Below is an excerpt from a call I received on Friday, 12/7/07-- the day of my birth. I was too busy not working and being lazy to post this at the time, but I've decided it still deserves to be shared. After all, my pain is nothing more than your reason for laughter. And for that I am proud.
OldMan: Are you in the editorial department?
SoTru: Yes, I am.
OM: Well, I want to talk to you about a problem I had and how I solved it. (yay for me!)
Okay, what was that?
OM: Well, my wife and I live in an apartment house, and we have a patio. A lot of people put plants on their patios for decoration, and it’s very nice. Well, we don’t have any water on our patio. (um, who does?)
SoTru: Oh, I see. (I’m still unclear on the problem)
OM: My wife and I would literally have to drag water from the kitchen onto the patio to water plants. (He says this really slowly, annunciating every syllable, so I can understand the magnitude of his problem. I say nothing. I still don’t get it.) So, I came up with this—are you listening?
SoTru: Yes, I am sir. How did you solve this problem?
OM: Well, you know plasticize board? Well, it’s that thick board you see politicians’ signs on—you know, like, on lawns saying “VOTE FOR KERRY!”
SoTru: Ah, yes. That.
OM: Well, I covered it with waterproof paint and I placed cardboard cutouts on it. I have an animal series, and I took horses, cows, reindeer* and pasted them onto the board. I mean, this board lasts for forever and a day. And I put them out on our patio, and it really solved a big problem for us. So, what I’m wondering is this: would this be something that would be interesting to your readers?
(Wait, is he drunk? Is he serious? First of all, I don’t see how not having water on a patio was cured by cardboard cutouts on a board. And even if so, doesn’t he have a grandchild who could make him cutouts of horses? I’m confused.)
SoTru:Um, no I don’t think so. I think that would be better suited to a crafts magazine; we normally focus on traditional realism.
The lessons to be gleaned from this conversational nugget are threefold:
1. Always screen calls in the workplace. Unless you work in the field of organ harvesting and donation, or late-breaking news, there is nothing that can't wait until you decide to call back.
2. The elderly have a lot of free time on their hands, and are too weak to carry water. Please be nice to the next geriatric you see, and offer to carry their goods.
3. No problem in life can't be solved with a little plasticize board.
Friday, December 7, 2007
Saturday, December 1, 2007
I don´t think I´m Lovin´
Friday, November 30, 2007
Lost in Translation
I am being oppressed by my own body. Here I am, in Barcelona, and I am deathly ill. I arrived at about 2pm and went to my hotel. After settling in, I went to a nearby pharmacy to get meds. Seeing as I didn´t know what anything meant, I went to the pharmacist and explained my symptoms in Spanish. "No sé que necesito. ¿Que Ud. cree?" I asked her politely. She gave me something or the other that I was to dissolve in water and drink completely.
I felt quite accomplished, having found medical attention in a foreign land. I took a walk around, went to grab some tapas (my jam and my jump-off), then returned to my hotel to medicate and sleep. While I waited for the disgusting medication to set in, I watched a show called "Amar en Tiempos Revueltos," which I figured out after about 20 minutes was an hour-long period drama set in 1920s/1930s España. It was about 5:15 pm when I started to fade-- just when Julieta told Alejandro that their love affair had to end.
Cut to 5am the next day. I am awake in my hotel room, after a lengthy 12-hour siesta.
Unsure of what to do, I turned on the boob tube, in hopes of watching another Spanish jam. I turned to channel 10, which was showing music videos-- in English! Missing my native tongue, I eagerly watched Sean Paul, Christina Aguilera, and Timbaland as my mind came to.
Suddenly, the television cut to a commercial, and I discovered I was watching a Dutch station (these hotels are so multi-culti). The next video was something foreign, and I was too weakened from illness to change the channel, so I watched. What proceeded to assault my eyes is unlike anything I have ever seen. Still physically oppressed, I dragged myself from my bed to the hotel computer to share this with you, gentle reader.
The group is called FETTES BROT, and they are a German hip hop group. According to Wikipedia, " ´Fettes Brot´is German for FAT BREAD. Although "fat" is a German slang term for "excellent", the phrase has no meaning at all. The band took the name from a fan who called them "Fettes Brot" after an early gig, which was probably meant as a compliment, but the members considered it so bizarre that they took it as the name for their new group. Fettes Brot's longevity has meant that it is sometimes referred to as "Hamburg's hip-hop-dinosaurs" by its members."
Um, hip-hop dinosaurs? Did they forget who they were appropriating? The title of the song I had the pleasure of viewing was "Nordisch by Nature"!
I kid. you. not.
Do not confuse this jam with the early 90s group "Naughty by Nature" and their hit jam OPP. Looks like Fettes Brot got down with some other people´s property!
For once, I do not think my skills as a woman of color and writer can do this song justice. I will simply embed the video so you can see for yourselves, and experience what I thought was another fever-induced hallucination.
It wasn´t.
I felt quite accomplished, having found medical attention in a foreign land. I took a walk around, went to grab some tapas (my jam and my jump-off), then returned to my hotel to medicate and sleep. While I waited for the disgusting medication to set in, I watched a show called "Amar en Tiempos Revueltos," which I figured out after about 20 minutes was an hour-long period drama set in 1920s/1930s España. It was about 5:15 pm when I started to fade-- just when Julieta told Alejandro that their love affair had to end.
Cut to 5am the next day. I am awake in my hotel room, after a lengthy 12-hour siesta.
Unsure of what to do, I turned on the boob tube, in hopes of watching another Spanish jam. I turned to channel 10, which was showing music videos-- in English! Missing my native tongue, I eagerly watched Sean Paul, Christina Aguilera, and Timbaland as my mind came to.
Suddenly, the television cut to a commercial, and I discovered I was watching a Dutch station (these hotels are so multi-culti). The next video was something foreign, and I was too weakened from illness to change the channel, so I watched. What proceeded to assault my eyes is unlike anything I have ever seen. Still physically oppressed, I dragged myself from my bed to the hotel computer to share this with you, gentle reader.
The group is called FETTES BROT, and they are a German hip hop group. According to Wikipedia, " ´Fettes Brot´is German for FAT BREAD. Although "fat" is a German slang term for "excellent", the phrase has no meaning at all. The band took the name from a fan who called them "Fettes Brot" after an early gig, which was probably meant as a compliment, but the members considered it so bizarre that they took it as the name for their new group. Fettes Brot's longevity has meant that it is sometimes referred to as "Hamburg's hip-hop-dinosaurs" by its members."
Um, hip-hop dinosaurs? Did they forget who they were appropriating? The title of the song I had the pleasure of viewing was "Nordisch by Nature"!
I kid. you. not.
Do not confuse this jam with the early 90s group "Naughty by Nature" and their hit jam OPP. Looks like Fettes Brot got down with some other people´s property!
For once, I do not think my skills as a woman of color and writer can do this song justice. I will simply embed the video so you can see for yourselves, and experience what I thought was another fever-induced hallucination.
It wasn´t.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Brown Girl, Brown Girl, Where Are You?
That was the title of a craigslist post I found, from a White man seeking a Black woman. Only now do I think I can mildly relate to the sentiment.
It´s about 9:30 in the mañana, and I´m leaving Tarragona and heading to Barcelona. I´m going to be by my lonesome for three días, but I´m sorta excited to get down to some real touristy stuff, walk on bustling streets and risk being robbed-- oh yeah, and I´d like to see some more negroes.
There are very few Black folks in northern Spain in general-- there are 0 in Tarragona. Everywhere I´ve been, people look at me like I´m either lost or about the jack something. Esther, my model for womanhood and wifery, says that people are just looking because I´m "muy guapa"-- very pretty-- not so much. They are looking at me because they only see me on la tele!
I wondering if they can handle the TRUTH of Sojourner in the flesh. It makes me a little uncomfortable--especially when it comes from older people, who make no bones about being all up in my George Foreman (grill). But I know that us Negroes stick to the major cities and major spots, and tiny beach towns like Tarragona aren´t our cup of tea (you know we don´t like beaches-- why get my hair wet? You know how long it took to construct this lie?!). And, unfortunately, it´s quite possible to live in this mundo and never see a real life brown person. HOT MESS!
So, I eagerly await my three days in Barcelona, where I can blend in, eat tapas without being eye fucked, and possibly get my wallet stolen. I´m about to spread la verdad all up and down Las Ramblas-- and hopefully I´ll meet some foreign hotties to keep me company. I´m thinking of trolling some of the high-end hostels for children of a foreign diginitaries who are trying to get away from it all.
It´s about 9:30 in the mañana, and I´m leaving Tarragona and heading to Barcelona. I´m going to be by my lonesome for three días, but I´m sorta excited to get down to some real touristy stuff, walk on bustling streets and risk being robbed-- oh yeah, and I´d like to see some more negroes.
There are very few Black folks in northern Spain in general-- there are 0 in Tarragona. Everywhere I´ve been, people look at me like I´m either lost or about the jack something. Esther, my model for womanhood and wifery, says that people are just looking because I´m "muy guapa"-- very pretty-- not so much. They are looking at me because they only see me on la tele!
I wondering if they can handle the TRUTH of Sojourner in the flesh. It makes me a little uncomfortable--especially when it comes from older people, who make no bones about being all up in my George Foreman (grill). But I know that us Negroes stick to the major cities and major spots, and tiny beach towns like Tarragona aren´t our cup of tea (you know we don´t like beaches-- why get my hair wet? You know how long it took to construct this lie?!). And, unfortunately, it´s quite possible to live in this mundo and never see a real life brown person. HOT MESS!
So, I eagerly await my three days in Barcelona, where I can blend in, eat tapas without being eye fucked, and possibly get my wallet stolen. I´m about to spread la verdad all up and down Las Ramblas-- and hopefully I´ll meet some foreign hotties to keep me company. I´m thinking of trolling some of the high-end hostels for children of a foreign diginitaries who are trying to get away from it all.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
¿Como se dice en español, WINTER SPOON?
Have you ever been sitting at a dinner table at 10pm with a mother, father, and 16-year-old daughter, when all of a sudden everyone starts yelling really loudly in a language you can´t really understand? The bits you do get involve some sort of dinner with the girl´s coworkers and the repeated use of the word "youth."
That happens to me alot.
Or have you ever been watching "Family Guy"-- only it´s called Padre de la Familia-- and Lois doesn´t have the annoying voice, Peter sounds like a mildly retarded weatherman, and Stewie lacks any semblance of being an English dandy?
Is that just me?
I really love España, but sometimes feel like I´m in a bizarro world with really good food.
Being here sorta reminds me of my time with the deaf. Like having to use ASL constantly, being in España requires that I speak "the native language"-- which is really hard! And, in the native language I lack much of my personal flair and sass. Por ejemplo: everyone I met yesterday thought I was 16 years old-- the same age as the cousin I´m staying with.
Sojourner, how can you have a 16 year old Spanish cousin? you may be wondering. Let me explain:
My mother got married to her latin lover, and he has a brother. This man has a wife and daughter, so by marriage, we´re all one big, happy, familia.
Anyway, back to me being a Spanish teen: I think the reason everyone thinks I´m young is that I have the vocabulary of a toddler and use a lot of large, silly gestures to make myself understood. You know, like, rubbing my tummy when I´m hungry, or physically shaking when I want someone to know I´m cold. Everyone thinks I´m hilarious, but for all the wrong reasons. I tried to explain the concept of a "winter spoon"-- cuchara del invierno-- but it just wouldn´t work. you can´t even make "spoon" a verb over here, they think I´m cray!
But let me stop complaining. Me encanta España! Things I love:
- They get thirty vacation days a year, IN ADDITION to holidays.
- All their medication comes in larger sizes. While I normally have to take 3 advil in America to experience relief, one ibuprofen pill-- the size of a horse tranquilizer-- knocks out my pain here in Tarragona.
- Paella
- It´s almost December and it´s 60 degrees during the dia.
- SPANISH WIFEYS
Seriously, all I want for Christmas is a Spanish wifey. They work more than slaves who´ve forgotten their free, and they do it all with a smile. I use as my example Esther, la madre de la casa. Here´s Esther´s typical day:
5 am: wake up. Put in a load of laundry, cook food so that when her daughter comes home from school she can have her late lunch, shower, and dress.
7am: wake up her daughter, get her some breakfast, get ready to go.
8:00 - 6:30: go to work.
6:30-9:00pm: come home, dry and fold laundry, cook elaborate dinner.
9:30-10:30: eat dinner, relax for a minute.
11:00pm: go to bed.
Um, hello?! How does she do it?! When does she have time to wipe her own ass, let alone relax?! And she´s the absolute nicest person I´ve ever met, refusing to let me help her with anything, offering to do my laundry, and asking what I want for lunch and dinner every day. It´s like she watched too many episodes of "The Donna Reed Show," but that´s not it-- she´s just THAT AWESOME. And whenever I say thank you or tell her to sit down, she´s surprised, and asks what my mother does all day. I explained to her that en Los Estados Unidos, my mom is oppressed enough just existing, and wouldn´t wake up at 5 am unless you paid her.
Esther stares at me like I have two heads. In fact, it´s quite similar to the way I stare at her when she says she cleans the house every day. Seriously, you could eat off their bathroom floor (believe me, I´ve tried)-- and they even have a giant dog that doesn´t leave a hair to show for itself.
I wish I could be a Spanish wifey one day, but the legacy of slavery makes it so that I will never be able to cook or clean for another person without feeling resentful. I just hope my husband will be able to understand and won´t get testy when I make him wear a French maid uniform.
That happens to me alot.
Or have you ever been watching "Family Guy"-- only it´s called Padre de la Familia-- and Lois doesn´t have the annoying voice, Peter sounds like a mildly retarded weatherman, and Stewie lacks any semblance of being an English dandy?
Is that just me?
I really love España, but sometimes feel like I´m in a bizarro world with really good food.
Being here sorta reminds me of my time with the deaf. Like having to use ASL constantly, being in España requires that I speak "the native language"-- which is really hard! And, in the native language I lack much of my personal flair and sass. Por ejemplo: everyone I met yesterday thought I was 16 years old-- the same age as the cousin I´m staying with.
Sojourner, how can you have a 16 year old Spanish cousin? you may be wondering. Let me explain:
My mother got married to her latin lover, and he has a brother. This man has a wife and daughter, so by marriage, we´re all one big, happy, familia.
Anyway, back to me being a Spanish teen: I think the reason everyone thinks I´m young is that I have the vocabulary of a toddler and use a lot of large, silly gestures to make myself understood. You know, like, rubbing my tummy when I´m hungry, or physically shaking when I want someone to know I´m cold. Everyone thinks I´m hilarious, but for all the wrong reasons. I tried to explain the concept of a "winter spoon"-- cuchara del invierno-- but it just wouldn´t work. you can´t even make "spoon" a verb over here, they think I´m cray!
But let me stop complaining. Me encanta España! Things I love:
- They get thirty vacation days a year, IN ADDITION to holidays.
- All their medication comes in larger sizes. While I normally have to take 3 advil in America to experience relief, one ibuprofen pill-- the size of a horse tranquilizer-- knocks out my pain here in Tarragona.
- Paella
- It´s almost December and it´s 60 degrees during the dia.
- SPANISH WIFEYS
Seriously, all I want for Christmas is a Spanish wifey. They work more than slaves who´ve forgotten their free, and they do it all with a smile. I use as my example Esther, la madre de la casa. Here´s Esther´s typical day:
5 am: wake up. Put in a load of laundry, cook food so that when her daughter comes home from school she can have her late lunch, shower, and dress.
7am: wake up her daughter, get her some breakfast, get ready to go.
8:00 - 6:30: go to work.
6:30-9:00pm: come home, dry and fold laundry, cook elaborate dinner.
9:30-10:30: eat dinner, relax for a minute.
11:00pm: go to bed.
Um, hello?! How does she do it?! When does she have time to wipe her own ass, let alone relax?! And she´s the absolute nicest person I´ve ever met, refusing to let me help her with anything, offering to do my laundry, and asking what I want for lunch and dinner every day. It´s like she watched too many episodes of "The Donna Reed Show," but that´s not it-- she´s just THAT AWESOME. And whenever I say thank you or tell her to sit down, she´s surprised, and asks what my mother does all day. I explained to her that en Los Estados Unidos, my mom is oppressed enough just existing, and wouldn´t wake up at 5 am unless you paid her.
Esther stares at me like I have two heads. In fact, it´s quite similar to the way I stare at her when she says she cleans the house every day. Seriously, you could eat off their bathroom floor (believe me, I´ve tried)-- and they even have a giant dog that doesn´t leave a hair to show for itself.
I wish I could be a Spanish wifey one day, but the legacy of slavery makes it so that I will never be able to cook or clean for another person without feeling resentful. I just hope my husband will be able to understand and won´t get testy when I make him wear a French maid uniform.
Monday, November 26, 2007
English: The Language of Love
I´m sure many of you are wondering about Sojourner´s romantic life abroad. After all, what is this blog other than sordid stories of awkward pseudo-romantic and pseudo-sexual interactions? I promise I will not disappoint the pervy ones who enjoy hearing about my "dating." There´s a lot to tell, so you may want to read this in bits.
In summation: The Brits like the blacktress-- especially the American ones.
My first night, my lovely hostess Aditi took me to an Australian bar called THE WALKABOUT. Now, many of you know how much I love a good theme, and this establishment took theirs to the max. The tvs on the wall played loops of tanned people surfing, they had all the local beers on tap, and they even had a ´down under bar´which was downstairs and had kangaroos on the walls.
We showed up (fully pre-gamed, cause the pound ain´t no joke) and took in the multi-culti scene. They were closing early, unfortch, but we were directed to the sister location in Leicester Square (by the way, that word is pronounced ´lester´-- why, i don´t know). We ordered a pitcher and I noticed a random wearing a Yankees hat. I called him over and asked him why he was repping my homeland (the sweater tied around his waist was a dead giveaway that he wasn´t American). Turned out he was from Chile, and we got to practice our Spanish as 10 people-- clearly towards the tail end of a drunken office party-- got crunked on dranks and danced to early 90s American pop hits.
As Aditi and I headed to the bar to contemplate ordering something else toxic and delicious, the dudes in front of us were ordering. Overhearing our American accents, they turned and said, ¨Do you want a shot?" Clearly, I took this shot with eagerness and we ended up chilling with the office crowd, a mix of Brits and Aussies. Before I know it, a 6´4" tall glass of English milk starts dancing with me-- he had a Hugh Grant vibe, with spectacles and paleness. His name was Tristan and he was a barister--aka lawyer. He immediately asks if I want to go outside with him. HAHAHA! I may have been foreign, but I wasn´t born yesterday, Hugh.
After more dancing, we left the dance floor so I could get my English makeout. It was decent. He kept being verbose and English, asking me before he did anything, and kept referring to me as "delectable." He was even asking me to go home with him! eep! I explained to Tristan that in FOUR WEDDINGS AND A FUNERAL, Hugh was far more bumbling and awkward with Andie McDowell, and I expected less masculinity from him-- and I´d just gotten here and was no way in hell going to the random beaudoir of a strange man, no matter how close to Piccadilly Circus he lives.
More making out occurred and then Aditi and I left. While Hugh and I did the requisite cell number exchange and he told me I "meant a lot to him," I left it as the one-time thing it was meant to be. You can imagine my surprise when, while on my "magical pub discovery journey" with my English husband (more on him later) Hugh/Tristan called me to tell me what a great time he had and asked if I was available for tonight. As much as I was flattered and shocked by his follow-through, I´d much rather chill with my friends than go running after a random Hugh Grant-- it was my vacay, after all; I spend enough time running after dudes in America.
Cut to Saturday night: Celebrating my last night in London, I figured that the best thing to do would be to go out all night, seeing as I had such an early flight to catch to get to Spain. Aditi and I head went out in her neighborhood, first heading to a cocktail bar to just check out the scene. While in the loo, I met this great girl named Michelle, who said she´d help me get my British kiss on my last night. Clearly, we became new best friends, and we ended up going out with her and her crew, which included two random dudes and a woman who Aditi and I called ROCKSTAR. She had short platinum blond hair, wore shiny patent leather pants with converse high tops, and a black wife beater. She was rock n roll personified.
And, in true rock n roll fashion, she directed us to a bar called THE FUNKY MUNKY. I kid you not. At the entrance, I saw a tall, strapping gentleman having his cigarette. I thought nothing of it (other than "holla at an international playa!") and went inside to dance and be debaucherous. Another bathroom run led me to two British girls who wanted to take a photo with me because I was from New York City. This was the second time this had happened to me on my journey, so I was less surprised. Sojourner´s face will be featured in an Australian birthday album, an English office party website, and now probably on two random chicks´MySpace profiles.
Anyway, somehow I end up talking to the tall British man once inside and he bought me a DRANK. We end up smooching, I explain that I´m heading to Spain the next day. He then says he will come to Barcelona and stay with me. HA! Can you imagine?! He swears he´s serious, we exchange contact info, and I head out.
So, that´s that. Fun times, right? There was also the 39 year old Irishman who kept telling me I was very curvy and had a hot body. He looked kinda like Shrek´s half brother, so we won´t discuss that.
In summation: The Brits like the blacktress-- especially the American ones.
My first night, my lovely hostess Aditi took me to an Australian bar called THE WALKABOUT. Now, many of you know how much I love a good theme, and this establishment took theirs to the max. The tvs on the wall played loops of tanned people surfing, they had all the local beers on tap, and they even had a ´down under bar´which was downstairs and had kangaroos on the walls.
We showed up (fully pre-gamed, cause the pound ain´t no joke) and took in the multi-culti scene. They were closing early, unfortch, but we were directed to the sister location in Leicester Square (by the way, that word is pronounced ´lester´-- why, i don´t know). We ordered a pitcher and I noticed a random wearing a Yankees hat. I called him over and asked him why he was repping my homeland (the sweater tied around his waist was a dead giveaway that he wasn´t American). Turned out he was from Chile, and we got to practice our Spanish as 10 people-- clearly towards the tail end of a drunken office party-- got crunked on dranks and danced to early 90s American pop hits.
As Aditi and I headed to the bar to contemplate ordering something else toxic and delicious, the dudes in front of us were ordering. Overhearing our American accents, they turned and said, ¨Do you want a shot?" Clearly, I took this shot with eagerness and we ended up chilling with the office crowd, a mix of Brits and Aussies. Before I know it, a 6´4" tall glass of English milk starts dancing with me-- he had a Hugh Grant vibe, with spectacles and paleness. His name was Tristan and he was a barister--aka lawyer. He immediately asks if I want to go outside with him. HAHAHA! I may have been foreign, but I wasn´t born yesterday, Hugh.
After more dancing, we left the dance floor so I could get my English makeout. It was decent. He kept being verbose and English, asking me before he did anything, and kept referring to me as "delectable." He was even asking me to go home with him! eep! I explained to Tristan that in FOUR WEDDINGS AND A FUNERAL, Hugh was far more bumbling and awkward with Andie McDowell, and I expected less masculinity from him-- and I´d just gotten here and was no way in hell going to the random beaudoir of a strange man, no matter how close to Piccadilly Circus he lives.
More making out occurred and then Aditi and I left. While Hugh and I did the requisite cell number exchange and he told me I "meant a lot to him," I left it as the one-time thing it was meant to be. You can imagine my surprise when, while on my "magical pub discovery journey" with my English husband (more on him later) Hugh/Tristan called me to tell me what a great time he had and asked if I was available for tonight. As much as I was flattered and shocked by his follow-through, I´d much rather chill with my friends than go running after a random Hugh Grant-- it was my vacay, after all; I spend enough time running after dudes in America.
Cut to Saturday night: Celebrating my last night in London, I figured that the best thing to do would be to go out all night, seeing as I had such an early flight to catch to get to Spain. Aditi and I head went out in her neighborhood, first heading to a cocktail bar to just check out the scene. While in the loo, I met this great girl named Michelle, who said she´d help me get my British kiss on my last night. Clearly, we became new best friends, and we ended up going out with her and her crew, which included two random dudes and a woman who Aditi and I called ROCKSTAR. She had short platinum blond hair, wore shiny patent leather pants with converse high tops, and a black wife beater. She was rock n roll personified.
And, in true rock n roll fashion, she directed us to a bar called THE FUNKY MUNKY. I kid you not. At the entrance, I saw a tall, strapping gentleman having his cigarette. I thought nothing of it (other than "holla at an international playa!") and went inside to dance and be debaucherous. Another bathroom run led me to two British girls who wanted to take a photo with me because I was from New York City. This was the second time this had happened to me on my journey, so I was less surprised. Sojourner´s face will be featured in an Australian birthday album, an English office party website, and now probably on two random chicks´MySpace profiles.
Anyway, somehow I end up talking to the tall British man once inside and he bought me a DRANK. We end up smooching, I explain that I´m heading to Spain the next day. He then says he will come to Barcelona and stay with me. HA! Can you imagine?! He swears he´s serious, we exchange contact info, and I head out.
So, that´s that. Fun times, right? There was also the 39 year old Irishman who kept telling me I was very curvy and had a hot body. He looked kinda like Shrek´s half brother, so we won´t discuss that.
London Calling, Pt. 2
I am currently in Spain, sitting in the oficina of my step-aunt and uncle. If this post contains several typos, I apologize in advance; i am having problemas with this keyboard.
anyway, i got in to spain at noon yesterday, and hadn´t slept since friday night-- and even that sleep was questionable. It was a whirlwind three days, involving meeting relatives I didn´t know I had (an unearthing daddy drama), going on a "magical pub discovery adventure" with a friend who hadn´t seen in 2.5 years, and getting crunked on the streets of LDN. Things I´ve learned:
- Brits don´t think it´s funny when you´re walking through the tube/subway station and start singing "America, Fuck Yeah! Coming again to save the muthafuckin´day, yeah!"
- Chips means "french fries." And, funny enough, actual potato chips are called ¨crisps."
- The customer is never right. The sassy attitude of the English server makes no apologies for f-ing up your order.
- You can not go walking around Notting Hill asking strangers where you can find Julia Roberts.
- The English lad epitomizes the word "strapping"-- you will never get osteoporosis on this side of the pond.
- The next time Brits start talking about fat Americans, remind them about the English breakfast: beans, toast, eggs, bacon AND sausage, roasted tomatoes and mushrooms. Seriously, all as on meal.
- I am indeed not black enough. When meeting my Nigerian relatives, the question of my "African side" was raised, as it was a bit upsetting to them that I interact with the white Other and had no Nigerian pals. If only they knew about my romantic life.....
anyway, i got in to spain at noon yesterday, and hadn´t slept since friday night-- and even that sleep was questionable. It was a whirlwind three days, involving meeting relatives I didn´t know I had (an unearthing daddy drama), going on a "magical pub discovery adventure" with a friend who hadn´t seen in 2.5 years, and getting crunked on the streets of LDN. Things I´ve learned:
- Brits don´t think it´s funny when you´re walking through the tube/subway station and start singing "America, Fuck Yeah! Coming again to save the muthafuckin´day, yeah!"
- Chips means "french fries." And, funny enough, actual potato chips are called ¨crisps."
- The customer is never right. The sassy attitude of the English server makes no apologies for f-ing up your order.
- You can not go walking around Notting Hill asking strangers where you can find Julia Roberts.
- The English lad epitomizes the word "strapping"-- you will never get osteoporosis on this side of the pond.
- The next time Brits start talking about fat Americans, remind them about the English breakfast: beans, toast, eggs, bacon AND sausage, roasted tomatoes and mushrooms. Seriously, all as on meal.
- I am indeed not black enough. When meeting my Nigerian relatives, the question of my "African side" was raised, as it was a bit upsetting to them that I interact with the white Other and had no Nigerian pals. If only they knew about my romantic life.....
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