Quality Time With Our Former Colonial Overlords (Or, Neil's Trip To The UK)

Bonus Episode: PHOTO EXTRAVAGANZA TIME!

It's been two months since I got back from my heavenly trip to the United Kingdom. I suppose I miss it so much that I'm going to force some more Anglo-love down your throat. But panic not: I won't bore you with my long-winded babble. It's just picture time. What better way to get to the real heart of Britain.

So you've all heard of Engrish. But what are you supposed to call funny English signs found in native English-speaking countries? Who can say. Either way, these were quality enough to elicit a few chuckles from yours truly. Enjoy. It's not only in Asia that you find comedy just walking down the street.

Oh, the good old Hoxton Whores. I'm sure their parents are proud of their choice of group name. I haven't the foggiest who these people are, but apparently they like clubbing. Whore it up, kind folk! (Edinburgh)

Talk about bold statements. On one hand, it's great to see freedom of speech in action; these types of shenanigans would result in death or "disappearance" in the good old PR of C. On the other hand, it's a little disconcerting to see that some Scots want to break from the English. More power to them. May they have more luck than the Quebecois. (Edinburgh)

For Little Nasty (Edinburgh)

Billy Corgan wuz here (Edinburgh)

Sandra's favorite "found porn" (Edinburgh)

This I know! (Edinburgh)

Hallo friend, "take a look"! (London Chinatown)

Totally! (Loch Ness)

Even their signs begging you to clean your dog's shit are polite! (Fort Augustus)

My Favorite Sign EVER! Long Live Chairman MEOW! (Edinburgh)

Wow, that's quite the damning accusation if I've ever seen one. (Edinburgh)

GW mongers war, they monger cheese (Bath)

I don't know... (Bath)

Brock Street Clinic's biggest fan (Bath)

It's probably for the same reason I have mine... (London)

Sticking it to the Mao (V&A Museum, London)

Seriously? No one thinks this is too easy a target for a pub? (London)

*Cue theme tune* (or Punjabi MC!)

"Beer", unless you're in China, in which case it's just "another person". (London)

It's all really how you use it... (London)

In the case of this blog? Tons (Kensington Tube Station, London)

And finally, in keeping with the recent theme, here's what some Londoners think of our poor Friendlies pals. Killjoys! (London)

Quality Time With Our Former Colonial Overlords (Or, Neil's Trip To The UK)

Episode 10: All Good Things Come To London

Well friends, you've survived chapter after chapter of travel blabber and are mercifully close to the end. Although it's been over one month since happy time ended, I am still experiencing flashes of the crushing sadness and panicked anxiety that I felt in those final days, when I would have loved nothing better than to be able to stay in the UK forever.

Day 1: London Chinatown
At first, I was so shocked to see the sun out at 9:15 PM. So I got into the habit of taking pictures of my watch and wherever I happened to be around this time. Didn't always get the shot on-time (or at all), but it became a nice way to keep track of my trip.

Even as my time on holiday crept closer to its bittersweet finale, the tourism train remained on course and we didn't relent in our goal to cram as much stuff into the final days as possible, until the very last minute on British soil. Although we had already accomplished a great deal within a short amount of time, there is always something more to see and do in the UK. Even if your wallet runs dry from binging on musicals, you still have weeks worth of free museums to wander through. It is indeed a place of beauty.

Day 2: Along the Thames with Big Ben
G.W. Bush was in town at this very moment, mere blocks away, complete with a warm welcome from violent protesters. We were just annoyed that streets and Tube entrances were closed for "security." The helicopters overhead didn't help maintain serenity either...

My initial reaction to Britain remained consistent until the end. I loved it all with genuine heart (except the maddening extra charge for all eat-in items at coffee shops and takeaways). Gorgeous, humbling architecture so plentiful you run out of "WOW"s after a day of wandering. Enough entertainment, culture, and food options to put you in so much debt that your college loans would blush. Shopping at stores with real sales that don't require hard bargaining or any additional stress to the ticker. Double-decker buses. The Oyster Card. Cashpoints, not ATMs. Richly layered history dripping from everything you see and touch. The Union Jack. Nature in technicolor, as it was meant to be, from vibrant emerald grass to sky blue skies teeming with whipped cream clouds. Getting a good laugh from guys wearing skinny jeans so tight it looked like their balls were trying to shawshank their way out of the denim. Full-frontal nudity and cussing on the BBC after 10pm. Harry Potter. The sensational adrenaline rush you get as you run across the street, praying you don't get hit, but too confused to know which way to look before crossing. That strange, musty smell that was ubiquitous in all the loos. And the people. How could I forget the people?

Day 3: Piccadilly, post-Mamma Mia
This was the day we failed to see Coldplay, hence resorting to the warm comfort of ABBA.

The citizens of Britain, however authentic you believe them to truly be, were a delight. Of course I don't mean ALL of them. But a large enough segment to warrant my current Anglo hard-on. I may be a little indulgent in my doe-eyed raves, but come on, look what I have to work with on a daily basis in China. Cut a Yank some slack! I stand by my claim: the Brits were great. Embarrassingly reserved by day, frighteningly boisterous by night; polite and mannered on the surface, critical and judgmental within. The weird dichotomies that abound create a national epidemic of split-personality disorder. Since I share similar neuroses, I felt a familiar comfort that eludes me in the US and China.

Yet, at the end of the day, that feeling of admiration is likely not reciprocal. Polite and mannered as I may be, nothing in my arsenal could compare to that of a true Brit. They see through my American guise immediately and no amount of garble-accented "sorry" or "cheers" will ever change that fact. Not that I'd ever want it to. I could never repress the sunny American disposition that creates a need for physical contact, verbal affirmation and consistent smiling, no matter how much I love the Brits with their chilly demeanor and proper austerity.

Day 4: On the coach from London to Bath
The National Coach services really are convenient. Clean, kinda reliable, and without the heart-stopping fear you get with Chinese drivers. And no horn-honking. So lovely.

In spite of its relative brevity, my whirlwind trek through the UK had to end. Unfortunately for you, that also means these thrilling accounts have come to a close. From the stylish streets of London to the grand antiquity of Bath, through medieval Edinburgh to the wilderness of the Highlands, I sincerely hope you enjoyed the journey, even if it was just a fleeting, vicarious pleasure. Ideally, you'll be inspired to make a similar jaunt of your own.

Day 6: Edinburgh Airport
Where'd Day 5 go!?! Flushed down the toilet in a drunken stupor. So here we are on Day 6, having just arrived in Edinburgh, after a 1-hour flight from Bristol on the awesome Easyjet.

In the final days, the gravity of the impending return to Shanghai loomed over my head like one of Pooh's little black rain clouds. Perhaps more severe than the relapsing culture shock experienced after a trip back to America, the prospect of crawling back into the polluted womb of China was too much to fathom. Especially with all Olympic jingo-bullshit flooding into every open orifice in the country.

Day 7: On Princes Street in Edinburgh
After a full day of serious sightseeing at the Castle and in the Closes.

After spending two weeks in a relatively civil society built upon manners and decorum (however artificial) and tasting European history and culture firsthand, I entertained thoughts of faxing my resignation to my bosses in Shanghai and saying to hell with the overflow of possessions in my tiny apartment. But sense and reality always have a way of stifling those impulsive thoughts of mine and I reluctantly boarded the plane.

Day 8: Edinburgh Bus
Is that rain in the background? Why yes. After a day in the Highlands, all clear and temperate, we returned to a frigid 10 degree C rainstorm in the capital. Delicious Italian dinner wolfed down with the quickness, we wanted nothing more than to get back to the B&B.

Immediate yet premature reminiscing of my phenomenal time in England was instantly ruined by the pig sitting next to me. In all my years of light-hearted complaining about the mainlanders and the gaping abyss that is proper social protocol, I have never, NEVER, been this shocked by someone's behavior. Please trust that I'm being quite gravely serious here.

This girl, who couldn't have been older than 30, was the embodiment of every ill currently being plaguing the new generations of Chinese society that I hate so much. More than a Little Empress, she was the epitome of self-centered garbage without so much as a speck of regard for those around her. Sprawled out in her seat, arms hanging over the headrest and legs spread eagled, crotch unceremoniously jut forward like she was advertising at Tsukiji, she chewed her gum with a gaping maw, lips curled in an awful sneer. Before take-off, she kicked the seat in front of her no less than 20 times as she shifted positions in a manner more befitting a clumsy troll than a graceful elf. The poor chap sitting beside her - the pitiful boyfriend - was on the receiving end of a few pushes, slaps and kicks, the annoying jerky elbow jabs that spoiled brats like to throw when in the midst of a tantrum.

After getting hit with a few recoils, the polite reserve I had acquired from two weeks of English osmosis was beginning to run out. Biting my lip and closing my eyes, I had to find my happy place, as my neighbour's spasms and complaints continued at an infuriating pace. When the food arrived mid-flight, she spied a pile of spinach on her boyfriend's tray and, without an ounce of dia-dia cuteness, she declared "my spinach." (wo de bo cai), reached over and grabbed it. Boyfriend gave a pitiful half-frown and did not protest. A defeated man clearly resigned to this kind of behaviour. When he made a motion to take a bag of peanuts that she had left sitting on her tray table, unopened and ignored for hours, she slapped his hand, gave him the "why the fuck are you so stupid" face, and coldly stated "you can't eat it, you're a fat pig" (ni bu neng chi, ni pang zhu). Chewing the spinach with an open mouth, feet still propped up against the chair in front, I secretly yearned for her to choke on it and die a slow and painful death.

Day 10: Above Edinburgh
I must say, Scotland was one of the most amazing places I've ever been. I was genuinely sad to leave. Wait, what's that? Day 9? If you really must know, I was busy shitting myself in a mausoleum when it came time for the daily shot, so you'll forgive me for being distracted.

My breaking point came during the final lull in our journey, while everyone was peacefully sleeping or enjoying the in-flight entertainment. Lost in an episode of Family Guy, my arm was suddenly and forcefully pushed off the arm rest as she lifted it up in a huff. I couldn't believe she had dared to be so forthcoming in her impolite flirtations, so I firmly put the arm rest down and replanted myself in position. And she did it again, with a quick elbow jab to my bicep. At that point, I really didn't care anymore, so I slammed it back down, so so satisfyingly on her leg, shoving her back into her seat territory. She slowly and deliberately pulled off her eye-mask (provided by Virgin, such luxury!) and looked me dead in the eye, saying "I want this up" (wo jiu shi yao fang shang qu). As if she could threaten me with those lifeless mainland eyes. Dumbfounded, I drew my face close to her's and replied "I'm using it" (wo jiu shi yao yong), as I pressed the arm rest down against her with perversely pleasurable might.

I think she got the point. Perhaps it was the first time someone denied her. She made a pouty face, pulled the mask back over her ugly face, shifted positions and kicked her feet over her sleeping boyfriend's lap, scaring the crap out of him in the process. For the remainder of the journey, she attempted to push me a few more times, but I remained firm, unwavering, and she relented. The whole ridiculous situation was entirely new to me and, after the initial urge to slit her throat with my plastic knife subsided, I continued to passive-aggressively huff and puff, blocking her attacks when necessary, laughing whenever she tried (and failed) to move that arm rest, and tried my best to keep composed until we landed in Shanghai. With the animosity fully out in the open, the back and forth was pretty entertaining.

Day 11: Hot Pot dinner in Clevelands Building, Bath University
On my last night in Bath, I had a filling ma-la hot pot dinner with new friends who I had taken quite happily to in the few days that I visited.

That rude little tart on the plane was a painful reminder of the awful reacclimation ahead of me. Her horrid behavior was the most extreme experience of social retardation - Chinese or otherwise - that I've ever witnessed. You'd think that having reached this pinnacle before touchdown would make the return to Chinese soil easier. Wrong wrong wrong. In the two weeks I was absent, Chinese efficiency remained status quo (i.e. non-existent), airport bureaucracy was rendered even more bumbling, and new security measures enacted for the goddamned Olympics (I swear, I will be so happy when they are over and we never have to hear of Beijing 2008 ever again) exacerbated the headache threatening to blow my brain out of my temples. It took me 2 hours just to get out of the airport. I was beginning to regret getting on that plane.

Day 13: Les Miserables
Oh what a show. We approached the classic with some trepidation, afraid the hype of 25+ years wouldn't deliver. So so wrong. It's a close second to Phantom, which is quite something in my book. After the show, we emerged to a rain shower and a celebratory mob cheering the Spanish Euro Cup victors. They were so raucous that a distracted bus crashed into a lorry in the middle of Piccadilly Circus. Awesome. (Oh yeah, and on Day 12 at this time, I was busy getting assaulted at the Radiohead concert)

When I stepped out into the humidity and stank of the summer air, the initial shock ripped me straight back to reality. The trip was officially done. No more pleasantries with strangers, no more comfortably chilly climate, no more uncensored living. After the plane ride from hell and the work week mere hours away, I felt desperate. Why the fuck did I have to come back? Head hanging low, I plopped into a taxi and covered my eyes with a heavy hand to shade the glaring midday sun. Feeling bitter and disappointed, maybe a little teary-eyed, I just wanted to get home and delay the inevitable return to daily life in China.

Day 14: Wicked
The last day of the trip, spent with the witches of Oz.

Making admirable small talk, the jovial driver asked me about my trip and continued to chatter about the weeks of typhoon rain that had flooded Shanghai in my absence. I nodded politely in return, distracted by memories of the cool breezes and unpolluted skies in London. With a beaming smile, she paused, leaned over and said that I had brought the sun back with me. Pulling my hand from my eyes, I gazed out the window, taking in the vista for the first time. It was actually a beautiful day in Shanghai. As much as it hurt to be back, I couldn't justify further resentment. It is not Shanghai's fault that it's not as awesome as London. No place is as awesome as London. We don't penalize a hamburger because it's not as delicious as a filet mignon, so why should the same judgment be wrought on completely different cultures? Thus Shanghai remains home for now and I'll keep my whining to a minimum. I had just spent 2 weeks on holiday after all. And England, in all her majestic glory, claims top spot for the best trip I've ever been on.

For more pictures of the trip, please head over to Flickr: London, Bath, and Scotland. Thanks for reading.

Quality Time With Our Former Colonial Overlords (Or, Neil's Trip To The UK)

Episode 5: Yum, Yum, Give Me Some

I. Let's All Go To The Market

England is (in)famous for having crap food. I mean, come on, when your most well-known native dish is a slab of deep fried fish, you know there was a creativity issue in the kitchens of yore. But judging too quickly would be a mistake, because not only is modern cosmopolitan London packed to the anus with a global selection of restauranting, other indigenous treats are well worth checking out.

Before we delve into actual British cuisine, let me mention a common eating option for regular folk living in London, which seriously impressed me. Namely, Pret A Manger ("Ready To Eat" baby), a chain as ubiquitous as Starbucks, Au Bon Pain, or Dunkin Donuts in the Boston area. They've set up shop almost everywhere and what makes their selection so amazing to me is that it's natural and preservative free. 100% healthy and made from all natural ingredients. So a mango and mandarin fizzy water is precisely that: mango juice, orange juice and water. A tomato and mozzarella sandwich is cheese, tomato and fresh bread. Nothing fake, nothing chemical, as it should be. For a place as common as McDonalds, this is mind-blowing for me. Albeit, not everyone eats here (the fatties, for example). But the fact that it is readily available, healthy, and affordable enough, it's no wonder a lot of the people are fitter. When I think about all the frozen, prepackaged and enormous portions on sale in popular American eateries, I want to vomit.

100% Natural, No Nasties!

The Power of Christ Compels Thee!

As if this goodness weren't enough, even more enjoyable fare of the prepackaged vein can be found. As I mentioned above, Pret is a godsend for those without much time to cook healthy meals or enjoy a relaxed meal. But if you're even more cramped for time, just go to the supermarket.

In the UK, supermarket dining is actually a very viable and enjoyable option. At the higher class places, of course. Peep the UK Supermarket Hierarchy (in order from bourgeoisie to hella ghetto), as kindly laid out for me by Sandra and her uni friends:

1. Waitrose: the most bougie of the bougie, the stuck-up Posh Spice of the marketplace.
2. Marks & Spencer: or, "M&S" as it's hiply known, where even cookies seem healthy.
3. Sainsburys and Morrisons: nothing to scoff at, with a bevy of fresh options in a more relaxed and less high-class atmosphere.
4. Tesco: the stock supermarket of the land, reliable and open late.
5. Iceland: now we're getting ghetto. Alcohol selection includes cheap wine and Smirnoff Ice. Lots of frozen food.
6. ASDA: consistenly wins awards for being the cheapest supermarket in the UK. Dunno if that's a good (affordable) or bad (ghetto quality) thing.

I had the honour of visiting of most of those, so here's my take on the matter.

Waitrose is indeed bourgeoisie to the max and I imagine most "real" Londoners (i.e. the ones living outside Zone 1) wouldn't want to waste their hard-earned pounds at this place. Much like Whole Foods and Trader Joe's are wholly unnecessary for po'folk in the US.

Sainsburys and Tesco would be the natural choice for me if I were to live in this heavenly paradise of a land. But personally, Marks & Spencer is the best.

M&S are generally famous for their prepackaged food, even in places as far away as Singapore. Basic bottled water comes in delicious flavour combo as varied as your imagination allows (peach, mandarin orange, lemon citrus, pomegranate, etc.), pre-cut gourmet salads, fruits, and veggies with hummus, sandwiches, wraps and buns, all fresh and made with shockingly vibrant ingredients. Health benefits and affordability aside, it all tastes divine and could compete with dishes available at many restaurants charging double or triple. Considering a nice hunk of beef at a steakhouse can cost around 20 quid a go, why not enjoy something healthier for less?

II. Fancy A Bit Of My Meat And Two Veg?

Now, onto actual British dishes. With all the international eating options around, I only had a few choice meals that included British food. So even though curry is officially one of the country's national foods, I'll give the colonially acquired chow a skip for now, as it's a rather new addition to the culinary arsenal. Let's go back to those olde tyme favourites.

Classic Scottish Curry =P

Traditional English breakfast is one such stereotypical favourite. What's included? Well, a lot more than your average Bickford's Lumberjack, that's for sure. A typical plate will include a Hobbit's portion: a few rashers (strips) of bacon, pork sausage, fried eggs, fried toast, some baked beans, mushrooms, cooked tomatoes, and everyone's favorite, blood pudding.

Traditionally, blood (or, black) pudding - which looks and tastes like duck blood gao in Chinese hot pot - was eaten by poor folk in the winter. Having only one cow, which they certainly couldn't afford to kill whenever they craved meat, they would make a small incision in the beast's leg, drain some blood, mix it with oats, and make scrumptious protein cakes. Sounds fantastic, I know, although I prefer mine served nicely on a plate with the aforementioned fixins and no visible reference to bovine lacerations. Blagh!

In addition to this, I shit you not, they also gave me a few pieces of non-fried toast.

Another English tradition is afternoon tea. Savoury sandwich bites, steaming scones and other sweet baked goods, paired with pot after diuretic pot of fragrant English tea, is a luxury that everyone should try at least once in their life. In Bath, Sally Lunn's famous buns break the standard monotony of the typical afternoon tea set with those eponymous buns that have kept her now-mummified ass in business since the late 1600s. Like a giant mutant hamburger bun bottom, these wonders (cooked in "faggots", no really) are topped with fresh buttercream and conserve of your choice. The classic Sally Lunn is topped with fresh strawberry jam (err, "jahm"), but I opted for the lemon goo instead, which was equally divine.

The Sally Lunn Bun(n)

Real English Tea

The Ladies:
Kathleen, Betty, Sandra

The Gentlemen:

Neil and Sean

Happy We Can Even Afford Afternoon Tea

Sally Lunn's, since time immemorial

Moving on to less interesting fare, we meet that age old Brit dish that everyone thinks is sooooo delightfully fresh and unique, fish and chips. *Zzzzzz* A hunk of fried cod is indeed as boring as it sounds (though nearly not as boring as "bangers and mash", which is just sausage and mashed potatoes). The English creative juices seem to have all flowed towards sectors of the non-culinary sort, such as art, culture and ways to imperially screw other countries, because fried fish as a national dish is just plain lazy. As a marker of culture, fine, I accept it. But as a representation of what its kitchens have to offer to the rest of the world? I scoff.

The side of chunky fried potatoes (say it with me now, "chips", not fries) doesn't spice it up any further either, but oh do they love those chips. Even moreso than Americans, Brits devour chips like Chinese do white rice, especially with malt vinegar and salt and pepper, the very best way to enjoy it.

Some Decidedly More Upscale Fish & Chips (Salad With The Chips!)

Happy Fisherman

I was previously unaware of the country's obsession with chips. They are served with bloody everything! The evil Yankees nutrition option to my favorite Pret A Manger Red Sox. I swear, everywhere you go, there's an option to get a side of chips, even at the freaking Asian kebab shops. I want a side of pita with my chicken sharwama, not a heaping hunk of fries. Gah, I don't want to see another french fry (sorry for the lapse in Brit-speak, I'm angry!) for a very long time. In total, I think I wasted over 2 pounds (weight, not money) of chips, simply because they are unavoidable and inescapable. Like that stalker from the IT department or creeping old age. Evil, evil things.

III. I Heart Sheep Stomach

Speaking of fried things, we hop north to Scotland, the home of fried EVERYTHING. These folk even managed to nab the dubious honour of creating the fried Mars Bar (like a Snickers or Three Musketeers), a heart-attack disguised in battered chocolate. THAT is ingenuity. And here I am thinking Americans are nasty for inventing a fried oreo.

Forgot to mention these are all deep-fried. Except the beverages. That'd be a feat.

Scottish food was somewhat different than English food. More interesting to me. As you just read, English food is basically of the sealife-tuber variety OR curry. So since fish and chips are so boring they don't count as anything particularly creative, Indian food really is England's cuisine. The Scots love it too, but they have an actual cultural claim to culinary fame: haggis, which, surprisingly, isn't as bad as you'd think.

Haggis, the hearty former peasant food once relegated to lowly servants during grand meals, is basically sheep lung/heart/innards/brains chopped up, mixed with grain and oats, and - wait, it gets better - sewed in a sheep's stomach and boiled for 2 to 3 hours. This gloriously disgusting prospect is served with mashed potatoes and mashed turnips, called "neeps and tatties." (Haha, that's kinda like "nips" and "titties," ain't it? Teehee!)

Now, while you're cleaning up your puke from the keyboard, take note: it's absolutely delicious. If you get it done right.

I had one poor representation, microwaved beyond recognition in an Edinburgh restaurant, whose curry (why am I not surprised?) was much better. Since I had a nagging suspicion that something was amiss, I thought I ought to give haggis a second chance. I was right in my doubts and was not disappointed.

Offensively bland haggis, neeps and tatties at Standing Order restaurant

In Loch Ness, I dined on an awesome deep-fried version (see, even haggis isn't safe from the vat of oil), which was tender, succulent and very very tasty. The innards are chopped up so finely that the consistency resembles chopped burger meat, only juicier. The herbs and spices tossed in gave it a fragrant and savoury taste that masked the typical heavy mutton "stink" that many people find off-putting. Washed down with a bottle of Irn Bru ("Iron Brew," a radioactive orange soda pop that tastes like a creamsicle mixed with bubblegum, that can supposedly work wonders, and has a fantastic advertising team), I stand by the claim that it was my favorite meal in Scotland.

Best Scottish Meal: Irn Bru, Deep-fried Haggis, Chips

In all honesty, I was craving it until the last day before boarding the plane back to England. However, ironically, the only place serving haggis at the airport was a branch of that original joint that gave me the first, nuked-out, icky version. Gross as it may seem on paper, there is a good reason why it remains the country's national dish.

Delicious Sheep's Innards Call My Name...

Other famous must-tries are Aberdeen Angus beef (in burger or steak form) and seafood. Scottish salmon is world famous, but, on my budget, I opted to try something completely new instead. Cullen skink is a classic Scot seafood chowder made with cream, fresh herbs, potatoes and dried mackerel. Served with chunks of grainy bread smothered in butter, it is a dream on a cold and windy Scottish *summer* day.

Overall, although we had our fair share of Chinese (mostly Cantonese, God bless), Indian, Italian and even Belgian (Belgo, Covent Garden station, off Neal Street, order the mussels!), I should give the UK credit for at least putting a smile on my face with the few uniquely indigenous Brit dishes that I tried. Streetside curries and kebabs, oily fish and chips, overwhelmingly stuffing English breakfast, delightful afternoon tea, tart Ribena blackcurrant juice, mega Twix the size of John Holmes' pride, and deep fried bags of chopped innards. Not bad, in retrospect. I'm still dreaming of that haggis. Sweet, sweet haggis.

Lamburger from a streetside fair in London

Those delicious Belgo mussels, served with mayo-doused frites and a pint of Belgian lager