In Which I Tour Many Fine Rural Moroccan Toilets

Like so many clichéd wanderers, I fled into the desert for a quest. I chose an easy desert country though—one that didn't seem too scary for a solo female traveler: Morocco. There were camels of course, and an incident at a Hammam (the incident stemmed from me not having a really clear picture of what is a hammam), but especially there was a great deal of bread and oranges and bus rides and catcalls. I rode a camel--at sunset and at sunrise, bargained for traditional Moroccan pants (which have already enjoyed much use on the streets of NYC), learned how to cook in a tangine, saw dead sharks piled up in a very traditional fishing port, learned the correct way to pour mint tea so that it reaches the desired level of frothiness, and joined in a rousing sing along of Can't Take My Eyes Off Of You in a seedy night club.

I knew that the Venn diagram of 1. People I know whom I think that I could enjoy travelling with and 2. Friends with similar time off and available funds, is an extremely slim margin (so I simplified and went alone). This was my first trip wholly alone from start to finish. I had had days here and there on past trips, and in London (as the archives here show) I had many solo mini trips around the UK, but this was just me for ten days, stepping off onto the African continent for the first time. I said that I wanted to have an adventure.

What makes something an adventure?  More often than not it’s just being routinely and consistently inconvenienced by the culture and the norms of a new place, but (and this is the key) having a good attitude about it. Fall asleep with exhaustion in the middle of the Casablanca airport and wake up with a cat napping next to you? Adventure! Men following you for blocks in the Essaouira Medina babbling in French? Adventure! Sand in your eyes and ears while sitting atop a dune in the Sahara waiting for the sun to set? Adventure! Shared rooms with a German girl who got up to use the bathroom five times in one night? Adventure! Riding atop the camel who is also carrying 11-12 bottles of wine? Adventure! (You get the idea.) Solo travel adds innumerable inconveniences on top of the usual ones. And worst of all, you don't have a companion with whom you can immediately complain. But on the other hand, you are completely free to make your own choices and mistakes and then spin them however you'd like when you get home. I am the hero of all my tales! 

A perfect trip is one that isn't worth talking about.  This was not a restful trip. I did get one afternoon reading poolside, but mostly I was using my brain to find things. Bathrooms of course, as the title suggests, but also ATM's, snacks, water, change, directions, hotels, Wi-Fi, clean clothes, perfect photo ops, etc. It was a chance to put aside all my work emails and daily woes for a more basic set of needs. Substituting usual anxieties with new foreign ones is a type of rest I think. I heard once I got back that quite a few people were worried about me. I think we’re supposed to be grateful when someone worries about us, right? I've never quite understood that. What value comes out of other people’s worries? The scariest thing that happened to me was when a hundred-year-old topless woman scrubbed an entire layer of skin off of my body and then quibbled in French about how much I owed her for that service before I could get my clothes back (the Hammam).

Somewhere up in the mountains, I realized that I probably should have given myself more time. I packed a lot into nine short days: Marrakech, then a guided tour out to the Sahara, Essaouira, and then back to Marrakech. It involved near constant moving since the edge of the Sahara is all the way on the eastern border with Algeria. Both Marrakech and Essaouira are on the western side of the High Atlas Mountains. I’d like to go back one day and go north to Fez and to the blue city. Someday it might be nice to take a boat from Tangier to Gibraltar and on to Spain/Portugal. (It’s a symptom of travel that you can’t help but spend half the time planning your next trip even while you experience the current one.)

At one point, as I was hopping over sandbags to cross the river down near the gorgeous UNESCO site Ait Ben Haddou, I felt like I was in another world. Nothing was pulling me down except gravity. Seeing my giant smile, my cute guide turned to me and asked if I was married or engaged? 

"Do you see any rings on these fingers?" I retorted saucily. 

"So why are you single?" He asked (Moroccans are nothing if not blunt).

"Well, it could be my terrible personality. But I think it's also that I never wait for anyone to catch up. I just keep walking."

Hightime in Germanland

I just had a shockingly short trip in Europe. Usually my travel MO is to go for a month or several months or a year when I travel internationally. The careful exploitation of natural breaks in your life plan are integral to this type of travel of course, and so now that I am a working stiff with a "regular" job and not adhering to a campaign cycle or being a student, I have to wander a bit less and plan quite a bit more.

Surprisingly though, short was not terrible. Although I slept in a different bed nearly every night, it was almost how I imagine old rich ladies feel after a wildly expensive spa weekend: tight, taut and rested. It helped, I suppose, that I went nowhere new. My youthful dalliance as an exchange student was in the same German state as the wedding, so it felt like a form of homecoming. The train routes make perfect sense to me here. The culture is as comfortable as yoga pants, and the language came soaring back into the speech section of my brain almost effortlessly.

By arriving a day and a half before the nuptials, I was lucky to fold into the planning errands of the happy couple and found my German spilling into the front seat with amusing stories and harmless gossip. Weddings are particularly inefficient events as all the guests are there to see the couple more than each other--but the actual couple seem always just out of reach.

Despite concerns that the weather would be too cold/rainy, the coffee & cake part of the agenda, and champagne toasts were cozily performed in a three-sided barn with netting on the third side and heat lamps interspersed. I stuck with the Brazilian and German girls who had also been exchange students (with the bride) in my home state in 2000. During the toasts we chatted with the bride's boss, unbeknownst to us, resulting in us telling him that the bride had been a "party girl" in former years. Whoops.

Wedding in German is Hochzeit, or directly translated, "high time." The highest time of the night was a surprise firework show, funded by the father of the bride. Brilliant explosions of light above the sleepy German farm was set to the Lion King's "Circle of Life," as over a hundred guests, emotionally softened by the effects of alcohol, wondered upwardly up with shiny faces of joy. Ain't love grand?

After all the speeches, the eating, the dancing, the bouquet tossing, the skits and the photo-shoots, small groups broke away in a series of taxis and cars. Arriving at the hotel, we were approached by a worried boyfriend: he had lost his girlfriend. When he confused our Brazilian friend for his girlfriend, we realized that the confusion might rest on him. Less than a minute down the road, we came across the actual lost girlfriend, who had apparently left the hotel by foot to find cigarettes at 4am in a thoroughly sleeping village. Unfortunately we had now lost the boyfriend, who it was later revealed to have gone into a hedge. We orchestrated a very drunk reunion between the two that was actually quite heartwarming.

The remaining days of my trip included a day trip back to one of my favorite cities in Germany, Köln, where three girls climbed to the top of the Dom on legs that were dead tired from too much dancing. On Monday, I wandered around Brussels, eating waffles and frites to make up for all the museums being closed, the day capped with a behind-the-scenes tour of the European Parliament buildings (my dear readers should know intimately how much I like Parliamentary buildings--this one is an airport motel compared to Westminster). En route back to New York, I slipped past customs for a few hours to have lunch and a pre-noon beer with a good friend in the Dublin airport. Next time though, I'm going for a month at least.

Let's Go on a Moonlight Swim

Before going to Oahu in January, I did my research. I watched Blue Hawaii almost all the way through (sleep overtook me before I could resolve if Chad and Maile would actually get the blessings of his parents or if Chad would become the heir of the vast pineapple farm  against his own wishes... I am still in suspense, but sure that some light guitar playing and singing heralded the conclusion).

Sadly, the Waikiki of Elvis fame is now basically an upscale outdoor shopping mall. I prefer the kind of traveling that means culture shock and weird foods. I suppose that not everyone enjoys trying new things though, or being on an island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean without a Forever 21 and a Tory Burch nearby.

This was a multi-generational trip with my mom and my grandma (who is 91!), and we managed to create a little oasis of awesomeness in spite of the mall-like exterior. The first day we bought groceries so that we could eat healthy and more cheaply by fixing it in our room. Also, my dear friend (N) picked us up from the airport with a bag of fruit and ground coffee--which endeared her to my grandma for life. We kept up a daily ritual of eating at least one papaya every day for the full two weeks. Perhaps my post-vacation blues are really just papaya withdrawals.

Visiting N's new homeland was my primary incentive for vacationing in the 50th state. That, and getting out of the cold, dark gloominess of winter in New York. Although since returning to the snow and bitter cold, I fear that I just prolonged the inevitable. When it comes to the topic of cold weather  New Yorkers are basically complained out by now, so when I strike up some witty small talk about the real possibility of frost bite I get blank looks.

Other than eating copious amounts of papaya and lying on the beach and/or by the pool everyday (with sunscreen on, or course), I snorkeled at Haunama Bay, painfully clambered up the Koko Head Stairs of Doom, fell in love with açaí bowls, watched the sunset at the China Walls, danced poorly with scarily-aggressive army guys at Addiction, and walked into Honolulu to see the architecturally interesting State Capitol building.

I also heartily recommend the USS Arizona Memorial at Pearl Harbor, but the Dole Plantation was just okay. I think I would have liked DP more if the bus ride out there wasn't so long. But the dole whip (only available there and at Disneyland Resorts!), was a nice treat. Imagine pineapple soft serve, covered in pineapple... there you go.

Green Green

The trip over to Ireland was much less romantic than I had anticipated. The four-hour train ride to Holyhead was lovely: gentle scenery, a quiet car and an attentive snack cart attendant. However, the ferry was a bit of a nightmare. It must have been family day since there were more small children running around than at Disneyland. I uncovered an algorithm that determines that families with small children need precisely twice as many seats plus one as there are members of the family. Thus so, I was hard pressed to find a place to sit and read. I finally found a group of three elderly passengers who were using precisely three seats of the four at the table and they were nice enough to let me join them.

I don’t even want to tell you about the sheer amount of junk food that I consumed that day—except that it was notable and I am committed to accuracy for posterity. Using up my quid on the train, I had innumerable cups of tea and bags of crisps and candy, but it wasn’t enough to tide me over on the ferry, so I also gave in to the smells of chips. Starving as I was, the first seven chips I stuffed into my face were the best things I’d ever eaten… and the subsequent 17 chips were some of the worst I’ve ever had and reminded me why I don’t really care for chips after all. (I suppose I should mention here that I am referring to a dish that Americans call French Fries [although a Belgian invented them.])

My first view of Green Isle was grey and industrial, but that was soon mended with tours into the countryside. My dear friend and reader, S, devoted himself to my delights and administered a thorough tour of the island via train, car, bus, and boat. S lives in Bray, which is a charming seaside town southwest of Dublin .

Being the ancestral home of my family in particular, I managed to track down the pub in Listowel, in County Kerry, where my Great-grandma Mae was born above. The bartender was not a member of the O’Connor family, who had bought the pub from GG Mae’s family before they moved to San Francisco, but he show me a picture of my Dad’s cousins who had visited in 2008. I had a pint of Guinness (after having learned the day before the proper way to pour a pint thereof) and tried to feel the fullness of being in the place where a woman had been born whose DNA eventually contributed to my own.

S, my fearless chauffeur, had an additional wish to go to County Kerry: the Skellig Islands. The largest of the two, Skellig Michael, was a monastery for over 500 years and bears the labor of these monks in beehive shaped houses and a thorough system of steps leading up to said huts. It is also a summer nesting spot for thousands of puffins. I can’t imagine that there is a more adorable bird in existence, and they were cautious but not fearful of the humans exclaiming over their cute beaks, cute wings, cute bodies, and cute waddles from just a few feet away. Did I mention that they were so cute?

We also journeyed to Cork (where we tried in vain to find some traditional music), Mitchellstown (where we did some spelunking AND got a bit lost in a hedge maze), and Glendalough. Glendalough is a monastery nestled in the Wicklow mountains that was founded by St. Kevin the Hermit. We went on a beautiful sunny Saturday so it was crawling with tourists, all trying to outdo each other for group photos next to the ancient tombstones. And really, what says ‘family’ better than everyone standing on grave smiling?

For my last day in Ireland, Sunday, we climbed up Bray head (much like Tillamook head, but with fewer trees and a big cross on top). There was also an air show event, so the little town was packed with carnival booths, prams and unsupervised teenagers. We ate corndogs made by a genuine Minnesotan. There are many more Americans in Ireland than I ran into in the UK.

Now I am back in New York, where it is humid and ill-mannered and malodorous as ever. Yesterday while I was reading in Madison Square Park, a young man asked me the time. As I had a clock on a chain that I had purchased in Camden Market, it took a few moments for me to make the mental adjustments to report. He asked me why I have a clock in a different time zone and then asked me if I was British. Oh dear, back in the land where accents are not discussed, and are even completely ignored.

Photo Journal: Cardiff

Welsh Rainbow

Wetlands Preserve

Crossing the bay

Locks to get in or out of Cardiff bay

The old lightship... now a restaurant

The Welsh Senedd

Stranger on a Train

Bridges Crossed: 10/12 (Vauxhall, Lambeth, Westminster, Hungerford, Waterloo, Blackfriars, Millennium, Southwark, London, Tower)
Train Stations: 8/10 (London Bridge, Charing Cross, Victoria, Liverpool Street, Waterloo, Paddington, Euston, King’s Cross)

Well, I didn't meet my goals for Bridges and Stations. My only real regret is that I didn't make it to Fenchurch Street Station, but I only had Friday to really round out my goal, and I decided that running around town to cross bridges and stand in stations wasn't really worth it. All the ones I did visit/cross was out of actual need, so I am quite proud that I accomplished what I did.

My last full day in London was quiet. I was a bit fragile from the previous night's festivities so my first real event was fetching lunch from the Thai food from a cart in the eaves of St. John the Evangelist for lunch. Then I headed to Barbican to see the 50 Years of James Bond exhibit. My brother told me about this show and they had a wide range of 007 memorabilia from the movies such as Q's inventions and Oddjob's hat, as well as many first editions of the books. Afterwards I wandered over to Covent Garden to finally try this place I'd been meaning to: The Icecreamists. They are infamous for their human breast milk ice cream, but I couldn't bring myself to try it. Instead I had a couple scoops of Popcorn ice cream that was just the perfect blend of salty and sweet. I will be dreaming of this flavor for some time.

That evening I went on a Haunted London walking tour with my flatmate. It wasn't necessarily scary, more like a historical tour with the odd ghost story thrown in. We learned a great deal about the great fire of 1666 and the architect Christopher Wren who rebuilt most of the city. It was a nice chance to get to areas of the city that I hadn't seen yet, including the Bank of England. I was the only person on the tour who admitted to liking the Lloyds of London building, the famous "inside out" building. That evening those of us from the program who were still there got one last pint of cider at the Hole in the Wall.

On Saturday I took my massive suitcase on the tube to Paddington station where I caught the train to Cardiff. I had drawn myself a map of how to get from the train station to the hostel, but unfortunately I left off a key street, so I spent much too long dragging my burden around an unfamiliar place. There are always pitfalls and snags in travel--that can be part of the charm--but I loathe being overburdened when I travel. If I could I would only ever have a backpack. Of course as my purpose for being in London involved wearing work clothes I couldn't pack light this time. Just as I had found my way and was approaching the bright orange door of the hostel, a man on the street gave me unsolicited advice on where to go... where had this guy been 20 minutes ago?!

Once I settled in I wandered around the large shopping area, finding lunch and a movie theater to see Spiderman. The movie really made me miss New York. I finished up the evening in a pub called both "Weatherspoons" and "the Central Bar" depending on which entrance you used.

On Sunday I walked down to Cardiff Bay, which was perfectly lovely. I found coffee, breakfast and a wetlands preserve to explore. I took an Aquabus across the bay to the locks and then walked back around the bay. The Welsh accent was much less pronounced than I had thought it would be. Many of the people I met almost sounded American. It was nice to spend some time in Wales collecting my thoughts and easing out of the comfort zone that I'd built in London.

You Won't See Me

So my last week at Westminster is officially over. On Tuesday I sat in the gallery for the House of Lords. I had been anxious to observe them live because they are a self-regulating body, although still active in the adversarial style of politics that Parliament does so well. Since the Speaker sits quietly and doesn’t call on those who may talk, the loudest and the quickest to their feet gets to speak. As the median age in the Lords is easily 20 or 30 years more than in the Commons, this isn’t usually that quick. I particularly felt for one ancient man who repeatedly leapt up at the pace of a wounded snail, only to be beaten by his slightly younger colleagues.

Wednesday morning was our one-on-one meetings with our sponsor, a member of the Lords who had previously been in the House of Commons for over 40 years. All of us interns had been meeting with him every Wednesday morning for the last ten weeks. He is a very kind man and chalk full of wisdom and history and anecdotes. I told him and his assistant[1] how much I adored MP and that I had had a wonderful experience.

Also on Wednesday, I took notes at a meeting with MP, and sat scribbling furiously while she bawled them out for shady dealings in her constituency. One of the men was quite defensive and produced an agenda from another meeting that declared that the company had been providing the correct financial statements. MP shouted, “I could show you a piece of paper that said that there was a whale in the Thames, but that wouldn’t make it true, would it?!” In my printed notes, I wrote, “[MP] was skeptical.” This was the second to last meeting I’d go to with her, and also the second to last meeting in which there was a great deal of shouting. She doesn't always shout, but MP knows that those are the meetings that will be of greatest interest to me. Also, as I’ve mentioned before, she is a lovely woman, but she absolutely loves to start fights. It’s quite refreshing to go to meetings and not hear all the regular political-ese that seeks to avoid what the meeting is actually about. Politics is naturally adversarial and putting it all on the table right away is MP’s unique style.

I stayed late on Wednesday finishing up research and letters, as I wanted to be available to respond to any draft changes on Thursday (my last day). And on Thursday, I gave MP a card and a thank you gift. The card mentioned on it that she should think of me if a spot ever opens up on her staff. She agreed wholeheartedly and said that I should definitely check in after I graduate and to keep in touch in the meantime. I think we both got a little choked up. Later, she took me up on the roof of the palace. Since she has a dodgy knee I knew how much it hurt her to climb up to the roof. To be honest, I felt a bit overwhelmed by the gesture. Also as a thank you present, MP got me a beautiful silver Portcullis necklace from the House of Lords gift shop. It’s basically the prettiest thing ever (when I got to my hostel in Cardiff, I only put two things in the tiny room locker: my computer and that necklace).

Photography outside the tourist areas of Westminster is frowned upon, so I spent my last few days sneaking pictures down halls and through windows. Very few of them turned out well, but I’m glad to have them. A hall might not be very interesting to most, but when you’ve walked down them happily for ten weeks, they become friends.[2]

I’m loath to forget all the eccentric habits I developed over the last two and a half months. For example, whenever I had to fetch someone from the Central Lobby to bring them to MP for a meeting, I would always tell them the same thing to make conversation: That yes this place is a maze, and really I’ve just figured the layout a week ago, and that I had just discovered an amazing shortcut, so that is the way we’ll go! (I really just took them the same way every time, but as they were different people, they had no idea. I think it gave their experience a little extra drama.) 

Other habits included saying Howdy to anyone that MP introduced me to as “her American intern.” It started out as an accident, but everyone seemed to like it. I also got into the habit of saying Cheers. I had no idea what a handy word this can be. At its heart, Cheers says, “I acknowledge your existence.” At first I tried to emulate the British, but then I just started saying it for a great deal of things: thank you; you’re welcome; yes, I would like some tea; I would be happy to make you some tea; here you go; you just held the door for me; I just held the door for you; I love you; etc.

Did I ever tell you about the food? Strangers dining hall at in Westminster Palace offers a variety of delicacies, each more abysmal than the last. Lest anyone worry that Members of Parliament are glutting themselves on exotic morsels, let me just tell you that the entrees I tried physically made me sad. The fish and chips tasted like rejection; the jerk chicken was a metaphor for loneliness.

British food is universally regarded as terrible, but it seemed like the dining hall there was subsidized for taste as well as price. I generally stuck to simple items: a pre-packaged sandwich fittingly called, “Just Chicken,” a satsuma, a cup of tea. Surprisingly though, Strangers’ kitchen could produce delicious puddings. I frequently rounded out my sad, bland lunch with a slice of Victoria Sponge or Chocolate Lava cake.

My last night in Westminster, I finally did a Houses of Parliament pub crawl. A friend on my corridor brought me with him to the Lord’s pub and also the infamous Sports and Social Club.[3] Sports was uncomfortably crammed with old politicians and young staffers. Shouting my order to the bartender, he asked me what part of the States I was from. He then told me: “I had a flatmate from Oregon… he hated it there.” I told him that his flatmate sounded like a pinhead.

---

[1] As I mentioned in my Lords post, Peers don’t get staff. However, our sponsor is so used to having an assistant from his years in the Commons that he co-opts the services of his former staffer, who helps him out of the goodness of her heart even though she has a new MP boss. She is a really lovely person and when I saw her at Sports on my last evening, she told me that I should contact her if I ever want to come back and work for an MP full-time.

[2] Yes, I made human friends too.

[3] It's infamous because MP-on-MP fighting has sometimes broken out here. Recently the PM allegedly did some red-faced, finger-pointing at one of the rogue, anti-Lords Reform Torys in Sports and it got brought up during PMQs (Prime Minister's Questions time). 

Barcelona Blues

I want to tell you about my trip to Barcelona, but my head is so full of this being my last week at Westminster that I am feeling very disconnected from anything else. So this isn't my usual thoughtful analysis but more like a series of word snapshots. I'd love to hear from my dear readers about any last insights on Parliament that they would like to know? Today is my last day in the palace.

Last weekend I took a short vacation from my working vacation. I went to Barcelona to meet some friends who were traveling through Europe. I'm sure Barcelona has many delightful tourist attractions (and I saw a few), but my primary goal was to get to some sand and sun and sea. I wanted to wear the bikini that I had brought and was mocking me every time I grabbed my umbrella. 

This was my first time in Spain. When I landed at El Prat, the passport control guy saw where I was born and then serenaded me with the song "Californication." I knew I would like the place immediately. 

Barcelona is an bewitching city. There is a ridiculous amount of public art there. All of it massive and weirdly beautiful. You can really tell that this is an artist's hub. The streets in the neighborhood we stayed in were narrow and ornate. There are hidden plazas and squares filled with white cafe umbrellas and tables. Everyone seems relaxed and happy and there are thousands of bikes. 

I had pretty much the same tapas for every meal: Patatas Bravas, fried peppers, Catalan bread (with oil and tomato and oregano), calamari, and some other type of fish (cerviche, prawns, mussels, mackerel). I also tried Paella and Fideua, and gazpacho, and drank a good deal of Sangria. So it was a culinary adventure as well as a sun-seeking one. In retrospect though, I didn't have enough gelato. 

Probably the best part of my trip was having lunch with an old high school friend who has been going to school in Barcelona and meeting his wife, who is just adorable. 

On the plane ride back from Gatwick, I head a woman tell her friend: "Now I've got the Barcelona Blues." And I knew just what she meant. 

Of Lords and Ladies

At the heart of a representative democracy is the prerogative to "vote the bastards out" when they don't act in a representative manner, right? For Americans, with no history of a monarchy, the word "democracy" carries an almost royal privilege. Yet here in the United Kingdom--an indisputably democratic nation--the House of Lords remains.

As a distant observer of British politics prior to coming here, I thought that the House of Lords was a generally terrible idea. Just calling someone a Lord or a Baroness seemed antediluvian and gross, much less giving those lofty people political influence. From what I had heard though, it was a largely neutered institution that had little real power--much like the royal assent (i.e. the Queen's ability to veto a bill. The last monarch to invoke her right to refuse royal assent was Queen Anne, on a bill allowing the Scottish to raise their own militia, and that was in 1708). But then why--I may have wondered idly to myself while watching an episode of Yes, Minister--did the British keep this silly, old House around at all?

I have no interest in advocating for or against Lords Reform, or the bill in its current draft, but simply find the whole discussion fascinating. I’ve also been quite surprised at just how interesting the House of Lords is in actual practice. Over time, the Lords has evolved into a body of experts (primarily); people at the top of their fields who are given titles. They spend months pouring over legislation with much more time and interest in the details than members of the Commons, who have constituencies to worry about, can do. It's true that they are generally unable to block legislation that the Government wants, but the Lords' recommendations and changes are publicly recorded. They can also delay bills for a great deal of time that they feel are particularly bad. More often then not, they provide a mild and thoughtful check in the parliamentary system where the Government operates under a mandate (coming from the idea that by being in the majority, the voters have agreed to their campaign manifesto as a whole), that basically allows them to push through anything they want until the next election.

Even while I've been working for a Member of the Commons this summer, I have discovered a great deal of respect for the work that the Lords does by being a different kind of body with motivations that are divorced from campaign promises, ipso facto, less political squabbling. Many of them are even "cross-benchers," meaning that they do not belong to any political party. Peers are not politicians in the sense that they have constituents or are seeking reelection, and with 775 of them, there is very little publicity to go around. They include Nobel prize winners and Oscar winners. Most do not receive a salary (although many receive a per diem and traveling expenses) and they do not have staff.

Yesterday afternoon there was a debate going on in the Commons gallery over the Deputy Prime Minister's Lord's Reform bill. The Deputy PM is the leader of the Liberal Democrats (who are in a coalition with the Conservative party--an odd political bedfellow but one which allowed both parties to find power as neither had an outright majority over the Labour party after the 2010 elections) and Lords Reform is his pet project. The greatest change in this particular bill is to turn the Lords into an elected body, in which most of them would be required to run for a single non-renewable 15-year term. Although they would be elected (and therefore could be anyone, and not just professionals and experts), the bill creates a less flexible system of per diem compensation (As the MP I work for says, "When you pay peanuts, you get monkeys"), and it will greatly reduce the number of Peers over time. This is reform in the true sense of the word--the House of Lords would change dramatically, while allowing them very little additional power over policymaking in return.

Debate over how to reform the Lords has been going on since the 1911 Parliament Act, and all the major parties agree that some reform is overdue--the rub is how to do it. How to keep the best bits: the expertise, the soft power, the time to deliberate, etc., while making it more representative of the whole country and kicking out the hereditary peers? Sadly, by putting all the reform measures into one bill, instead of breaking it up into separate issues, the possibility of consensus is slim.

This may prove to be one of the most interesting bills of the 2012/13 session, since it is primarily supported by the Liberal Democrats. And while the Conservatives are their partners in Government, it's clear that they are not unanimously in support; just today, 70 Torys released a letter in opposition. Labour is also divided for various reasons, although their leadership may be able to rally a position based on embarrassing the Coalition by killing one of their bills.

Naturally most of the Peers are not thrilled with this bill, but as I mentioned they have little power to do much about it. This reminds me of the time when, (mostly) as an end-of-session joke, the Oregon House of Representatives drafted a bill to abolish the Oregon Senate. Of course, the Senate would likely never choose to abolish itself, but such is the question of reform in most democratic institutions, I suppose. The only institutions that can be reformed, are those that don't do much harm anyways.

Here is a link to the Parliamentary Library's brief on the House of Lord's Reform bill, if you have additional interest in this subject: http://www.parliament.uk/briefing-papers/RP12-37

Also, feel free to bring this up with me when we see each other next--I have so many more thoughts to share. This is history in the making!

Shrew Love

The bus I took from Piccadilly Circus to Waterloo was mired in traffic on Sunday from the combined flag-cape wearing forces of Canada day revelers and the supporters of both teams for the Euros 2012 final. I didn’t mind because I like the views from a double-decker and I was intently reading “Backlash: The Undeclared War Against American Women” by Susan Faludi. Although written in the late 1980s, this book is still a timely and important read for women at all stages of life. It's refreshing to learn how flawed and biased the popular “studies” of women in the workplace, so-called trends of female fertility, and the myths of not getting married later in life really were when they were published. 

Feminism is always a controversial issue, but it’s been front and center lately. From the Republican primary contest’s “war on women” to Anne-Marie Slaughter’s article in the Atlantic last month^[1] to discussions of Nora Ephron’s legacy. Personally, I have been taking it all in and collecting my thoughts.

Last night I went to a performance at the iconic Globe Theater of Shakespeare's “The Taming of the Shrew.” A modern story couldn’t have fit in with my current reflections better. The tale is so funny and endearing and bold and the actors were pitch-perfect, so that by the time that we get to Kate’s big monologue to the other wives about the Husband being Lord and Master, I was as enraptured as I was insulted:

I am ashamed that women are so simple

To offer war where they should kneel for peace,

Or seek for rule, supremacy, and sway,

Whey they are bound to serve, love, and obey.

I was talking to MP last week about being (or in my case, striving to be) a woman in a position of authority. As you can imagine, she has plenty of wisdom to impart on that front. I’m not a very assertive person—although I've been practicing—but any progress I make is often hampered by the fear of being called a “bitch” (the modern equivalent of “shrew”). MP shook her head at my sad admission; that clearly isn’t something that she’s ever really worried about. If I want to be successful in my career, I can’t let “bitch” hold me back. I have to, have to, not care—because when we do, we're giving the term a power it doesn’t deserve.

MP has a very unique style. She charges into meetings and gives a fearsome roar, bashing heads and banging on tables (sometimes literally). Once the others are suitably cowed, she liberally hands out mercy and they line up to beg for her smiles. By the end of the meeting they are planning to name their firstborn after her. It’s been a revolutionary model for me, totally turning my nice theories of female soft power on its head. But I couldn’t emulate it, I don't have the voice to roar. I have to find my own style of power.

1. Coincidentally, I attended a presentation on the Obama Administration’s theory of diplomacy led by Ms. Slaughter last month, before the article had come out. Even if it had, I doubt that it would have come up in this meeting at Parliament, focused as it was on international issues and “Twitter diplomacy.”

Going Native

View of the south bank from the London Eye

There was a definite moment in Manhattan last year when I realized that I was no longer the wide-eyed observer of the ever-varied scene; I’d become just another numb commuter. I’d rather listen to the music on my headphones than eavesdrop on my fellow straphangers. It was a rueful realization—because it meant that the magic of being in a new place had faded. I think I reached that moment here in London last week. Parliament still holds wonderment (because I remain a huge geek of political institutions, and there is always something new going on)—but as I elbow past hordes of British and international tourists who cannot decide if they should walk on the right or the left, I am fixated on my destination. The twice daily journey weaved through endless street performers and costumed adults is merely a necessary evil.

It’s not London’s fault, really. It’s a marvelous city through and through. I’ve been here for over eight weeks though and I can’t be awed indefinitely. I’m sure that when I leave in two weeks (for Wales, then Ireland, then NYC) that I will get misty-eyed and nostalgic, but that is still a fortnight away.

While it is a charming city (as massive cities go), London’s best quality is that it is a hub for the rest of the country. I have not skimped on my adventures afield. I have seen everything that I would regret very much not to have seen, gone to places that I hitherto was unaware of, and would still see much more of this country if I had the time and resources. I want to bring this notion back to New York with me--I can easily travel around the East Coast from NYC and I really should and not let school swallow me up too much. 

The Eye

My Dad sponsored a little luxury this week that I must share. The London Eye is a giant Ferris wheel that was built for the Millennium and offers a bird’s eye view of the city. One of my dear readers (it could have been you!), T, passed through the UK this weekend on her summer Europe tour and so we did the Champagne Experience on the Eye. It was out of my price range (hence the paternal sponsorship), but if you ever go, go with the Champagne experience. For a bit more than the regular tickets, you can pick your time to embark (and therefore bypassing the endless queue of school groups), you are less crowded since fewer people are stuffed into your “bubble,” and of course, there is the glass of champagne. It was romantic enough to make me concerned that there would be a proposal among our fellow passengers, but happily they refrained. 

T and I also made it to Lewes and Brighton on Friday. Lewes was chosen solely on the basis that T desperately needed to see a castle and it was on the way to Brighton (which had been on my short list to visit).

Lewes Castle

Lewes turned out to be simply adorable. T reminded me with her enthusiasm how nice it is to get out to the rural English towns. Beyond it's quaint exterior, Lewes has an interesting history. The castle had been an unsuccessful stronghold for Henry III during the battle of Lewes, and the town boasts at least two famous residents: Thomas Paine and Anne of Cleves (Henry VIII’s fourth wife). The castle itself was small but right in the middle of town. Not that that mattered for Tee and I, as we, in our enjoyment of strolling and taking beaucoup pictures, walked a mile beyond Lewes castle because we mistook the distant turrets of the local prison for the barbican.

I had heard good things about Brighton, but in the short time that we had there, and the persistent wind that nearly blew poor T over on several occasions, it wasn’t as enjoyable as Lewes. The beach was busy despite the nippy wind and the people watching was tip top—especially on the creepy carnival pier. We had some fish and chips and beer for lunch and then stared solemnly out onto the English Channel, undoubtedly thinking deep thoughts, as one is supposed to do on chilly seashores.

Brighton

Another plus of having T in town was ushering her through Westminster. I warned her that the tour would be distinctly Deborah’s version and that there would be a great deal of personal anecdotes, supposition, and repeated stories that may or may not be true. Also, since I usually notice the art first, it was heavy on my opinions of certain portraits and frescos. Giving an ad hoc tour was a fun way for me to think about what I’ve actually learned about the place—and what I still need to take in before I leave.

We’re Being Watched

CCTV outside St. Paul's Cathedral

Bridges Crossed: 9/12 (Lambeth, Westminster, Hungerford, Waterloo, Blackfriars, Millennium, Southwark, London, Tower)

Train Stations: 7/10 (Charing Cross, Victoria, Liverpool Street, Waterloo, Paddington, Euston, King’s Cross) 

I made a big dent in my Bridges and Stations checklists this week. Chalk that up to plain old health and determination. I have my health back! I am thrilled to be able to swallow pain-free and to have a body that doesn’t ache. It’s the little things in life that keep me going each day. I joke, but truly, there are few things worse than illness. It’s like a reminder that your own body can turn on you at any moment. I finally made it the National Gallery on Friday and I saw several classic paintings of St. Jerome meditating on mortality by hitting himself with stones and staring at a skull, but I feel like an acute sore throat would have been equally effective.

As I wander through London, usually going in the right general direction but never by the most efficient route, I’m being watched. I read once that the British are the most videotaped people in the world, and just a day in this country will make you believe it. Not only is CCTV everywhere, it is embraced by public and private properties alike. I get the feeling that everyone read 1984 and instead of being appalled by rampant totalitarianism, they thought, “Hey, you know what? That’s a great idea!”

I’m curious if this excessive taping actually results in lower incidences of crime. Possibly property crimes are reduced, which would explain the use of cameras outside entrances and alleyways, but there are also many cameras that just peer into the street. Is anyone monitoring them? There seem to be extensive disclosure laws about CCTV that require it to be announced on trains or posted on walls that taping is occurring, which just makes it all the more ubiquitous.

What is a henge exactly? No one alive know for sure.

On Saturday I went to Stonehenge and Bath. The henge was better than I had been led to expect—you can actually walk quite close to the stones and there is a kind of eerie and mystical sense about the Salisbury plain that wasn’t fully diminished by the herds of tourists taking pictures of the stones from every possible angle. I was one of the click happy masses, and it wasn’t until hours later, as I went through my photos that I realized that I had taken over 50 pictures of rocks.

I went with a tour bus (which I normally would shun), but as it came to the attention of my fellow interns that we all planning on Bath for the same day, I agreed to also buy a ticket for their tour. Organized tours can be nice on occasion; I went on several very fun ones in Thailand with my mom and step-dad, for example. But this one reminded me why I tend to avoid such things. Other than the fact that without the bus, stopping off at Stonehenge would have been difficult, I was completely under-whelmed by the experience. No breaks, no snacks, not enough pamphlets so sharing was militantly enforced, and a tour guide who clearly hated her job and all of us tour attendees passionately. In my experience, buses in non-English speaking countries almost always include snacks. How inhospitable of us!

Moreover, and this was the real crime of the day, we were only afforded a piddling hour and fifteen minutes to “explore” Bath on our own and this was also the first available time to get lunch. So all I really learned about Bath was that one may procure a tolerable baguette sandwich from one of the many street cafés.

The light stones of the characteristic Georgian architecture in Bath reminded me of a northern Italian town. I would like very much to come back to Bath one day with someone that I love and spend several days there. It is not a town for an hour’s viewing.

The Roman Baths. These were silted over when Jane Austen lived here. Her heroines bathed in the King's bath nearby.

Celebrity Celerity

This week the parade of important visitors at Westminster seemed especially high. On Wednesday I was one of the last bodies to cram into a speaking event with the Dalai Lama. He warmly talked about happiness and tolerance and fruit; fruit seemed to be a consistent metaphor. His accented English was not helped by the fact that I was wedged into a corner near the door, which saw many people trying but failing to enter and exit without commotion. A cell phone rang and I was delighted to see one of the Buddhist monks from the Tibetan delegation answer it embarrassingly. Who calls monks? Other monks? I wish I had a monk to call. 

Leaving with MP from the event (her seat had been much better than mine of course), we went down a lift that I didn’t know existed and popped out into a hall that I’d never been to and there was His Holiness!!! He had been ushered out before the herds of MPs could beg for pictures earlier, so at this opportunity MP and I sprang into action. She rushed forward hand out and I started flashing my camera like a practiced paparazzo. His Holiness was perfectly gracious at our obnoxious behavior, as was Speaker Bercow who had been escorting him and ended up in my picture too. Elated as I trooped back to my office I felt that if I did nothing else for MP, at least I got her that picture! It felt like a real feat. 

Later that day at one of several cancer receptions I tagged along to, I met one of the other interns and his MP. His MP insisted on getting a picture with a buxom, heavily made-up girl, and given what I'd heard about this guy, I assumed that he just liked to take pictures with pretty girls. Later I found out that the girl is a British celebrity from a “reality” show here: The Only Way is Essex—which is one of those embarrassing TV circuses about shallow, rich people with more latex than brains. It’s nice to know that America doesn’t hold a monopoly on trash television. One of the cancer lobbyists, who cornered me uncomfortably for most of the reception, told me that this particular celebrity had 1.2 million followers on Twitter. He mentioned that when they can get her to tweet about (whichever type they were promoting awareness for) cancer, it has a good reach.

Also, dear readers, you might have seen that Aung San Suu Kyi spoke to both chambers of Parliament on Thursday. I  wasn’t able to make it in to Westminster Hall to see her, but I did glimpse her enter the building as I was passing through to Portcullis House and then I watched her speech on the internal television feed in my office. She is a truly inspiring woman. I dearly hope that she has more than 1.2 million Twitter followers.

She spoke about the need for Britain and other established democracies to help Burma as they attempt to become more democratic. She also said that the Burmese assembly is too formal for her liking—she would rather there was more spirit and heckling like the British Parliament. At this the cameras panned to David Cameron and Ed Miliband who were sitting in the front row together.

All Creatures Sick and Well

Thirsk and Sowerby

James Herriot's books about being a veterinarian in the Yorkshire Dales were well-loved in my family as I was growing up. They directly contributed to a determination of being a vet someday for several years of my young life, and while that dream eventually faded into other pursuits, the stories have stayed with me. His books are as comforting to me as old friends, so naturally I felt that a trip up north to see the Dales couldn't be missed.

My Friday train tickets to Thirsk and York had been purchased in advance, so when my slight sore throat began to turn into a rather painful one on Thursday afternoon, I went into home doctor mode. I tried gargling with salt water, thick applications of Vick's vapor rub, cups of hot water with honey and lemon, plenty of fluids and bed rest--it all went into action. But it was too little, too late. At 6am Friday morning I purchased aspirin and lozenges and hauled myself to King's Cross station--feeling like this was all a very bad idea indeed.

Undoubtably one of the grandchildren of a patient of Herriot's

The station in Thirsk is over a mile from the town centre. When I am at full strength, that would be no distance at all, even in the light rain. However, sick Deborah moves slower and complains a lot more--even with no one around to hear her. I had drawn myself a map of the route thankfully, so I found the James Herriot museum with only a slight detour into Sowerby (which turned out to be a charming neighboring town). 

The dispensary

Thirsk is the town where Alf Wight (James Herriot) came to work in the veterinary practice of Donald Sinclair (Siegfried Farnon in the books), although he called it Darrowby. I really enjoyed the museum and the helpful staff there. They said they appreciated that my own extensive JH knowledge came from his books rather than the TV show which was quite popular over here.

Intense concentration was needed for this calving; I think it might be a breech presentation.

York

From Thirsk, I journeyed south to York (or Old York, as I like to call it, now that I live in the New York). I was told that I would like York because, "it's one of those old English cities that Americans love." And of course I did love it. Every building is perfectly ancient and have plaques announcing this or that event that happened in the 1st or 14th centuries by Richard the III or Emperor Constantine. I wandered through the lovely museum gardens and the ruins of St. Mary's Abbey and decided that what my poor throat really needed was some ice cream. 

Yorkminster

In my sickly state I decided that it was necessary to climb the tower of Yorkminster. Five quid and three hundred dizzyingly circular steps later, I was spent. The view was well worth it however, and I rewarded myself afterward with Yorkshire cream tea at Betty's tea house. Charmingly, York still has city walls that can be walked on--although they lost some of their magic for me when I realized that I would have to walk a half mile past the train station to get down from them. 

While I was wandering around York I learned from a pub sign that the England-Sweden game would be going on while I was en route to Liverpool and that my friend, who had offered to meet me, would be missing part of the game. He knew that of course, but had been too courteous to say anything. English boys are much more polite than their American counterparts it seems. As it was, the football match was tied 2-2 when he picked me up, and England scored (leading to their win) just as we were entering a pub and ordering Guinness (another remedy for my throat?)! 

very attractive English and Swedish fans prepare to cheer for their teams in the Euros

Three Hundred Cups of Tea

There is a wonderful portrait of Edmund Burke staring disapprovingly down at the receptions held in the Member’s Dining Room. Yesterday afternoon I met MP there for a lobbying reception for guide dogs. In addition to the usual speeches and backslapping, the organization showed a video about attacks on guide dogs by other dogs that made tears drip into my teacup. 

Organizations here, quite cleverly, draft press releases ahead of time and then provide a photo opportunity and a cameraman for the members. MPs queued up to kneel down with Norman the guide dog and some bigwig at a kennel association for a picture to go with the press release. Another reception I went to had a nationally famous TV doctor and a banner about whichever disease was being touted for awareness to pose with.

I went to an interesting meeting this week on the American Presidential election, which featured two prominent pollsters from either side of the aisle. They both emphasized that the election will largely come down to a highly coveted and hard to pin down demographic: white, married women who often make voting decisions based on what they hear from their friends and family rather than taking their cues from the media. Of course their friends and family are likely taking their cues from the media, so it’s really a matter of filtering; what breaks through is important. I love this kind of analysis and it was fun to have Americans sharing with a British audience and being probably a bit more candid than they would be normally in the States. I also really appreciated the looks of intense concentration and confusion on the Americans’ faces as they tried to understand the variety of accents in the audience questions.

At the inevitable reception that followed (this one had tiger prawns, yum!), I chatted with the Republican pollster, a game show host type guy with a blindingly white smile and a pocket-handkerchief. We had a cordial discussion about whether the right-wing buzzword of elitism only reflected academics (his view) or if the term included and was perhaps even dominated by the very rich (my view). I googled him after the event and was delighted to see that he had been an advisor on the Michelle Bachmann campaign last year.

The halls of Westminster were quiet after Labour’s attempt yesterday to oust the Culture, Media and Sport Minister for his shady connections with News International and the grounds that he lied to the Parliament about a disappearing memo.  The Liberal Dems abstained from the vote for the most part, injuring their already fragile coalition with the Conservatives, but the vote still failed.

A Hard Day's Night

My new Liverpudlian friend came down to London last weekend. On Friday night we waited in line at what seemed like a perfectly ordinary restaurant at least a half an hour, before being surreptitiously ushered into a secret door disguised as a kitchen refrigerator. The secret passage led down to a dark, wood-paneled pub with wingback armchairs and very strong Old Fashioneds.

On Saturday we went to a street dance party with a bunch of his friends from college. The weather was perfect—hardly a cloud in the sky for once.  After 6+ hours of dancing during the day, we then went to the after-party, which was set up in an empty carpark. I just can’t dance as long as I used to, and I’ve never really enjoyed dancing to the stuff that the Europeans love, the drum and bass, trance/house/techno/whatever they are calling it now music. It’s fun for a while but then you realize that all the songs sound the same and that the two Red Bulls that you downed earlier have worn off. So I people-watched for the last hour. The whole scene brought back so many memories of being in Germany in high school. The English will hate me for calling them European, but when it comes to dance parties, it may as well have been 2002 on the Continent again.

A few of my friends will attest that I was concerned about what one wears to a street dance party turned indoor after-party with people that are in all likelihood younger than I am and indisputably cooler. So you can imagine my delight when one hipster girl, wearing a ruffled denim skirt and at least three differently flower-patterned accessories, told me that she liked my jacket.


Can you spot said jacket (with me in it!) in this video made of the event around the 30 sec mark? hint: it's orange.

Photo Journal: Kent

Dover

Dover Castle

Creepy hologram monk

See? Actual white cliffs.

Deal

This small child photo-bombed my picture by cutely eating an ice cream cone.

Dad, I found you a new boat.

Best fish and chips in England

It's like Seaside....except with a pier, and less icky.

Sandwich 

The River Stour

Why yes, I thought this was quite necessary.

Fishing in the rain