for savta

The thoughts I am about to share with you are personal, but I feel they are important to explore. I didn’t feel like I was able to continue with my usual posts until I visited the creature that was this past Passover.

On the Tuesday before Passover, I scheduled an emergency flight back to the United States. My grandmother had been diagnosed with an advanced lung cancer and it was progressing at a rapid speed.

After the flight to the United States, it was onto the train to Washington DC, where my sister and father were waiting to pick me up. It was great to see them, but it was with a different excitement that we greeted one another. The three of us sat in an unsettled silence in the car. Though I knew about her illness, I kept asking questions that I already knew the answers to keep a conversation going and to ease my nerves. I noted the familiar suburban landscapes as we drove by them, the memorable crunch of the wheels on our driveway.

When I walked in, however, the house was unfamiliar. My grandmother lay in a hospital bed. The room, which was once a computer room, was now a cozy haven for her. My mother came to embrace me, and I  looked at my grandmother. When my sister told my grandmother I was there, her eyes widened, she made an excited noise, and squeezed my hand.

The next morning, my sister and I harmonized and sang for her, and she mimed conducting motions with her hand. She hummed tunes with us, and seemed to be quite lucid. Things started declining from there, however—it seemed that she was losing her spark.

I decided to stay with her one night, so I dozed on the futon right next to her, waking up every few hours, nervous that she had stopped breathing. I felt an intimate connection with her in those hours.

From there, there were many special and highly emotional moments: the rest of my siblings joining us, reconnecting with my mother’s siblings, the amazing Passover medley (watch by playing link) played for her by my father and brother on the mandolin and guitar, the women in the family surrounding my grandmothers bed and singing Kabbalat Shabbat (A ceremony to welcome Shabbat that precedes the Friday night evening service) with her, seeing the patchwork quilt of amazing nurses, aides, and friends that made my grandmother as comfortable as possible. Every time we cried , there was a different flavor of tears that fell from our eyes.

On Friday morning, a beautiful sunrise graced the sky.

The whole family, including my mother’s siblings, enjoyed a festive Shabbat dinner after evening services around my grandmother’s bed. We all headed upstairs to get some sleep, but only hours later, my father sat on my bed and woke me. My other two sisters were also sleeping in my room and we all jolted up suddenly. “Did she go?”, I asked groggily. My father nodded. Then there were more events, more memories.

Guarding her body (From the moment of death in Jewish tradition, the body is not left alone until after burial. This practice, called guarding/watching (shemira), is based on the principle of honoring the dead), which was draped with a sheet, during the night, before the funeral home came to pick the body up. The chill in the room. Saying psalms by her bedside. Watching the funeral home take her body away in the morning. Since she passed on the Sabbath, we couldn’t do much of anything, and therefore, we were able to sit with the loss as a family. The Rabbi came over in the afternoon to discuss the laws of mourning with my mother and her siblings. There was a peace, albeit a sad one, that settled upon our household.

Throughout the entire process, my siblings and I were on turbo mode, making arrangements both for Passover (a labor intensive holiday that many people begin preparing for a month prior), and starting Saturday night, for the funeral. We split into teams, some of us going out for deranged Starbucks’ runs and errands, the others scrubbing floors or cutting up dozens of garlic heads for seder borscht in memory of my grandmother. The way we acted at points bordered on delirious (doubling over with maniacal laughter in a kosher supermarket, the five of us sitting around the dining room table in the middle of the night on a communal gchat), but I guess the insanity was a coping mechanism to be expected when dealing with no sleep and high levels of emotion.

The funeral and the Shiva (which was only one day instead of seven, because the holiday began) were a blur, and Passover itself felt a little bit difficult, but we made it through.

Anyhow, I just wanted to acknowledge the importance of this event for my  growth. My grandmother was a teacher by trade, and she was a teacher to me until her last breath. What happened during the process of her illness taught me the power of community, the gentleness and patience of those working in Hospice care, the absolute sensitivity of the Jewish laws of mourning, and the vital importance of family connections.

Finally, since she passed in our home and I was able to be so close to the process, she taught me that death is natural. Death is a part of life.

Passover is about the forming of the Jewish people as a nation and their redemption from physical and spiritual enslavement. By being with my Savta this Passover, I feel that I have been redeemed somewhat from mundane fears and pressures, to thinking more about the bigger things in life, like my essence as a person and the relationships that choose to surround myself with.

The activism I do in the coming months will be for her—it will be for the nurses, my sisters, and my brother and sister-in-law. It will be for my parents, my community, and my friends.

the choirmaster, the Rabbi, and the activist

The featured photo doesn’t necessarily have ALL that much to do with my post, but it represents my excitement for Passover. I will be returning to be with my family for the week of Passover. On my father’s steering wheel is Korby, our Passover mascot. He gets a special place of honor on our Seder table.

This weekend, I did one of my favorite things: Take in the beauty of Central London on Shabbat. There were two reasons that this weekend was particularly whimsical. First, the temperature was climbing to 70 degrees Farhenheit, and the sky was a vibrant blue, with only a few translucent wisps of cloud floating by. Very unusual for London. Second, both synagogues we attended had visiting choirs that sang at the services, a rare phenomenon for an Orthodox service.

On Friday afternoon, I went about my traditional pre-Shabbat ritual. Though it sounds like quite a vain ritual, it prepares my body for Shabbat. The soul follows. I took my usual shower and blow-dried my hair until it was shiny. I pulled on a gray skirt, which flowed all the way to the floor, and a black top, a heap of golden bracelet bangles, patterned tights, and black shoes. I looked at myself in the mirror, puckered my lips and applied my crimson red lipstick and black mascara. Finally, I gave myself a generous spraying of sweet, fruity perfume. I was ready for Shabbat. I took a deep breath and hoped that this Shabbat would bring comfort to my ill grandmother. I hoped that it would bring peace to blood-stained regions.  I hoped that it would restore peoples’ sense of respect for one another in a world full of conflict.

I walked downstairs and handed my ID to the guard (I can’t carry it around on Shabbat due to the Eruv), and we were on our way.

Friday Night, we (myself, Bracha, Chana, Bracha’s friend) were at the Western Marble Arch synagogue, which I very much enjoyed. Since I have been occasionally attending weekday services there, I am becoming to know the faces of the warm and friendly community. When I walked in to services, the Rabbi turned around and greeted me. The dinner afterwards was lively, as the whole choir joined us, along with the Rabbi, his wife, and a woman from Italy who was in the process of converting to Judaism. We sang and we laughed until the late hours of the evening, liberally sipping wine and eating piles of steaming, delicious, Shabbat food. The Rabbi and his wife constantly circulated around the table, making sure everyone was fed and comfortable, filling wine glasses and carrying on conversations. The sense of community was palpable.

After our long walk home, I ran into a familiar face in my building lobby on her way back from a night out on the town. She asked me what I did that evening. I told her we celebrated Shabbat, went to services. She said, somewhat sarcastically; “Fun!”.

But it truly was.

The next morning, I walked to The Central Synagogue on Great Portland Street. I greeted the security with a couple of high fives, and went into services. Just like last time when I posted, I was incredibly inspired by the choir. The tunes were so rich, that they vibrated the pews. They bounced off the high ceilings, and landed right onto my skin, making it tremble. The synagogue was filled with the usual eclectic mix, a selection of people from the area, the older regulars, and a large group of Swedish teenagers visiting and learning about Judaism.

During the Kiddush, the Rabbi and Cantor walked about greeting everyone individually, having conversations with every single person. There was no shortage of whiskey, chopped herring, sweets, hummus, fruits, and pastries. I tried to talk to the Swedish students, but they didn’t speak English. So I pulled over an older member of the Shul that I knew was fluent in German and introduced them to each other.

During the Kiddush, I praised the Rabbi for creating such a welcoming and spiritual environment. Initially, he told me, the board was genuinely concerned with his informal style. He told them that he would try it, and if they had a problem, he would try to be more formal. They haven’t said a thing in 16 years.

A group of us then went to visit a member from the synagogue at the hospital. He was staying at a private (non NHS) hospital. The room was beautiful, and we hung around for a half hour, singing some Jewish songs and telling jokes. He was Belgian and 25, but he looked way beyond his years.

We had lunch with a young couple from the synagogue who are active in youth planning, a few young shulgoers, and a member from the choir. We had a great time, talking about both serious and light matters. Afterwards, we headed over to Regent’s Park and we lay on our backs, looking at the blue sky and talking. Oh, and singing. I joined a random  Frisbee game (injured my pinky a bit, but we won’t talk about that), and played with as many babies as possible. On our way back to shul for Mincha and Seudah Shlishit, we watched different species of ducks dip in and out of the water.

There is something I have always admired about spiritual leaders and their capability to bring people together. Their ability to build a community devoted to creating meaningful relationships and to doing incredible things in the world. They go about their work, creating a delicate balance of friendship, respect, and mutual understanding.

As I watched the choirmaster go about his work of conducting the group, I thought of all the leaders I know and admire–and the leader I eventually want to be. The choirmaster makes it look effortless, but you can see that he is practicing a precise science. The choir is meant to read into every aspect of his craft. His hands travel at sharp angles, his eyes and mouth change according to the varied mood of the arrangement. He takes audible, meaningful gasps of breath when he wants the choir to do the same. Each member of the choir has a distinct voice, and unique part, but they all come together under the choirmaster’s leadership to deliver a meaningful and rich tune.

This is why, I believe, faith is so intimately connected with community and grassroots organizing. There is a true sense of understanding and trust among the members of the congregation and the leader. I can only imagine how beautiful it would be if all the congregations in the world devoted themselves to social action and building bridges of understanding.

Last night, I had a strange nightmare. I was trying to organize, to do activism, and something wasn’t working. I was in an impoverished area, and one of the people who I was working with shot me in the chest with a gun. I asked why they did that. They looked at me blankly, and slammed the door on my face. I went to go get an agenda done for a meeting, so I went into a library. I was asked to leave. I went into a different library, and I wasn’t welcome there either. I continued entering libraries and being ousted from them.

There were other strange aspects too. A lot of people were wearing hats made out of different birds; there were penguins that were skimming the ocean’s surface like sharks. Eventually, I remember there being a lot of noise. Eventually, I lost my temper. I stood up and screamed at the top of my lungs. I said something like:

“JUST STOP! DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND? THE LEVELS OF SEGREGATION HERE ARE UNBELIEVABLE! CAN EVERYONE JUST SETTLE DOWN SO WE CAN WORK TOGETHER AND DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT?”

No one listened. The noise continued until I eventually woke up.

This dream hints about how much I have to learn about organizing. Of course you don’t stand on a bench and shout at people!

More importantly, though, I think this dream reflects one of my most prevalent anxieties about organizing. In the community I grew up in, my opinions on economic policy are too radical. Similar tensions exist in the activist community. Because I support Israel’s right to exist, I am not radical enough.

It’s not that I don’t have a place-there are many forums to organize with my viewpoints, but sometimes it can be challenging to feel like you fit.

Here’s to challenges turning into opportunities, and to my grandmother’s comfort and health. Keep her in your thoughts and prayers!

Exploring the Built Environment, Part 2: Oxford Street and part of the West End

The phrase built environment refers to the man-made surroundings that provide the setting for human activity, ranging in scale from personal shelter to neighborhoods to the large-scale civic surroundings.

Oxford Street is a center both for tourists and working/higher class London natives. An area peppered with dozens of department and chain stores, It is the equivalent to Fifth Avenue in New York. Charing Cross Road/The Strand marks a part of London’s West End theatre district.

a regular street corner

including tourists in the environment--making sure they know which way to look as they cross the street

walk signal button

one of the many beautiful old churches you pass while walking in London

London really encourages a cycling culture--These bikes can be rented by anyone for just £5 for the week; under 30 minutes is free. What is interesting, however, is that there doesn't seem to be a helmet law. Even the advertisements for these bikes show people riding them without helmets. Maybe they think not as many people would ride if it was obligatory to wear helmets?

A "public loo" in the city. For a nominal charge, anyone can use these facilities. (note the CHARGE, though-does any city allow you to go to the bathroom for free?. Though I have seen many more people relieve themselves in public here than in New York or DC)

With the wide "pavement" (sidewalks) and numerous railings to lean on, its easy to take a break for some fresh air and linger outdoors for a few minutes.

The buses are extremely efficient here. They come often, are marked clearly, and go to a wide range of locations. Plus, once you're on the bus, a digital display tells the rider what stop is coming up.

some weary tourists take a quick break on one of many benches on Oxford street (which you CAN stretch out on, by the way--interesting to note. Many cities sculpt their benches to make them inaccessible to homeless populations that may need to sleep on one during the night)

The sculpture and clock which adorns the historic Selfridge's department store. Selfridge's, which has been open since the early 1900s, was one of the first places in the UK to use modern-day advertising devices that played on human desires and to foster a culture of consumerism.

An advertising window outside of Selfridge's, complete with real bubbles and a strategically placed stream of water. (playing on human desires much?)

Oxford street. Note the wide pavement (sidewalks), tree lined streets, and the building which are comparatively lower than those in New York. Someone walking by is much more able to see the sky.

the street musician-an integral part of the urban environment. He leans against the wall of one of the storefronts as people walk past him.

no grid system here! The curvy nature of London streets is more difficult to navigate, but defeats any sense of monotony-each street has a unique flavor.

different historical periods of architecture sit right next to one another

the massive amount of construction going on in preparation for the 2012 Olympic Games are already altering the built environment--many places such as Oxford street, which is being radically refurbished, have an unstable atmosphere due to the constant turnover of physical appearance and sounds of construction. Sense of community is shaken.

I'm pretty sure these folks were an Oxford Street security team. (Like the Lincoln Center security)

A pipe burst under the pavement-look at how different Londoners choose to navigate around it. While some jumped over the wide puddle, others walked in the street. Most looked unphased, though the puddle seriously interrupted their quick walking flow.

a woman with a stroller wheels right through

daintily stepping into the puddle

gingerly walking through

Eventually someone asked me why I kept taking photos of this puddle. 🙂

Look at the juxtapostion of architecture here!

Three types of transportation-walking, cycling, automobile

One of the dozens of corner pubs in central London. Though apparently, dozens are closing every day, due to the decrease in communal activity.

traditional call boxes-they now offer texting capabilites. Often, they are plastered with advertisements for escort services.

Charing Cross Road.

urban residences over a storefront, complete with outdoor flowerbeds. Check out the sign on the building. Another sign of the rich history of London.

Taking a break from the workday.

man standing outside of a Pret A Manger. In Central London, it is not unusual to find several Starbucks', Costa Coffees' , and Prets' on one street.

The theatre district: Note Matthew Fox in the marquee of "In a Forest, Dark and Deep." (I actually saw this play). The increase of celebrities starring in West End productions is making theatre tickets more and more unaffordable and inaccessible.

Many theatres line The Strand, a long street coming off of Charing Cross Road.

waiting for the bus on The Strand.

well-dressed female professionals walk down The Strand on a break. Note the varied architecture in the background, the wide pavement, the number of buses, and the designated bus lane.

The Lyceum theatre. A glorious, regal, standalone theatre on The Strand.

The building curves around and fits the shape of the street. Complex architecture is aesthetically pleasing.

All sidewalks are drastically textured at road crossings for blind and vision-impaired pedestrians.

more textured sidewalks

A painter works on a canvas on the side of the street.

an impressive building right off of the Strand.

Exploring the Built Environment: Part 1: Regent’s Park

The phrase built environment refers to the man-made surroundings that provide the setting for human activity, ranging in scale from personal shelter to neighborhoods to the large-scale civic surroundings.

Regent’s Park is an urban oasis with meticulously manicured and sculpted beauty, vis a vis the attempted naturalism of Central Park in New York City. The area is not particularly residential (save for very wealthy homeowners), but many types of people pass through the park. What do you think about this type of beauty in comparison with “untamed” naturalistic beauty?

Two older women use the paths of Regents Park for daily exercise.

The manicured beauty of the park.

unique flowers in Regents Park

blossoming trees in Regents Park

one of the beautiful fountains in the park

more gardens, carefully constructed

a professional uses the park to relax during his hectic day

lion planter in the park

exquisite flowerbeds

 

man and pigeon resting

I mean, I just never saw a pigeon resting before. ever.

another view of the park

sharing the space with wildlife: two wood pigeons in Regents Park

two young schoolboys walk through the park

London is home to so many monuments. How might this influence the use of public space?

rawr, grr, woof. oy vey.

At Camden Market the other day, I saw this image on a t-shirt:

Not only did it make me laugh for a full 10 minutes, but it really made me think how closely we are related to much of the animal kingdom. Scientifically, we are made up of the same cells. Psychologically, we share a lot of the same raw instincts.

Jewish tradition suggests a differentiation between the animal kingdom and human beings. In Jewish thought, humans are given the special gift of being made in the image of God, a reflection of the Divine(Tzelem Elokim), and therefore, they are able to exercise complex spiritual and intellectual functions. Judaism also holds deep respect for animals; on the Sabbath, the animals on one’s farm are supposed to rest along with the farmer. Special laws exist to prevent cruelty to animals, including the obligation to feed one’s animal before feeding ones self.

Animals have always intrigued me. Cuddling with them, watching them, interacting with them. Going to the Zoo is up there with one of my absolute favorite things to do, provided that the zoo provides spacious habitats, that it is dedicated to the well-being of the animals, and that the zoo is engaged in important scientific research. Anyhow, I went to the London Zoo for the first time with my father yesterday and engaged with the wildlife there. It is truly a stunning zoo, boasting a rainforest lookout, gorgeous aviaries, and a walk-through section where you can interact face-to-face with monkeys. I looked a young giraffe straight in the eye, met an Okapi for the first time, saw a mother gorilla clutch her tiny baby, and watched a tiger up close snarl and pace. It was pretty rockin’.

I’ve also been observing wildlife outside of zoological institutions, particularly enjoying watching the pigeons and their antics. I saw my first Tube “rat”, the other day, except they are adorable in comparison with the New York rats. It was a little mouse, no bigger than a fat hamster, which sniffed lazily around the tracks. I’ve seen beautiful birds with saffron-yellow wings and white crowned heads. I’ve watched wood pigeons kneeling daintily outside of the Shakespeare’s globe theatre. Finally, definitely my best urban wildlife story: I was standing outside of my building a few nights ago, talking on the phone, when a large grey fox rushed past! He was scurrying past me so quickly with an awkward guilty smirk on his face, I felt like he was saying “ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodpigeonpigeonpigeon!” Or something to that effect.

Check out this special prayer, called Perek Shirah (“Chapter of Song”), which tells of God’s natural creations in the form of liturgical poetry. If you are interested, see the full text here.

Also of interest is Zoo Torah, a project of Rabbi Natan Slifkin,which is an educational enterprise uses Torah as an aid for wildlife education, and it uses wildlife as an aid for Torah education. Zoo Torah offers a series of books, worldwide programs for both adults and children, zoo tours, and African safaris.

Anyhow, today is the beginning of a new month in the Jewish calendar. This holiday celebrates the cycle of the moon, and it is an exciting time for me to reflect upon the natural world. (Though I find it increasingly problematic to say “natural” as if it is completely separate from the “urban”, cities are ecosystems in themselves.

Anyhow, I’m going to see The Lion King on the West End tonight! I’ve been wanting to see this show for as long as I can remember, and I’m really looking forward to celebrating the wonders of the world through the performing arts.

Also, Okapis? Coolest. animals. ever.

How British is this?

guarding the Thames

I know, I know. I’m reprimanding myself. I’m a bad blogger. I haven’t updated in a while. And I know, it makes the posts kind of long. But I’m back, and I’m bursting with exciting things to share. Plus, I’ve added a recipes page!

I am sitting right now in a Starbucks, (which I generally would not choose, but they have wifi), while my father is attending a diabetes conference near Canary Wharf. We have really had a wonderful visit so far. We have definitely had our funny moments (check out the videos!), including crazy times at restaurants, uneven pavements, toy stores, and pedestrian subways. It’s been really fun to have him here, because I really haven’t been a tourist yet in London. It’s been totally lovely taking photos by the Thames, walking up and down Regent street, and pointing at things like an absolute fool.

On Sunday night, I met him at the airport, and I waited for around an hour at the International Arrivals area. I almost missed him, though, because I was so distracted by the outbursts of emotions around me—one woman broke down crying when she got a call on her cell phone, one boy ran to meet his family with whom he was reuniting, and a mother ran towards her two children and husband, tears streaming down her face. Whoa. Airports.

The next day, we attended Shacharit (morning services) at the Marble Arch synagogue, and we met some really sweet members-the community and the Rabbi are both amazingly warm. Following that, we began our jam-packed day—Oxford Street, Regent Street, The V&A, The South Bank—followed by a dinner in Golders Green and a show called Showstoppers!, an improvised musical on the West End.

Anyhow, our time together has been really enjoyable, and I look forward to spending the rest of the week with him and reporting back.

I guess what I really wanted to tell you about was last Shabbat. Friday night, Bracha, Nava, and myself ate an intimate Friday night dinner not only with the Rabbi of Marble Arch and his wife, but also Lord and Lady Sacks. I’m sorry—but words cannot express how absolutely positively incredible these few hours were for me. Chief Rabbi Jonathan Sacks is a leader that has truly inspired me and shaped my relationship to Judaism, and he was sitting across the table from me. Though the cooking of the Rabbi’s wife was unbelievable, I barely ate because I was so excited and nervous.

The next day, after attending services at Central Synagogue we hosted a lunch of Strawberry Spinach Salad, Eggplant Parmesan, Salmon Loaf, Green Beans, and Honey-Roasted sweet potatoes-a true Shabbat feast. We then walked around and looked at the universities of some of our guests. We were planning to head over to the giant protest afterwards, but we decided against it for various reasons. I had seen hoards of people heading over there in the morning, but unfortunately, a fringe group at the end erupted into violence.

When I tell people I’m studying abroad in London, they tell me that its pretty cool, but, isn’t London like any other big American city? And shouldn’t I at least be travelling to other European countries often? Maybe it’s the Urban Studies major in me, but I don’t think London is like any American city I’ve seen. Furthermore, its only once you become a part of the community and really spend time with the people that you see those nuanced differences.  I wouldn’t have the ability to do that if I went away every weekend.

On Sunday, I decided to take a long and leisurely walk from my place to the Thames. It was such a beautiful day,  I had to spend every moment possible breathing in the crisp air. Everyone was basking in the sunlight, a very rare occurrence for Londoners. People leaned curiously over the ledge to look at the glittering river. Across the Thames I could see the thatched roof of the Globe Theatre. Everyone seemed to be taking life a little slower than usual today, stopping occasionally to look at the monuments that stand regally on every block, surrounding the river completely. Stern and austere archways stand proudly next to iron-wrought mermaids, both acting as guardians to protect and guard the Thames. On several of the streetlamps, a fish looks like a mixture of droopy and ferocious, kind of like a Disney sidekick that was pretty awesome but didn’t have any other job but to protect the evil villain. And they have their tails pushed up against the lampposts, with all the energy they’ve got, looking at passersby with threatening stares. All of these figures seem to really treasure the Thames, an oasis of sparking water in a grey city.

I loved listening attentively to the  sounds of the crashing waves, which are slightly more gentle than the crash of the sea. For me, it brings a calm rather than instilling a fear. The scent of honey-roasted peanuts wafted through the air, and a digiridoo reverberated along the bank. (There was also a singer-songwriter whining a version of The First Cut is the Deepest, but I won’t mention him 🙂

"no cuts" spelled out on the bank of the river with stones and shells

And what’s so different about the Thames than our experiences, say, with the Hudson or the Inner Harbor in Baltimore? It is that Londoners have complete access to the river. You can just walk right down and put your feet in, or make sand sculptures. Both a sense of community is formed around the water, and a close connection to natural phenomenon in an urban setting.

Look at that! Anyone can go down and interact with the water.

Finally, the other day I attended a training the other day at the Three Faiths Forum, an organization whose “objectives are to build lasting relationships between people of different faiths (and those of non-religious beliefs), to achieve a society where religious and cultural differences can co-exist through empathy, respect and engagement; and to encourage friendship, goodwill and understanding, especially between Muslims, Christians and Jews.”

Among the trainees were four Jews, a Humanist, and two Christians. The coordinator and trainer was a Muslim woman.  The discussion and training was really improtant—we discussed the language choices that would be most beneficial to promoting dialogue while speaking to schools, and challenging questions we might face. The only thing I would have liked to see more of was dialogue between the trainees. I feel like its too often I go through these trainings without assessing my own ethnocentricity, or judgments I have about other faiths and beliefs systems.

Anyway, I’ll report back soon-All the work is starting to pile up now!

coming out day, walking forward

Lacing up the Walking Shoes

Sunny Day in London

On Sunday, myself and a handful of others gathered ‘round for the first UK meeting of the US social justice organization I volunteer for, Uri L’Tzedek. It was a truly inspiring meeting, and I don’t doubt that the British Jewish community can accomplish an unbelievable amount for the purpose of justice, especially considering their unbelievable youth leadership and community cohesion. Over delicious pasta and snacks, we chatted about Judaism and Justice, and planned ahead.

I woke up quite early on Tuesday morning, and  I was feeling quite down for various reasons. On a whim, I decided to make the 3.5 mile trek to campus on foot. I felt that walking would make me feel better, and that it would get my heart pumping for the day. Because I got a bit lost, the walk was closer to four miles, and each step was exhilarating. With each breath of fresh air and each glimpse of a vibrant purple crocus, I was able to process and unpack the things that were on my mind. I walked with a silly grin on my face, and I let my feet really feel the pavement of the wide sidewalks. I passed many charitable organizations (the equivalent of Non-Profit Organizations in the States), and noticed that even the public housing areas were well kept, with lush green spaces and modern playgrounds for children. The route I was taking took me through the Bunhill Cemetary, and I just happened past William Blake’s grave. The street art that I saw was abundant and passionate, and really quite beautiful. Will try and get more photos to post of the street art in a future post. As I neared campus, I turned down Toynbee street, the historical site where the lines between activism and academia became blurred, where the architectures of the Welfare State came to study conditions of poverty in central London.

I got to class right on time, sat down and opened my laptop. As we talked about the implications of food and gender, I both engaged with the material but dreamily looked at the mirror-image reflection of whimsical flocks of pigeons fly by on my laptop screen.

The Professor put on a short clip from an ethnography about American eating habits. The clip showed a woman from Nebraska feeding her young son fast food and describing other non-communal, non-nutritious eating habits. Face in palm. When I raised my hand to make a comment about the clip, I made a disclaimer first that I was an American.

A bit later on in the class, the Professor showed a clip of Jewish Law as it relates to kosher food consumption. It involved a lot of bearded rabbis walking around restaurants, describing all of the meticulous attention that needed to be paid to the cooking process, among them checking strawberries for bugs and scanning eggs for bloodspots. Interspersed were scholar-rabbi-types who quoted sections from the Shulchan Aruch. I saw several people giggle during the film, and I almost understand why. I thought it seemed so meaningless as it was portrayed in the film (Though I have attached it here, and you can make your own deductions)! The Professor asked a number of questions: Where do these laws come from? Moses. Why do the Jews keep these laws? Big part of their tradition, purity. Translates ritual into everyday life. When the Professor asked what the students thought the implications of the clip were for gender, a woman raised her hand and stated that women were just not present at all. It seemed very patriarchal. I blushed, but then shot my hand up into the air.

I decided to come out.

“Yes?”

“Well, I know I don’t necessarily look like the people in the film, but I identify as an Orthodox Jew…”

I was then barraged with questions. A religious Muslim man posed a question about forgery of certification and related it to his Halal shop. Another student asked me how it was possible that non-Jews were cooking the food. The day before, another one of my classmates, who I’m pretty friendly with, was talking to me about her area, which is sharply segregated between Super-Brits and Orthodox Jews. She described the erection of the eruv around her town and how it was causing property values to rise. It seems that religious Jews are pretty rare at London Met, and it was intense and interesting to address all of the questions.

I was saddened to see that this was the video that was shown about Kosher dietary laws, and it definitely made my resolve to work on the Tav HaYosher (an initiative that seeks to reward kosher eating establishments for following local labor laws with the same stringency as the food restrictions) campaign even stronger.

During the seminar discussion, I had an amazing conversation with three girls, one a Muslim from Somalia (grew up in Britain), a Christian woman from Zimbabwe, and a woman that lived in London her whole life. We talked about eating habits and gender, and we found that regardless of our individual cultures (even the Brit’s “secular” culture), the women were generally assumed to be responsible to meal preparation. While the women in Zimbabwe laboriously cooked together in a communal pot, the men are the first ones who were served. The family of the girl from Somalia eats eclectic foods, but Dad always must be asked or provided an alternative if he doesn’t like it. The young lady from Britain usually cooks for her husband, though sometimes he does the shopping. In traditional Jewish culture, many of the cooking tasks have been consistently done by women (though there are some exceptions. In my family, for example, my Dad bakes the Challah) The discussion was SO interesting, and this is another reason why attending London Met is so great.

On my way out of the building, I ran into some students advertising for a big Rally coming up on Saturday called March for the Alternative: Jobs/Growth/Justice. Though it is on the Jewish Sabbath, I hope to plan to walk there on Shabbat afternoon and be a part of the rally. I mentioned to one of the organizers that I would be going straight from synagogue, and perhaps bringing some friends. She proceeded to ask me right away what me opinion was about Israel, and asked if she could have a few minutes of my time. I said sure, and I explained that I was both supportive yet critical of Israel. That my plan was hopefully one day to make a difference and work in social justice initiatives in the country. She then proceeded to fire statements and accusations about Israel at me. I tried to respond to some of them, and noticed myself getting emotional when she started talking about the Holocaust.

“Listen,” I said to her, “Do you hear what’s happening? We are throwing statements back and forth. We are getting nowhere. We’re just getting emotional.”

We continued to talk about this for another few moments, and I told her quite firmly that I was

“sick of debates. It’s time for dialogue, you know? Our generation has the potential to bring something really fresh and important to the conflict. “

It just seemed meaningless to wave flags in each other’s faces. Why not work towards something productive?  Anyway, after that discussion, I walked another two or three miles to Selfridge’s and bought myself a Kosher egg-salad sandwich. It was delicious.

Today, the sun was shining and it was a beautiful day, but my day was interrupted by the news of a bombing in central Jerusalem. A close friend of mine was there, and after I spoke to her, I almost wanted to scream. I looked on the Israeli news websites. Deaths on both sides of the borders. It felt so empty and sad.

So, tonight, our theatre class took us to War Horse, a beautiful production that took place during World War I. There were beautiful, grand puppets and the play was truly a spectacle, but I had to leave in the middle. Primarily a play aimed towards children, there was too much glory and heroism embodied in war for me to handle. Looking at the piles of actors posed as dead soldiers on stage was the last straw for me. I left, sobbing, at intermission, devastated that human beings are constantly killing one another. I wasn’t sure who to talk to, but I took a deep breath and stepped into the cool night air. I didn’t return to the theatre for the rest of the performance.

I hope I am not coming off as incredibly melodramatic—I guess these concerns just build up, and I’ve had a lot on my mind.

So, this week, I came out. I’ve come out before, as a Queer Ally. But now, I came out as a Jew, as an American. As a supporter of both Israel and of Social Justice.

With my appointment for training as a facilitator with the Three Faiths Forum coming up next week, I look forward to exploring some of these complicated elements of my identities.

Purim: The Holiday of Fancy-Dress! (translation:costume)

So, it’s official. I spent my first Purim in the United Kingdom! And, strangely enough, it was better than any Purim I’ve had in my adult life in Queens, or even in Israel.

I’ve found that my spirituality has really skyrocketed since I’ve left New York. Generally, there is a special energy and a glow in the Jewish community here that seems to be absent to places in New York I’ve visited or lived. Just to bare my soul for a moment, I have generally found that my spirituality has really suffered in Queens. Though kosher food and Torah learning opportunities were super-abundant back in New York, I never woke up on Sabbath morning excited to get to synagogue. In fact, it usually made me pretty sad to go.

I really don’t mean any offense to any existing Jewish communities, but there is something here that just reignites my personal desire to connect with my spiritual side. I guess I’ll have to think about this further. More on this another time.

Anyhow, This Purim totally embodied the special spirit of the London Jewish community. All the synagogues in Central London unite for the Purim festivities. Here are some highlights from my holiday:

-snickered as the Rabbi of Central Synagogue made Kiddush after services on Shabbat with a black cloak and a giant alien mask

-listened to a great communal reading of Megillat Esther with dramatic voices by the Rabbi of the Marble Arch Synagogue.

-chilled with a crowd of cool Jewish young professionals at the New London Synagogue Purim party, tried a cocktail with chili peppers in it. Almost imploded.

-wore two variations of cabaret/burlesque costume, and walked around London in both of them (I promise, that blonde wig was worth it.)

-met Robbie Sherman, and his skullcap-wearing parrot-puppet Baalthazar. His father, Robert Sherman, is the composer  for Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, Mary Poppins, and the Jungle Book, and painted this painting. Oh, and did I mention Robert Sherman Sr. also wrote “It’s a Small World After All?”

-attended a delicious festive breakfast at the Marble Arch Synaogoue; ate delicious pastries, bagels, and eggs and made small talk the with some of the older members of the shul.

–finally, met Chief Rabbi Lord Sacks! I walked up to him, as nervous and jittery as a 12-year-old girl meeting Justin Bieber. I told him I had been reading his books for years, and that he has been a serious inspiration for the Jewish activism I’m involved in. He told me it was great to meet me, and told me to call his office for a private session. I almost screeched. Though when I called the office, they said they might have a hard time fitting me in, I’ll remain optimistic.

-my friend Nava dubbed the Tube a “tubway”

-went to a really nice JSOC (Jewish Student Group) Purim meal, and played guitar for a bit for all the attendees. The guitar was seriously out of tune, but it was a great time.

Finally, had some serious adventures with my friend Nava. See videos below.

Yup.

Rabbi Sacks!

She Looks Great in that Hat.

I am woman. hear me roar.

As I approach the holiday of Purim, which has numerous aspects of women’s empowerment, I think about the status of women today.I’m not fooling myself. I know that women have a long way to go in terms of deconstructing gender discrimination. But I also usually think optimistically, and that women have indeed progressed pretty far.

Well, in the last 48 hours, several men have said things to me that for some reason they thought were absolutely fine to say.

1. When I was at the fancy-dress (costume) shop getting some accessories for Purim, I was at the cash register, and I asked the clerk how much I owed him. He told me I owed him nothing if I took a little more off.

What??!

I told him he was getting away with that only because he works in a costume shop.

2. Last night, on the way to the theatre, I asked an employee in the London Underground what platform we needed to be on to get to a certain station. He told me “Platform 2”, and then gave me a loooooong and slooow once-over. He then said, while raising one eyebrow, “Is that all?”

3. This morning, on my way to class, I was sitting on the bus, on the top deck. I was looking out on the street, dreamily enjoying the bus ride, and noticed a maybe sixteen or seventeen year old boy listening to his iPod, looking me over.

Whatever, I think.

But ten minutes later, he sits next to me. In broken English, he says:

“Excuse me, I am new in this country. Do you think you could tell me where to bus goes?”

I tell him.

“Maybe, since I don’t know the country that well, you would accept my friendship?”

I tell him no, I don’t accept friendship from strange people on buses.

“Please?”

I ignore him.

“Just give me one question. Where you from? Poland? You look like Polish woman.”

I ignore him.

“French? German? Swedish? Canadian?” He goes on.

I kind of laugh inside that he has basically said every country on the globe except for America. He leans closer, and put his arm around my seat. I am poised, ready to get up and walk down the stairs to the front of the bus.

“Just let me tell you one thing. You look very, very, nice”.

He raises his eyebrows.

“This is my stop!” I say, and I dash down the stairs and run off the bus, only to be whacked in the chest by someone holding a full sized mannequin. Yup. Holding a mannequin.

Those stories said, while I dress like a lot of modern women, in jeans/trousers or skirts a bit above the knee with tights or leggings, I certainly wouldn’t qualify my attire as particularly “sexy” or “skimpy”.

But I feel ridiculous having to defend my attire. Sheesh. What year is this?

on tragedy

Every morning, I make sure to get the news somehow. Whether by listening to the radio over breakfast, checking my favorite websites, or grabbing the paper on the way in to the tube, I manage to get the daily scoop (Or, at least, what the mainstream media thinks is the daily scoop).

I’ve been taking it all in—natural disasters, budget cuts to important social services, murders and suicides of gay teens, starving regions of the world, wars, genocides—on a fairly superficial level. I read different opinions about the event or issue, and start to structure political and economic analyses or potential activist responses.

But every once in a while, the feelings catch up with me. When I saw the horrific photos of the family murdered in Itamar on Friday night, a familiar wave of sickness washed over me.

It was like I had entered a completely different world, one where things were turned upside down and blood and tears were splattered all over the walls. Panic, fear, sickness and rage built up in my chest and I had to get out. I jumped on the bus to run some errands, and when I walked, I almost ran. Every scent and smell seemed to hurt or offend me.

It was the same feeling that I experienced in the culmination of the devastating number of months following September 11. There was the tragedy of 9/11, a tornado, and then the violent sniper attacks, and I remember feeling fairly surreal about everything. But when a friend’s mother, as I was getting out of her car, told me to walk in zig-zags so I would be a more difficult target, it smacked me in the face. All the events, all of the deaths, just seemed overwhelming. I wanted to scream, to cry, something.

As I grew older, I embraced activism and chesed (acts of loving-kindness) as a both a spiritual and a socially responsible response to tragedy. If something bad happens, I’ll do something good in response. Repair the broken world.

I’ve been getting by being somewhat emotionally detached from the issues I work on. I know that if I let all the death and despair catch up with me, it would envelop me and I wouldn’t be able to do the work I want and need to do in this world.

But eventually, it hits home. You can’t avoid it; it will affect you at some point. The activism becomes personal. And tonight, I realized that it is not necessarily a bad thing. Maybe I need that occasional dose of emotional energy and empathy to really make my work truly meaningful.

I finish my walk, and go up to my room. As I now sit and sip a cup of comforting mint tea, I’m reflecting and writing this post.

The Jewish holiday of Purim is fast approaching. The spirit of the day is framed in the phrase “ונהפך הוא” (V’Nahafoch Hu), and it was turned upside down. Both the celebration and the folly implicit in this phrase, and in the holiday as a whole, are important for Jewish people today, who are deeply in need of a reason to celebrate Jewish identity and strive for Jewish unity. But beyond that, there is a purpose to the holiday. We feast together, we come together as a community to be educated about the story, and we give each other gifts. Furthermore, aiding the needy is an obligation on Purim.

So, Jews and non-Jews alike, let’s make a pledge to “ ונהפך הוא”, to turn the world upside down this Purim. Let’s make a mess-we’ll flip  sadness and tragedy upside down into strong communities, healthy societies, and meaningful lives for all.

“Come Children, Let’s go home. We’ll have a cup of tea, some biscuits, and a DVD.”

Yup. I know. After reading this title, you absolutely cannot wait to read this blog post. Stay with me! I know the post is long, but some pretty interesting stuff happened this weekend.

This weekend/Shabbat was absolutely delightful. It was an embodiment of the way I really wanted to live in London and soak up the local flavor.

Since I was attending a Shabbat lunch and was asked to bring something, I rushed to find some delicious recipes to try out in my miniature kitchen. I decided on Vanilla Bean Cupcakes with Chocolate Ganache, which my sister-in-law Leah made for Thanksgiving, and a tofu-based mushroom and spinach quiche with a toasted sesame crust. I went to Sainsbury’s, which is one of the biggest grocery stores nearby, to get ingredients. Just as an aside, the food stores here have a much larger selection than any US supermarket I’ve been to. Furthermore, many more of their products are free-range, organic, or locally grown. More of a connection between consumer and farm seems to be fostered through grocery stores here (Heck, I pulled an egg out of the carton and there was a feather stuck to it! Like I know it actually came from a bird!)

A "Feathregg"

The produce section in Sainsbury’s is majestic, boasting unusual items such as colorful and uncommon fruits, and everyday staples such as inexpensive fresh herbs and dozens of different kinds of salad greens.

Though I had to cut some corners during the cooking process (no food processor meant mashing the quiche mixture with a fork and knife a couple thousand times), I think the dishes were an overall success. I particularly was proud of the cupcakes (which by the way, are called “fairy cakes” in England), since my past baking attempts in London have been semi-disastrous (see Scone blog-post). Though they were no Koenig-style perfection, the cupcakes were just right despite the few substitutions that I made. Flecked gently with vanilla bean, the cake was fluffy, nutty and gently sweet. The chocolate ganache oozed off the tops, and I thoroughly enjoyed eating one with a friend while the chocolate was still piping hot, making sure to lick the runny sweetness off the spoon until every drop of cocoa was gone.

mm. gooey.

Friday night, I went with my friends Bracha and Nava to the Chabad again for Friday night dinner. It was a low-key, pleasant Shabbat dinner, very similar to the last. The walk back to King’s Cross after dinner was really great; the three of us plus another one of Bracha’s friends chatted about so many different interesting issues, from Judaism to relationships to philosophies about death. I returned back to my dorm, buzzing with intellectual excitement and healthy friendship vibes, and began to long explanation process to the security guards about the prohibitions regarding Shabbat. I was so grateful to the guard that took me up to my room to open my electronic door, and I promptly shoved a cupcake at him with the appropriate amount of energy for the Jewish-mother-type that I am (Thank you Temim/Jess for teaching me the ways of “You want? I got. Take”). Though I was still coughing a bit, I eventually drifted off into a restful sleep.

My dreams have all been so bizarre and uncomfortable since I arrived here. They are a strange mixture of hallucinogenic images, sharp storylines, and memorable characters. The strange thing is that I always remember them perfectly when I wake up. Recently, I actually began to actively choose to forget them when I open my eyes and say the Morning Prayer, Mode Ani. It’s a shame, ‘cause they’re cool, but pretty disturbing.

Anyway, this particular Shabbat morning, I woke to beautiful sunlight streaming in from the window. I got up, got dressed, and consulted my Central London map one last time-I was going to walk to the Central Synagogue. I left the building, and practically bounced during the forty-minute walk with all the cheeriness of the first day of Spring. Upon arrival to the Central Synagogue, two very intimidating security guards greeted me. They asked me some questions about where I was from, and they tested me on some Jewish lingo to confirm that it was safe for me to enter. Once I was cleared, a nice lady welcomed me, handed me a Shul Bulletin, and directed me towards the women’s balcony.

The synagogue was absolutely breathtaking. Giant stained glass windows with detailed and beautiful images lined the unbelievably high walls. The ark that held the Torah was enormous and awe-inspiring, and two ferocious golden dragon-like lions guarded it proudly. The pews were fashioned out of aged, dark, wood and they sported high-backs and red velvet cushions. When I walked in during Torah-reading (I know, I know, I was late), I was one of 5 women in the large balcony, one 1 other of which was under 65. Later on in the services, a couple of other women trickled in, in addition to a group of fifteen Jewish-polish tourists. The Chazzan (cantor) had a beautiful voice (his name is Steven Leas) and I noticed that as the congregation began to sing, there were some people harmonizing quite nicely. It was at the point where we stood up to do the prayer for the Royal Family and the Israel that I realized there was a full chorus sitting in a part of the men’s section, which is really unique for an Orhtodox service! For the rest of the service, I watched the choir as they sung in haunting harmonies, with a conductor leading them with precise and dramatic hand motions. I actually had to wipe a few tears away from my eyes after they sung particularly beautiful arrangements, with all the gentle spirit of a dusty and well-used prayer book, the glowing light of a burning Chanukah menorah, and the sweetness of a joyful glass of wine during a Passover seder. For one of the prayers, the Chazzan’s small  six year old son sung the solo, and the choir backed him up. Wow. It was incredible.

After services, I saw that the mix of people was truly eclectic, young and old; traditional and secular. People introduced themselves to me-even the Rabbi came up to me and welcomed me joyously. I chatted with an elderly Cockney woman who had been attending the synagogue for 37 years, an exchange student from Hungary, an English lawyer in his mid 20s, and a some other really sweet folks who invited me for meals whenever I would like. The Synagogue Kiddush was everything a Kiddush should be, and people chatted over salads, desserts, and wine or whiskey out of delicately detailed shot glasses.

After services, I walked to Nava’s dorm room, where Bracha and I were eating that day. We had an inordinate amount of food, and we ate, laughed, drank, and played “never have I ever” (the clean version) until we couldn’t bear it anymore. After consuming the cupcakes with gusto, we ventured out on a long walk.

The walk outside was lovely, and we passed a small petting zoo with goat and sheep on our way to the Calthorpe Project, a community garden and park project nearby. The garden is beautiful; both utilitarian with vegetables and herbs growing in the back, and also recreational, with a park for children and a community center. The space was so incredibly serene and inspiring, with murals painted by the community lining the play structures, basketball courts, and benches, and a small waterfall trickling down in a corner of a particularly beautiful part of the garden. As we were walking in though, a police officer pushed by us, apologizing briefly as he ran through the park. We later found out that there had been a robbery in the nearby Russel Square, and two of the suspects were in the Calthorpe Project Park. The three of us sat atop one of the play structures and watched it all unfold. There were some things I noticed about the arrest that were so different from watching an arrest in a place like New York.

First of all, there were SO MANY OFFICERS. Maybe around 5 uniformed and 4 undercover cops were cuffing and interrogating the suspects. A female officer with a police dog streamed in towards the end as well. Second, the suspects were young boys of color. They were maybe 14 or 15. Third, the officers were civil. They spoke to the boys slowly and patiently like they were real people, as opposed to the usual **ck you! that I sometimes hear from police in New York.

Anyhow, we stuck around for a while, watching the arrest unfold and playing with some British kids in the park. This is where the title of the blog comes in. Their mum, as they were leaving, stated quite seriously: “Come children, lets go home. We’ll have a cup of tea, some biscuits, and a DVD.” Hehe.

On our way out, we ran into the head of children’s programming at the center, a short woman with cropped hair and a husky voice. She told us that the people that frequent the Calthorpe Project the most are “latchkey kids”, whose mums hand them “a fiver” and tell them to get lost for the day. She told us that the boys who were arrested were good kids, though they sometimes can be naughty, and that the police would find out soon that they probably did nothing. On the weekends, these children, aged 7-17, basically hang out in the park the entire day, with no where else to go. We continued chatting about budget cuts, activism, and the neighborhood. Upon telling her my observations about the police here vs. in New York, she told us that honestly, to be racist is just so illegal here. The freedom of speech here is truly restricted. You could be seriously punished for saying certain things.

She told us that many years ago, when Maya Angelou used to visit in London, she would come do some domestic work for her. They were talking about freedom of speech and how it was illegal to be racist in England. Maya told her though, that she would “prefer to be called a nigger and know where a person is coming from than to not know at all,” that it was better to know a person’s true intentions.

We left, and walked to the People’s Supermarket, the food cooperative nearby, via some adorable side streets. They were having a yard party in honor of Fairtrade Fortnight with free kosher fairtrade chocolate, coffee, cooking demonstrations, and community chatting. It was a really good time. But there was a stark difference from the park. There were no people of color there at all.

We walked back to Nava’s, ate AGAIN, and made Havdalah. Bracha and I walked home, and we saw the same group of kids we saw in the park earlier that day. Though now, they were playing on the dark streets because the park was closed for the night.

Early Sunday morning, the three of us trekked to Primark, a really cheaply priced clothing, home goods, and accessory store on Oxford street. Though we almost passed out form claustrophobia and exhaustion, we emerged victorious with bags of bargains. For some reason, I bought a ridiculously tiny top hat. We had a delicious lunch at the Kosher counter of Selfridges and hugged each other goodbye. It was a consumer-heavy, but enjoyable, morning.

It was the end to a perfect and important weekend.

I'll be wearing this to the beach this summer, obvo.

Just as a final note, my thoughts and prayers go out both to the victims of those affected by the tsunami and earthquake in Japan, those affected by the events in Libya, and the remaining members of the Fogel family, fellow Jews who were brutally murdered in their home on Friday evening. Let’s bring light into the world in response to all of these tragedies.

Upon Sitting in the Dark and Watching Things, Part 1.

First of all, let me send out a HUGE, loving thank you to my friends and family for being such an important part of my life. What you guys did today was above and beyond, and I so did not deserve it. But I seriously LOVED being reminded of all the amazing memories we all shared and will continue to share.

I’d also like to send an additional shout-out to all of the new friends I am making here in England. I am looking forward to building meaningful relationships with you. (woo hoo Fatima!)

Onto the post:

I am taking a class called “Theatre in London”, where we go to a play every week and study various types of theatre. It’s been overall a really cool experience, and its been fairly different from attending theatre or other performance arts in the United States. First of all, the theaters are so amazingly old and historic. Imagine some of the older theatres in New York. Now add ten times the amount of history. You can almost see the stories peeling off the ornate gilded decorations and red velvet seats of the theatre. Every space I’ve been to has been incredibly unique, none seemed to have been built anytime in the recent past, and every theater had the type of mysterious-posh aura that made you think of a hybrid of the Met Opera and a really good murder mystery party. A few more observations: First, there are a lot of big celebrity names on the West End (equivalent of Broadway) which makes for much more expensive tickets. Second, I have not seen ANY standing ovations. For any play that is even moderately impressive in the States, the audience will stand at some point during the curtain call. Not here. Once. Maybe it’s because people are too posh to show emotion? Unclear. Feel free to contest that assumption! Third, they sell tiny Haagen Dazs ice creams during intermission that you can eat during the show. Fourth, you don’t receive anything free with your ticket. You can either buy the playbill (which is more like a book), or the full script of the play. Or neither, or both. Fifth, I saw very few people of color attending the types of theatres I attended so far. Unfortunately, I don’t know if that’s so far from my experience in New York…

Clybourne Park: The Royal Court Theatre (spoiler alert!) http://www.clybournepark.co.uk/

Clybourne Park is a really interesting new play, written quite recently, on the topic of relationships to the outsider, particularly relationships between races. The subject matter resonated strongly with a lot of the coursework I have been thinking about. The whole play takes place in a home. The first act is set in the 1950’s, where mayhem unfolds after the community learns that this particular house will be sold to a Black family once its current owners move out. The second act takes places in the present tense. It takes place in the same house, but the house is completely dilapidated. A young white couple wishes to purchase and “revitalize” the home, but first they must have a meeting with the community board. One of the board members, a Black woman and a descendant of the family that moved in during the 1950s, is hesitant to allow them to move in, fearing that her heritage will be forgotten. More mayhem unfolds. The play was delightfully funny, sad, and thoughtful all at the same time, and the characters created an enjoyable patchwork quilt of do-gooders, the politically correct, the ignorant, and the openly offensive. But most of all, everyone had an opinion.

The Children’s Hour: The Comedy Theatre http://www.thecomedytheatre.co.uk/

A classic Lillian Hellman play about two schoolteachers who are falsely accused by one of their students of engaging in sexual activity with each other. The audience watches as the lives of the two women, now assumed by the community as being lesbian lovers, truly fall apart. A classic example of realism, The Children’s Hour boasted a star-studded cast including Keira Knightley, Elizabeth Moss (from Mad Men), and Ellen Burstyn (who TOTALLY stole the stage). The play was gripping, and relevant to a lot of things that I think about today. While we were waiting to be let in (us plebes were let in after those with better seats), I was chatting with the security guard outside of the theatre about this and that. I saw him again after the show, and then learned that I had befriended Keira Knightley’s bodyguard, Marcus. Hurray!

KT Tunstall: HMV Forum (http://venues.meanfiddler.com/the-forum/home)

My friend Simon took me to a KT Tunstall (Suddenly I See, Big Black Horse and the Cherry Tree) concert in Kentish Town (I always wondered-is it not fully Kent? It’s only part Kent?) at the historic HMV forum. The cheaper tickets in the balcony were seated, with dozens of red velvet benches. The more expensive seats were on stage level, but they were mostly standing room. It was a really beautiful venue, and KT and her band had a really wonderful and full sound. I particularly liked her rockin’ keyboardist. Unfortunately, the opening act was kind of painful. On the bright side, there was a crazy giant painting of a lady with a tiger hat that lit up randomly during songs. After the concert, I dropped my jaw in dismay when I saw that they were selling a KT Tunstall “beanie hat” for £25. Yeah, that’s like 50 bucks. For a beanie.

The Umbrellas of Cherbourg: The Gielgud Theatre http://www.umbrellasofcherbourg.com/

Out of all of the plays that I’ve seen so far, this one was definitely the most cheerful :). It also had the least barriers between the audience and the stage-there was a narrator that interacted with the audience quite a bit (amazing! Her name is Meow Meow, and she’s pretty well-known in the Burlesque/Cabaret world). Still in previews when we went to go see it, the show was a glorious blend of burlesque, opera, and the classic musical theatre boy-meets-girl structure. Though the songs weren’t anything to write home about, the musicians were incredible (and visible-which is always the best) the visuals were out of this world. There was an eclectic mixture of cinema, puppetry (love you Ora!), and physical theatre. The composition of the stage was always dazzling, featuring jagged angles and multiple textured surfaces.

And it was in this show I caved and bought one of those tiny Haagen Dazs cups that I mentioned in the beginning of the post. I justified it by promising myself I would use it for some other utilitarian purpose after I finished the ice cream.

I did. It now serves as my bobby-pin holder.

Isn't it adorable?!

Wow, there are so many incredible things to look at in the dark. Though I do need to transfer some of my mind to sitting in the light and working on my schoolwork (heehee).  Midterms, here we come!

LGBT “Loudest Whispers” Art Exhibit

Went to a really great art exhibit a few weeks ago that featured 28 LGBT artists from around London. It was in the conference area of the historic St. Pancras Hospital, which is really close to where I live. Here are some of the pieces that I found really moving:

And definitely my favorite…

The Doc…I mean the GP..is in

You guessed it. GP means General Practioner, and that’s who I went to go and see yesterday. Unfortunately, I’ve had a cough and cold that has been hanging on for just about two weeks, and I thought it would be a good idea to see a doctor. Perhaps it was time to put some crazy drugs into my body.

So yesterday, I braved the icy chill and walked the 20 minutes to the NHS (National Health Clinic). To anyone that is a member of Kaiser Permanente in the United States (or other HMO’s), the setting looked quite familiar. To others with private doctors, it is probably a total culture shock. People were lined up at the reception desk with varied ailments. Some with a sore throat and cold like myself, others with a sprained ankle. The girl behind me in line had to sit down on the floor because she felt so faint and nauseous. Eek.

I went up and registered as a temporary patient (because I am here on a student visa), and went to take my seat in the waiting area, which was overcrowded and sparsely decorated (no magazines even!). In the corner of the room, there was a pharmacy, where an older graying British man wearing a sweater-vest stood behind the counter and attended to harried patients.

The waiting area was incredibly colorful-there were native Londoners, students like myself, young mothers, elderly people, tourists—and they all came in different shapes and sizes. The diversity was reflected on the electronic board that announced your turn in bright red LED letters. “Richard O’ Connor, Room 10 Please.”

After a hearty 30-minute wait, I finally saw my name come up on the board: Miss Haddas Fruchter, Room 4 Please. I walked with a false confidence through the tiny UN of a waiting room towards a sign that read rooms 1-5, only to knock on a door with a sign that read…wait for it…

“Room 4: Dr. Leonard Goldberg”.

Hehe.

Dr. Goldberg was a middle aged British man (who incidentally, pronounced my name perfectly). He was blonde and tall, and talked me through the appointment; not without care, but quite rapidly. After listening to my lungs and looking into my ears, he decided I probably wouldn’t need antibiotics, but he suggested some nasal sprays to relieve the pressure and told me to come back in a few days if it remains the same or gets worse.

I hope it doesn’t. Not cause I don’t LOVE Dr. Goldberg, but I’m a little fed up with this cold.