it's nearly December and that I wore jeans and a tank top off the plane upon my arrival.

6. My made-in-Manchester friends ask me how many days I have left and whether they will ever see me again.

7. I tell my friends from home "I'll see you soon," and I mean it.

The case for homesickness:

1. I'm reading, watching and listening to Canadian media on a regular basis.
- this includes following the Parliament squabble resulting from Peter McKay reffering to his ex-girlfriend, Belinda Stronach, as a dog, which made for the most exciting Canadian politcal news since I've been gone
- Kamloops' new country music station, Country-103 and its running call-in prize for a set of "brand new winter tires!"

And then you know you're still Canadian when you hear the prize and think: "ooo, could use that."

3. I missed the Grey Cup and was genuinely disappointed. And then I was even more disappointed to find that 75% of the Canadians I was talking to via the internet while the game was being aired were not watching it. And then I thought--how Canadian to call it the Grey Cup and not the Super Bowl.

4. I think about snow. I even wrote about snow in my creative writing class--if that isn't a strong argument for homesickness, I don't know what else is...

5. When people ask me how I've found England and whether or not I'm looking forward to leaving, I say "I really like England, but I love Canada."

The truth is, I can't long for home or want to stay here because one will inevitably exclude the other. And it is both, Canada and England--more accurately, what England has done for me--that I am lucky to have a part in.

It's All Irish to Me

I flew to Dublin again this weekend. Robyn extended the invitation to visit Tom, a Dubliner we had met the first time around; and what with the cheap flight and my time across the Atlantic winding down, the offer proved difficult to pass up.

We arrived at Dublin airport late Friday evening and eventually found who would be our chauffuer for the weekend, Tom Reville---Revel? I asked. Like the ice cream Revel bar?

He's heard of them, but he said: No, like orr--ee-vi-dubblelleee.

Cut to two minutes later: I've figured out his last name really is Reville and the tone is set for the rest of the weekend. The fact that we both speak English is a technicality because we were speaking two entirely different languages the whole weekend.

To accurately explain what an Irish accent is like would be a difficult task, in fact I don't think I could do it justice. To say it sounds lyrical fails to convey how saturated with slang and colloquial catch phrases it is. But to describe only how colloquial it is, implies that it's common, when it's anything but. The Irish accent is without a doubt my favourite. With its unique vocabulary and its charming lilt I could listen to a recorded reading of a dissertation on the anatomy of an earthworm if it were spoken with an Irish accent.

To be fair, there are various kinds of accents, the two biggest differences probably being between northern and southern accents. I've spent all of my time in Dublin, but I've met a handful of students from the north of Ireland, and so I've managed to cultivate an almost sophisticated idea of who is from where--but almost everyone seems to be from Dublin, so when in doubt--assume they're a Dubliner. The thicker the accent is, the further north they are from-generally. However, one of the most difficult accents I've encountered is Jon Jon's--a Dubliner through and through.

The most obvious trait of an Irish accent is the absence of the "th" sound and the drop of every word's ending, particlarly if it ends in an "r" sound.

Think is "tink"
Them, they and the is "dem," "dey," and "duh"
And "quarter past four" is "a quohdah pas fawh"

Another tell tale sign you might be speaking with someone from Ireland would be their seemingly endless number of catchphrases, idioms and rhetorical comments that either don't require a response or mean absolultey nothing:

"What's the craic," (pronounced "crack") is the equivelant of "what's up?" Although, it has a lot more flexibility, like a how-are-you "what's the craic," or a what-are-we-doing "what's the craic" or what-should-I-do "what's the craic," and even was-it-a-good-time "what's the craic."

"Whaddyahink"s and "'Hinkso?"s are versatile as "huh?"s, "are you sure?s", obviously "what do you think?s" and many more.

It is "Honest?" instead of "honestly?" But the word is emphasized as though you just conceded to something unimaginable, even if it is as simple as admitting you prefer rye over white.

HonnEST?

And "eye"s become either "eers", "oys", "eye-ers" or "ars". For instance, I've apparently travelled to Eerland, Oyreland, Eyerland and Arland.

My friend from Newcastle County Down, near Belfast in Northern Ireland says "who was it" almost as often as a North American school girl peppers her commentary with the word "like." But "who was it" doesn't mean anything--at all. Even the Irish can't explain it to me.

It pops up randomnly in conversation, and the closest it ever seems to get to relevant is when he says "who was it" on the phone--but only ever after already knowing who is calling.

When two Irish people speak to each other, translation is impossible. Even when it's a one-on-one conversation, you need the luck of the Irish to catch everything as intended. Some examples include:

My and Robyn's misunderstanding that Tom was telling us about the death of his brother when, in fact, he was telling us about the death of a friend of his brother's. We listened in horror as he talked candidly about what, we thought, was a personal description of how his brother managed to mistake the edge of a bridge for the edge of a sidewalk.

The ten minute conversation required to introduce Tom's dog, Jerry ...or Geri to me. I still don't know what her name was exactly. She was named after either Tom & Jerry's Jerry or the Spice Girl's Ginger Spice Geri. Or both. Or intended after one and the other was a coincidence. I still don't know.

The five minute conversation I had with someone about some place in Canada named after a place in Ireland. Or it might have been a place in Ireland and sounded like a place in Canada. Or it might have been a place in Ireland and he just has relatives in Canada. Either way, I somehow managed to make him think I've visited this place, but I don't even know where it is let alone have I been there.

The conversation I had with with Tom about Irish tea was the conversation he had with me about Irish breakfast.

And the countless other conversations that were abandonned entirely due to irreconcilable communication differences. But regardless of whether or not I actually know what anyone Irish is saying to me, it's music to my ears!

Who Guy Fawkes Really Was

The fifth of November is better known as Guy Fawkes night in Britain and commemorates the failed assassination of King James in the fifteenth century.

The failed attempt, known as the Gunpowder Plot, was organized by a group of Catholic conspirators, including the mercenary Guy Fawkes. The plan was to blow up the Houses of Parliament in Westminster when the Protestant king (along with the rest of the aristocracy)
was within its walls.

Fawkes and his fellow conspirators were aiming to revolutionize the government of England and install a Catholic monarch. Instead, the plot was discovered and Fawkes was captured, tortured and executed. It's said he cheated his fate in some sense by jumping from the gallows to snap his neck instead of being left to hang.

Historically, Fawkes was campaigning for equal rights for Catholics; however, the Gunpowder Plot is seen as only having painted Catholics as treasonous and prolonging their inequality for another 200 years.

Despite all of this, the significance of Bonfire Night (as it's also known) is less historical and seemingly just a good excuse to set off a bunch of fireworks. I was expecting a lot more hoorah about the day, but it seems modern day Guy Fawkes celebrations are most enthusiastically pursued by the kids and the scallies. As my room mate put it:

You will be safe to walk around tonight because the scallies are all busy setting off their fireworks.

So I did venture into the Salford night, but not too far. And eventually I just ended up on the back steps of the Pav. To my surprise, the night was uneventful, except for a group of Castle Irdwellers scavenging a dumpster for what I presume was bonfire material. And despite my assumptions for the evening--and despite two straight nights of endless firework displays--there really isn't much to the celebration of Guy Fawkes' failure.

I expected more troublemaking and hooliganism I suppose, but no one really seems to take notice to the continual snaps, crackles and pops--or the whistles and hisses for that matter--that litter the night air. I, on the other hand, felt like one of the pets the police and animal activists warn their owners about before Guy Fawkes celebrations kickoff: keep them indoors in case they are provoked or endure sensitivity to firework explosions.

The night before November 5th was a Saturday, so once dusk had fallen the firworks began. The number of fireworks was impressive, it sounded similar to what I imagine a modern-dary warzone must sound like. And the next night even moreso.

The full moon and whispy-clouded skies added to the effect, but the dull roar that became the background track to the night was duly impressive for someone who only experiences fireworks once a year.

Fireworks were in any direction you turned and for every second that ticked by. Almost all of the displays are from residential backyards, I walked under one of them--so close that the shell of the explosian bounced to the street I was walking on an clattered to a halt just in front of me.

I didn't witness any burning Guy Fawkes effigies, only the construction of one bonfire during the day. However, the other Canadian on British soil for the 5th of November--Robyn, did see one. She said it was only a little disturbing.

So you might learn something new everyday, but you learn two somethings new on Bonfire Day: To begin, Guy Fawkes is not a hero, but a foiled fop that might be compared to a modern-day terrorist. Not that anyone seems to care anyway because, secondly, the night is only an excuse to set mini-explosians from your yard--not an excuse to go drinking, which, for the British, caught me by surprise.

What Are You Supposed To Be?

I had the fortune of experiencing Halloween in the midst of as much student enthusiasm and ardour the residents of Castle Irwell could muster. The event was celebrated with both introductory and closing fireworks; in fact, they continue on even now. And despite all honest intent on my part, I did end up particpating in the Pav's Tuesday night Halloween bash.

The Pav is an endless fount of human interaction--or more accurately, student interaction, which is all the more interesting. I could probably charge sociologists a pound for entry and earn enough to make up for my bi-weekly trip to the Tesco. The fact that last Tuesday was everyone's annual opportunity to live out some fantasy or another via costume only made for a more interesting night than usual.

With Halloween in full swing, I still hadn't bothered to find a costume and I was prepared to forego celebrations. Howevever, by ten o'clock and with the Pav's familar bass line thumping in the near background, I decided I might actually regret missing out on Halloween in England and went in search of a costume.

Within twenty minutes I had impressively collected a variety of odds and ends my house mates weren't using or that I already owned. I managed a respectable costume and made a fashionably late arrival at the Pav.

The traditional idea of a costume is clothing that is worn to portray the individual as some character or type of character other than the regular persona. With this in mind, observing the antics at the Pav was interesting, to say the least.

I'm always curious as to why people choose the costumes they do. There is inevitably something that draws an individual to create a persona other than his true identity. Or is it that people tend to be drawn to something that will express some aspect of the true, but unexpressed, identity. Regardless, students are some of the most enthusiastic Halloweeners around. Is it to say that students are hopelessly in touch with their childish side; or perhaps university students thrive on creation, immitation and--undoubtedly--a chance for a party? Fantasy and imagination are at the heart of Halloween celebrations, particulary those enjoyed by anyone "too old for Halloween" in the conservative sense.
There are the guys living out a night as their boyhood heroes--Supermen, Batmen, athletes and debonair characters of strength and charm.

There are the girls that will unashamedly take the year's single opportunity to defy all believable hem lengths, wearing dresses originally intended as shirts, lingerie, shorts originally intended as underwear, lingerie, plunging necklines, and even--believe it or not-- lingerie.

And there is always a minority representation of guys who choose to dress as girls. I was torn between who was most disturbing: the guy that pulled off the feminine version of himself with absolute ease and conviction, or the guy that wouldn't let go of his "breasts" because...well, he was just really excited to have a pair at his disposal?
My favourite costume of the night goes to one indivual wearing a giant, cardboard box--his head out the top and his arms out the sides. About midway down, nearing below the belt territory was written in thick, black marker: May Contain Nuts. Points for originality and bonus points for irony. And kudos to him for posing even the possibility of doubt that his package was sans nuts.

After considering the Pav's Halloween patrons, it's safe to say that often costumes are chosen to exaggerate some aspect of a charater...or lack thereof

(case study A: the guy that loves his "breasts").

And after two months here, I've witnessed several occasions deemed costume-worthy by the British, including birthdays, stags, theme nights, parties and "just because." They will dress up for anything.

Call it escapism, but who doesn't need a chance to give reality the slip every once and awhile?
I would venture to say that Halloween anywhere is as much a celebration as it is an excuse to get up in fancy dress--the hopelessly lame English version of a "costume." Any Brit will jump at the chance to dress up; but then again, so will most North Americans and even the Euros at the Pav were game for the festivities--except for Dimitris the Greek. He went as, well, Dimitris the Greek. And as for myself: well, I went as a devil. Go figure.

Halloween Pictures

My outfit was namely a pair of black shorts and a corset-styled top to match. However, thanks to the perfect--and questionable--possessions of my house mates, my devilish look was complete with: a foam triton; obnoxious red jewellery with obnoxious red fingernails; home-made horns of red construction paper and red tights complete with fiery sequins licking at my legs. Slip on a pair of black gloves for dramatic flair and slip into a pair of heart-stomping, black leather boots that reach mid-way up my calves and voila!
Devilish

Me, Shaun as Zorro & Jess

Panos, Me & Shaun

Halloween = lisence for cheese.

A devil, Zorro & Dimitris ...the Greek.

And the Pav's North American reps: me & Jess, from Boston.

Another World

London is the most difficult part of this trip to describe. I spent two and half days there this weekend and, even now, I have a hard time expressing the trip in much more than generalities. London can be called every big, descriptive word imaginable: amazing, striking, impressive, magnificent grandiose and on and on. But the most tangible way to describe London is to say that it is entirely another world. I have never seen anything else like it.

Entering London is nothing short of what I imagine landing on another planet would be like: the landscape is foreign, the people all reflect the same culture (of which I am not familiar with) and you feel unessential to the place as a whole--merely a bystander.

If you don't keep moving in London you are literally pushed to the side. You could spend an entire day, even longer, standing tucked into a corner in London and the city would operate around you, like a piece of the backdrop of the city. It might seem as though this is the case wherever you go, particularly in a big city; but the difference with London is the feeling that if you aren't careful, you will end up sidelined as a piece of the backdrop. A great example is the tube--the underground transit system that deserves a blog all its own--and when people get on and off the train. My travel mate and London guide for the time being gave me this as one of the first pieces of advice for the weekend:

When you get off the tube, get moving.

And if you don't, you will inevitably catch someone's elbow as they move past you. This is because there are two types of people in London: Londoners, who are all going somewhere; and tourists, who have all gotten there.

The people of London deserve as much observation as the physical landscape; in fact I spent half of my time looking at the "sights," and the other half staring at the people. But look and do not touch-or speak-because Londoners will engage in neither with you.

I spent nearly three entire days in London and I spoke to one native Londoner the entire time. This is a city with 7.5 million people in it, and I spoke to one person who was, in fact, obligated to speak to me and--deservedly so--suspicious that I was shoplifting from his store. In a city where you will find over 3,000 people every square kilometre, I managed to engage zero people in conversation--my hosts being the exception, but they were all South African anyway.

The only two people who approached me were not from London: creepy Italian, Antonio who seemed desperate to take me into the National Portrait Gallery; and a Cuban whose name now escapes me, who was excited to find out I was from Canada because he has "a lot of friends in Canada, in the province of British Columbia."

Oh, well go figure. I'm from British Columbia. Where do your friends live?

It's near Vancouver, very very close ..Sss ...Shhi ...Ssurrrey. Yes, Surrey, British Columbia.

Oh, Surrey. Yes, of course your Cuban friends are in Surrey. Where else would they be?

I managed to fit a fair bit of London into three days; but, a person could spend three weeks in London and still not see everything. I am convinced even the Londoners have yet to discover London. But everyone suits their bill, and mine included:

Big Ben, which is essentially a big clock--but impressive all the same. However, if anyone can manage to nearly walk right by Big Ben and fail to see him looming overheard--it is yours truly. I had only been in London two hours and the culture shock was proving to be most overwhelming, the result being a less than alert me. Emerging from an underground tube station, I was busy trying to digest what I had already learned: the tube has about three different lines, I'm on the green one, we went West even though we want to get to Southfield, insert ticket here--remove up here, get on the train--"mind the gap," get off here. Follow signs, follow arrows, follow people that look like they know where they're going. On the escalator and stand to the right because in London that is where you stand so that people who care to run up the left have room to do so.

Find the right exit (because everywhere in London has fifteen), up the stairs and what is that? Natural light? Could it be ... slam into the back of my tour guide. He got a nasty look from me, to which he replied: "Look up."

And there it was. A giant clock. Big Ben done and a lot more to go so, when in London, keep moving. I saw the London Eye, which is essentailly a giant ferris wheel. And I walked along the Thames into the evening to see London Bridge--it is blue and it is not falling down-- and Tower Bridge, which we walked across under a cresecent moon.

I also managed to experience

-the appropriately named Picadilly Circus: at night it was completely lit up, think an English version of Las Vegas but less tacky.
-the daunting department store that does not befit the classification "department store," Harrods, owned by the family of Princess Di's lover, Dodi Al-Fayed.

Gucci, Prada, Armani, Karen Millen, Jimmy Choo, Versace and the names that, peon that I am, did not recognize. Shoes for hundreds of pounds, coats for thousands and dirty looks from sales clerks that own outfits more illustrious than my entire monetary worth. I got lost in Harrods, literally, and took about twenty minutes to right myself.

-Buckingham Palace, Hyde Park, Leicester Square, Covent Gardens, another impressive park, Camden Town and Trafalgar Square. Everywhere is literally crawling with people, and everywhere illicits some sort of response along the lines of "wow."

By the end of my trip I was navigating London's tube system with relative ease. I found my way to the bus solo, and thoroughly enjoyed the five hour ride back up to Manchester. Leaving London feels like escaping by the skin of your teeth, escaping what is hard to say.