All we are saaaayyyiiiiing....

Home now, but I'll leave you with this:

I'm not a particularly patriotic person, and if pressed to define myself, nationality wouldn't come into the picture for a very long time. However, because of the sheer amount of "in America" questions I received while living in Great Britain, I was forced to think more deeply about why I feel the way I feel about my country of origin. I tried to be fair in my responses, and I tried to be an ambassador, but it's very hard. Here's what I ended up saying:
America is very big. America is so, so, so much bigger than the UK. It's bigger than any single country in Europe and most of them combined. It's bigger than New Zealand, and it's bigger than most places I'll travel to before I die. It is therefore impossible for me to say that "people in America always" or "people in America never," just as it would be hard for someone living in Bristol to accurately describe what a family in Dundee feels and thinks on a day-to-day basis.

The UK gets an ugly picture of the states from their media and from the parts of our culture that reach them (Jersey Shore, Tea Party conventions, McDonalds). While every accusation I heard was, in some capacity, true of the US, there's a lot more going on here. We need to go there and they need to come here and everyone needs to go everywhere and just stay for a while, trying to understand the many different ways people live. THAT'S how to really prove to ourselves that other countries are made up of more than their traditions, their governments, and their media - bottom line, they're made up of individuals who eat, sleep, go to the bathroom, and appreciate a clever product like The Slanket (Sleeved blanket. How did it take 2000 years?).

Maybe I'm being sentimental, and maybe I just saw a staged version of To Kill a Mockingbird last night, but I don't think we're that different. Especially not from England.

(Speaking of sentimental - it has come to my attention that the last post read a bit sappy. I assure you it was tongue in cheek. If in doubt, please read the title of the linked youtube video.)

(air violin)

Before you read this, can you pull up another window and paste this link into it? Just start playing the video, then come back to this page and read on.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oNvFPKujc5w

You were in love. When it ended, you knew you couldn't ever return, not really. As you left, a part of you that felt fulfilled and actualized somehow got ripped open. You grieved, you wallowed. After a while, you got better. You even started seeing others, recklessly at first, then with more and more control. You had just begun to feel your feet again when BAM. There they are, somewhere you didn't expect. They are just as amazing as you remember, but there's something else - there's a distinctive scent, a color, a tone; you didn't notice it before, but now it knocks you off your feet with memories. And you just want to go home and eat a hole in your wall.

Okay, stop the video.

Krymov's show was achingly, painfully wonderful. It made me miss Tverskaya, walking to school on the high street, Red Square, live theater four nights a week, but mostly, learning. Feeling like I had purpose, like I was getting better at something.

The show was very different and very similar to everything else I've seen of his, and I loved it. I think I over-talked him to Vicky, though, because she ended up not enjoying it very much.

The production was a Krymov-tastic adaptation of A Midsummer Night's Dream. He chose to focus on the Mechanicals (the group of players) because he, as a visual artist and carpenter, felt most kinship with them. Makers, not talkers.
Anyway, in Midsummer, as you may remember, the Mechanicals are rehearsing a production of Pyramus and Thisbe. Krymov's show was the staging of that production, but set in the here and now. It was very funny and self-deprecating.
 Pyramus and Thisbe were played by two enormous puppets, controlled by the actors. The staged audience kept interrupting the performance to say, "What did he say?" "I don't know, it's avant-garde," and things like that. There was musical humor, physical humor, potty humor, body humor... something for everyone. Maybe it didn't have the meat of Opus 7 (the first production of his I saw that left me speechless and drew me back two more times on my own dime), but it was charming and reminded me of what I love in theater. It reminded me of what kind of theater I want to make. Mostly, though, it just reminded me of Moscow.

Oh, Moscow. My first love. I will always, always miss you.
London for the rebound tomorrow!

Cornwall

Vicky's family has been surrogate to me this trip, from post-surgical care to family vacations. We went to Cornwall over the weekend to visit Vicky's dad's brother and that side of the extended family.

Cornwall's trade was mining. It was settled by a celtic tribe, so the accent has a little Irish twang around the "r's". Cornwall, apparently, is in strict competition with nearby Devon. I do not understand why. I guess Devon steals all Cornwall's traditions and pretends to have invented them.

Vick's cousin-in-law comes from a long line of Cornish miners. It's hard to imagine the sense of belonging he must feel, since he can trace his ancestry back literally thousands of years and never leave a twenty-mile radius.

My experience of traditional Cornwall revolved around meals. I had:

Item One - A Cornish pasty. These taste like a blend of spanakopita and pot pies. They're sort of oval... I guess more like a football shape than anything... hold on, I'm just going to link you. (Pasty) Can you all see it? If not, I just googled "cornish pasty," so it's not hard info to come by. Anyway, see the braided crust on the outside edge? Back in the day, miners used to make that inedibly thick. Then they'd hold the pasty by the crust with their dirty hands, eat the rich insides, and throw the crust to the birds. It was impractical to carry silverware, I guess. Also, there used to be a second, smaller pasty connected to the main one, but filled with jam. So their dessert and their main were all in one.

Item Two - Cornish ice cream (it's pretty much just frozen custard). The cows in Cornwall are proudly grass-fed, so they produce really thick, fatty cream. Of course it's delicious.

Item Three (associated with Item Two) - A flake. Oh you guys, FLAKES. This belongs in my food rant. Flakes are... what are they? They... you know shaved chocolate? Like, little chocolate curls that go on cakes or cupcakes? It's like a whoooole compact stick of them. You bury it in your ice cream, and then as you're eating along, you take a bite of the flake and suddenly, it's like your mouth was sprinkled with chocolate shavings, but UNLIKE with chocolate shavings or sprinkles, they aren't just there for round one of scoop-licking. They're in for the long-haul. In fact, you have to eat part of the cone, ladies and gentlemen THE CONE I SAY, before you get to the bottom of the flake. Since we're having a linky day today, I shall tempt you visually:  The Flake

Item Four - Cream tea. Finally got to the bottom of the clotted cream mystery! It's a butter/whipping cream hybrid. My poor arteries.
Cream tea is firstly a cup of tea, in whatever fashion you prefer it (plain, with milk, with milk and sugar, NO OTHER OPTIONS. Put that lemon away) and then a scone, and here's the important bit: on top of the scone goes jam and clotted cream (served in dollops), but in which order? This is a big deal. It's an intra-family debate, too... I saw a mom and son get pretty heated about it earlier in the month. To me, it's obvious... jam first, spread with a knife, and then a swap of clotted cream. But in some cases, there is no knife! So what do you do???? You can't dollop BOTH of them, or can you? Only you can be the judge.

I also had meringue and raspberries, which is pretty straightforward, but a favorite dessert of the English.

We went to Tintagel (tin-TAA-jel), the supposed castle of Arturian legend. It's in ruins and was beautiful. It's on an enormous, craggy cliff that overlooks the Irish Sea - the water is the same turquoise you get after rinsing a blue and green paintbrush in the same glass. There were patches of orange flowers scattered around, and from a distance, it looked like the mountain was rusting.
We couldn't stay for too long, because Cousin Allington has two little kids, but it was gorgeous.

The family leaves tomorrow, and I'm gutted (great expression, right? Really good image). I've had a wonderful time with them and don't know when I'll see them again.

But...

KRYMOV SATURDAY.

The Pool of Life

Liverpool is the pool of life.
-Carl Jung (1926)

(I added that because it was engraved on about 700 thousand buildings)

Liverpool feels a lot like Chicago. It's a brash Union town with some roughhousing and wild nights, but overall, the people are genuine and the atmosphere is welcoming.

I left you after a series of sleep-deprived nights. Since I had limited time in Liverpool and only enough stamina for one attraction upon arrival, I headed straight for The Beatles Story, which is the famous Beatles museum housed on Albert Dock. It did not disappoint. Narrated by John's sister Julia, the museum is a very interactive and well-funded walk through the early successes and failures of my four favorite Liverpudlians (let's find as many excuses as possible to use that amazing word). It included replicas of their Hamburg venue, The Cavern Club, and an early chip shop they used to play, as well as terrifying wax statues of a band apparently composed of the Beatles' inbred cousins.
The coolest thing about all the Beatles hype is that you KNOW the boys would have loved it. In their hey-day, hero-status is exactly what they were aiming for. As opposed to Gandhi or Che Guevara, who might not have been so keen, every time you see a poster with Paul's bopping head on it, you know it's exactly what a little boy back in the 50's was dreaming about at night.

I then went back to the hostel for a quick nap. The hostel, by the way, was formerly the consulate of Venezuela. It's a gorgeous Georgian building, really enormous and well-renovated.
I didn't find that out until later, though, because my quick nap lasted 16 hours. I don't think I've slept that long in one go since I left the womb. But I woke up the next morning feeling AWESOME and tore up the place, seeing every free exhibit available.

First stop was the Museum of Liverpool. Here, I learned about Liverpool's many ties to America; a major reason it feels like Chicago is because they shared some of the same architects. I didn't write down their names (still getting the hang of the travel writing thing, guys, cut me some slack), but there were two Liverpudlians (2nd usage) who moved to Chi in the 20's. The difference between Chicago and Liverpool, though, is that there isn't a bunch of nasty 90's architecture muddling the place up. Chicago will have one awesome, brick-heavy street and then one gross minimalist glass street; Liverpool just has the brick and shit-tons of Georgian columns (I know! When did I get so interested in architecture? Where did I learn this lingo? I honestly cannot remember). Also - as you probably know (but I did not) Liverpool (a port and fishing town) got a lot of it's fame and early wealth through the slave trade, and after slavery was abolished in the UK, through importing cotton from the American south. During the civil war, Liverpool not only flew confederate flags, but converted cargo ships into military vessels to aid the south in maritime warfare. The last ship captured by the north was, in fact, originally a Liverpudlian (3).
The museum openly shared these facts, with no attempts to glaze over or embroider them. There was an entire section on the horrors of British colonialism and the attempts of colonized nations to fight back. It was VERY refreshing to hear a different historical voice.

Then I went to Tate Liverpool, right across the dock. I'm very glad I did. It's a modern sculpture gallery, and I usually have little interest in sculpture. I feel like I've gained a new appreciation for 3-D art.

THEN, following in The Beatles pointy-toed footsteps, I headed to Mathew Street and the Cavern Club, neither of which were bursting with Beatles spirit- just Beatles paraphanalia. I got a beer in the Club, wherein I met two American Harley fanatics who are of little note except that they made me not want to go home.

I checked out St. George's Hall, except not the actual hall which sort of defeats the purpose, but I saw a really brilliant exhibit on Victorian prison life.

So there I was, sitting in a park, eating my lunch, when an Italian guy comes up and asks for a cigarette. I said I didn't have one, but he sat down anyway.
"Are you Italian?"
"No."
"You look Italian."
(silence)
"Do you play tennis?"
"No."
"You look like someone who would play tennis. Can you take off your sunglasses?"
"No."

He ended up following me to the science museum, where I amused myself deeply by walking into big crowds and trying to lose him. He, however, would not be lost, and I finally had to tell him to go away. This left me pondering. Because I felt guilty. I had done NOTHING wrong, and I felt like I was a bad person. Why does this happen??? Vicky and I pontificated on the subject yesterday. We both magnetically attract bizarre, old, or slightly autistic men, but we feel guilty when we tell them to buzz off. I want to write a play about it called, "Flattered, but Uncomfortable: A Tale of Avoidance in the Modern Age."

Anyway, then it was time for my LIVERPUDLIAN BUS TOUR!!!! It was... g... it was a good bus... t... have you been on those red bus tours before? They're in every city. It was... just like those. Except in Liverpool. OHHHHHhhhhhh and with a REALLY awkward first date happening in the front. A young mom was on a date with her new boo AND her toddler. The guy was clearly souring on the whole situation and she, in desperation, kept trying to snuggle with him, but the toddler, ALSO in desperation, kept trying to attract her attention by shrieking shrilly, causing her to yell and the guy to be like, "calm down," and then her to yell at the guy. Luckily, they got off about halfway through.

The next day, I managed to squeeze in a cathedral, another trip to the Museum of Liverpool, and a visit to the Walker Art Gallery before I had to book it.

In the end, it would have been a lot more fun but a lot less informative if Vicky had been there to guide me around, but I had a great time nonetheless. Never took a ferry 'cross the Mersey, though! If I'd had my head on straight...

NO TITLE.

You guys are OUT THE LOOP. I'll brief you.

Warwick, charming Warwick where I've been staying, hosts this great folk festival every year at the end of July. Quite well known, actually. Vick and I worked up about five songs that we intended to whip out at jam sessions, ultimately in the hopes of impressing many old and woollen-capped gentleman. We did end up going to a jam, but while we had worked up the songs, we had apparently NOT worked up the courage. We sat silently in a corner for over an hour while people around us played and sang. Vicky optimistically decided we were cultivating an aura of mystery. A very drunk little flautist kept unintentionally boxing us out of the circle every time we were about ready to propose a song. As the evening wore on, more and more legitimate musicians started turning up and fewer people were singing. Finally, as it became clear that the jam as we knew and loved it was dying, we asked a nearby banjo player to accompany us in a rendition of Hard Times. No sooner had we opened our mouths than Fluty McGee toddled over and started singing louder than both of us combined. We thought her enthusiasm would encourage everyone to join in, but no. The rest of the circle sat around and watched Vicky and I try to belt our carefully rehearsed harmonies over her drunken warbles, the only discernable words of which were "hard times" (though they rarely coincided with the songwriter's original placement).
We did end up going to the Warwick Folk Club open mic night after the festival had already ended. We played three songs and were the toast of the evening. We were also a good forty years younger than the next youngest person. Everyone thinks we're a sister act!

Spent the last two days in Edinburgh. I sat next to a woman from New Zealand on the bus; she and I got on quite well and ended up hanging out a lot.
Guys, I haven't liked a city so instantaneously since Russia. Edinburgh is beautiful. It actually literally is Hogwarts (J.K. wrote the books overlooking Edinburgh castle and a walking tour took us through a cemetary she visited a bunch, wherein one finds Tom Riddle's grave, except it's spelled "Riddell"). I hope everyone goes at some point. The town was so mellow, so welcoming. Like, if cities were teenage boys, Edinburgh would be that cool punk kid who chain smokes and listens to The Clash but also wears sweaters his grandma knits him (unabashedly) and anually participates in the church Christmas pageant as Joseph. I'd love an excuse to live there for a while.
Cat (my New Zealand bus friend) and I saw several shows at the Fringe - Edinburgh's very famous Fringe Festival was just kicking off when we arrived. I've been to the New York Fringe before, and it's very hit-or-miss, but out of the four shows I saw in my two days, I enjoyed... four.

But, most importantly, The Now. I'm in Liverpool in the coolest hostel ever. It's run by a father-son team, Kevin's Junior and Senior. Kevin Senior is infamous locally for having beaten The Beatles in an audience-judged competition waaaaay way back before Paul grew the mullet. I stumbled in at five a.m. after a garish night train ride... Night trains, sort of like butterscotch toffees, sound more glamorous than they are. Because they AREN'T. I've been Mr. Bean-ing it since London; I bought a tiny, tiny alarm clock that I've been carrying in my purse and setting for ten minutes before my transport leaves, and let me TELL you, that does not make you friends on a night train. But when you DON'T set it, the train conductor yells at you for not getting off the train because you're belligerantly asleep because you're SO TIRED BECAUSE WHY ARE TRAINS WITH BEDS SO EXPENSIVE.

But that's neither here nor there. I'm in the best place ever now, greeted by a cup of coffee and a peanut butter sandwich prepared by Kevin Jr., about to have my first shower since Tuesday... things are great. I'm looking forward to checking out Liverpool.

MORE LATER, LOYAL READERS!

My Love Affair With English Food Culture: By Amalia Mathewson

  I'll start by saying that I don't particularly like traditional English cooking. The veg tend to be overcooked, the desserts a little too sweet, the spices a little too bland. What makes me prefer the English eating experience to an American meal is the description of this limp, often greasy cuisine. I think if we put the adjectival effort into labelling our own food, we'd be much happier in our obesity.

What do I mean? Here, let me give you some examples:

       

 People use the word "gorgeous" to describe things like fries and burgers. It is so appealing. Imagine the difference: 

1. Someone pushes a plate of fried potato wedges towards you and says, "Try these! They're good!" 

You may or may not try the fries. You'll know what to expect.

2. Someone pushes a plate towards you and says, "Try these! They're gorgeous!" 

You will try the fries, thanks. They'll probably taste like any other fry, but you won't care.

Everyone seems so excited when their food or tea is served. They say, "Oooooh, that's lovely!" And it sounds like the food or tea has genuinely surpassed their expectations significantly. Even if I've ordered the same thing they have, it makes me want theirs instead of mine because theirs sounds a lot more fun. 

 I have never particularly enjoyed animal crackers before. Digestive biscuits and rich tea fingers are basically circular animal crackers, and I eat them whenever I can just because it is SO FUN to dunk them in tea. It's like a sport! Will it dissolve before I can get it to my mouth? ONLY ONE WAY TO FIND OUT! 

 And sandwiches! Firstly, saying, "widge" instead of "wich?" Bingo. "Want a sandwidge, love?" YES I DO THANK YOU. Secondly, they're always cut into little sailboat triangles. It is very nice to eat something shaped like a sailboat triangle. Thirdly, they're simple, but so exotic! Cheese and pickle. Cucumber. Rocket and cheddar. Prawn on toast. PRAWN! ON TOAST! Again, this is a food that I usually ignore in the US. Sandwiches... psh. Middle-school shit. But not here! They're posh and portable and moderately yummy! 

  It's not dessert, it's pudding. Pudding is one of my favorite foods, so even though I know that what will be served for "pudding" will almost certainly not be pudding or pudding-like, I get very excited.

 Cakes. Let's talk about cakes. The pluralization of the word "cake" is enough for me, frankly. Cakes and coffee, tea and cakes... I feel free to have as much as I want because it's already assumed that I'll be having more than one of whatever it is. The word "cake," while never unwelcome, has previously conjured up images of large, heavily iced birthday confections slurred with slowly melting vanilla ice cream. It's a once-a-year kind of thing. If someone said, "tea and cake," I would probably pass because I'd be picturing a slightly stale version of the above. But adding that sweet little "s" takes a crusty party food and turns it into a light, airy dessert that can be had not once a year, but once a DAY. No longer is it thick and chocolate-y; now it might be flavored with orange or lavender.

Basically, the whole tradition of evening tea bodes pretty well with me. It's snuggly and pleasant, and it fits the weather. 

But most of all, my love of English food comes down to one glorious word:

Squidgy. 

Just say it out loud, I don't care where you are.

Squidgy. 

Feel that "squ?" S-kh-ww-. It feels like saying a hug. It is the hug of words.

This is used to describe a texture that I honestly haven't found elsewhere. There's a type of fruit bread called Soreen that is the embodiment of squidgy. I don't know if it's sold in the states or not. It must be felt to be understood, so I recommend checking your local grocer. 

I like my surgery like I like my eggs... ovaries-y.

I didn't spend the fourth running drunken through the streets wearing an American flag as a toga. I didn't even make my hosts classic American junk food. Instead, I spent Independence Day completely dependant on Great Britain and her National Health Service.

Sunday, I was admitted into Warwick Hospital's A&E. My body had been giving me warning signs of my impending womby doom as early as Friday, but by Sunday morning, I couldn't stand, sit, OR lie down. The best I could do was crouch in a worshipful pose and crawl from room to room like a lizard. At this point, after deducing that cutting beans from my diet wasn't going to put an end to the pain, I begrudgingly called a cab to take me to the hospital.

Never having been admitted to an American hospital, I can't compare the speed, price, or efficiency of the two health care systems. However, my time in Beaumont Ward brought to light two concrete differences between England's hospital system and all my experiences with medical care in the US. One; tea is administered as strictly as medicine. I was reprimanded for not finishing my tea on not one, not two, not three, but four separate occasions.
Two; awkward British politeness knows no bounds. Originally, I was admitted to the emergency room under the erroneous diagnosis of "bladder infection." This was because, as I crouched in front of the nurses trying to form coherent sentences, one had said, "Oh, love, is there something funny with your bits-and-bobs?" Thinking "bits-and-bobs" meant innards, I nodded feverishly. Apparently, in so nodding, I had just agreed that I was having difficulty urinating because of bacteria. The term "bits-and-bobs" was used to refer to my vagina and uterus by even the senior radiologist, who will enter this story in just a moment.

Since the staff thought I had a bladder infection, I was in the waiting room much longer than I should have been. By the time a doctor saw me, I was a literal hot mess. I stumbled into the cubicle and promptly puked on the floor. After several rounds of vomiting, the very surprised doctor told me he was going to get a specialist. I puked in relief.

I don't remember a lot of what happened next, though I do remember being obnoxious. Eventually, I got morphined and shut up a little. I had all the signs of appendicitis except infection in my blood (or something), and they were just gearing up to remove me old vestigial when one of the two specialists who were assigned to me (must have been a slow night) suggested that it might be an ovarian cyst.

You know how when you watch House, you feel like you're one of the doctors and it's really fun? Not as fun from the patient's perspective.

"Ithinkweshouldrunhertoradiologyandgetanultras..." "WHAAAAT'S HAAAPPENINGGGG. CAN I HAVE MR MORPHNNNN (sob)"

I would much have preferred to be the cool, collected doctor in the sharp pantsuit saying, "This is crazy, House. If it works, you're a genius."

So against EVERYONE'S better judgement, apparently,  because most of the staff thought my appendix was rupturing as they spoke, this one doctor convinced a senior radiology member to stay on his shift a few minutes late and do a quick ultrasound of my belly, just in case it was an ovarian cyst after all. I was whisked away, blubbering and tripping on pain meds. The radiologist was called Dr. Hughes. I heard it, I saw it on his tag, but what came out every time I tried to ask anything about the ultrasound? "EXcuuuse me, Doctor Who, but is that my lungs?" "Doctor Who, is that my kidney?" The staff couldn't stop giggling, which was infuriating and made me cry harder, which made them even more patronizingly tell me that my bits-and-bobs would soon be sorted out.

Thankfully, the other specialist was really kind, and while the rest of the team was busy looking something over, he took a few minutes to explain to me what was happening. A cyst had either formed around or near my right ovary. It had been growing for three to six months, and within the past few days, it had somehow twisted itself around the old eggsac and that's where my pain was coming from.

There was a good chance I would lose my ovary, because they could tell the cyst was pretty big. Mom and Dad were called and the next thing I knew, I was waking up and groggily trying to focus on a picture that was being shoved in my face.
"It was as big as a football! I've never seen one that big before!" The picture is disgusting. The cyst was over six inches and looks like an alien baby turned inside out.

From what I ultimately gathered, my body tried to released an egg which an Indian doctor referred to as "bery, bery stubborn." It clung to my ovary and grew and grew. I like to think it was trying to fertilize itself, the independent bugger. The surgery didn't damage my ovary. Yay?

Here's the weird thing -
You know those moments before sleep where you're not unconscious but you can't quiiiite control your dreams? Well, in the past few weeks, I've imagined myself in a hospital probably six or seven times during these pre-sleeping moments. I mean, I've had the thought before, what if I were in an accident, you know, but I don't remember ever vividly imagining myself in an intensive care ward prior to a month ago. I'd chalked it up to my subconscious processing being in a strange situation, trying to do something I've never done before, but after hearing a BBC 4 broadcast about the connection between nerves in your gut and nerves your brain, I'm wondering if my body knew something was seriously wrong before my mind was willing to accept the news.

Does this mean the end of this summer's show, everyone keeps asking? HELL NO, everyone. The show will be adapted, yes, but keep checking in with us.

Unfortunately, due to completely different but weirdly timed circumstances, our London venue fell through yesterday. So it's just the Warwick show.

I gotta go to bed, y'all. More updates later. I AM NOT UNHAPPY. 2012 BEST HAPPY SUMMER FUN TIME.  Hey, I'll get a cool scar out of the mix, anyway. Which is all a girl can ask for.