Day 5

(I am writing these all out of order.)

Up in a timely manner to meet with someone in the cafe at the British Library. Scrambled eggs do not seem to be in the repetoire of the breakfast chef in the kitchen, which both disappoints and surprises me, since they were a hallmark of the breakfast experience in my college dinning hall. My hardboiled egg was burnt, which I did not know was possible, and yet. (I shouldn't complain too much, though. The food, and the accommodations as a whole are quite decent. And I could rather get used to having someone else cook for me mornings and evenings.)

I've been trying to meet other postgrads in the hall, mostly by looking around at mealtimes and seeing who's eating alone and looks older than about nineteen. Yesterday, I met a nice political theory grad student, who invited me out later that evening. But more of this anon.

My meeting went well, quite well, in fact, as it was with the only other person I've yet met who's read one of the texts that I think will be quite important to the chapter of the dissertation I plan to write during the second half of my time here (the preface to Thomas Berthelet's 1532 edition of Gower's Confessio Amantis, if you really want to know). I've been preaching its virtues in several quarters for awhile now, but it was fantastic to talk about it a little with someone who's also given it some time and attention. We met in the cafe in the main lobby of the library, which has the same terrifying scholarly hum as the hallways at a conference, the slightly hectic awareness that there is knowledge, both scholarly and social, all around you, and it is just out of your grasp, and if you only knew where to look, you could find just what you needed. At least that was my impression. The coffee was better than that in the hall, certainly.

Anyway, the meeting went so well that I decided to take the afternoon off from weightier affairs and walk up to Camden Town. This I did, and after briefly loosing my way (whenever I get lost, I seem to wind up on Tottenham Court Road, which is never exactly where I want to be, except Muji is there and I still want to buy everything they've got and live a calm, well-organized, and beautifully turned-out life), I was delighted to discover a whole slew of charity shops, discount stores, and cheap Thai restaurants up near Mornington Crescent. It was good to get out of Bloomsbury and central London a bit; nice as they are (and they are very nice, on the whole) they're neither places I could afford to live if I were hear on a permanent basis, nor places I would choose to live. I mean, cheap ethnic food and dive bars are important, no?

Further north is Camden Market, which is sort of like St. Mark's Place writ large. Like St. Mark's Place, my initial reaction is a bit of love-hate. It was crowded, there were rather a lot of tourists and/or kids skipping school (I mean, the streets were packed), and the cute, unique-looking dress I saw for sale in one shop or stall would inevitably also be for sale at two other stores down the same block. It's basically a commercial stretch, full of cheaply made goods aimed largely at the tourist or teenager with a little money in his pocket looking to bring home something at least mildly titillating. At the same time, though, there's something pretty adorable and awesome about the stick-it-to-the-man defiance of a square mile full of girls with pink hair, boys with mohawks and studded jackets, and more EGL knock-offs and second hand Doc Martens than Hot Topic could ever dream of. And to be fair, unsure of my bearings, I stuck only to the main thoroughfare, and even there I saw some neat handmade things-- a store selling felted bead necklaces and handwraps sticks in my mind-- and had a truly delicious slice of pizza (made by real Italians! the sign proclaims) for only a pound. You know, the sixteen year old me was just jumping for joy and it was hard to walk away from the stall selling a fantastic array of printed stockings. I will be back. I turned round at a restaurant called Gilgamesh, which promises to reward a return visit with a fantastically gaudy interior, though I don't know anything about the food, and headed back south. On my way back, I stopped at a 99p store (where they had things like Colgate toothpaste and Nivea face wash!) and also finally bought something at Argos (an alarm clock, sigh). American mind still broken.

Back at the hall, I had dinner with a Sketchy McSketcherton who told me he could tell I was a hipster by the way I walked (!?) and who wanted to get a drink later; I demurred and went out to meet the political theorist and some friends at a pub near the hall. Woud up, against expectations really, having a great time, meeting a bunch of Canadians, and proving I can still hold my own in a conversation about Hannah Arendt. I also spent a lot of time talking with a terrifically nice fixed-gear enthusiast from Montreal, who has offered to get me set up with a cheap ride via the London equivalent of the Bike Church, and invited me to Brick Lane on Sunday (e.g., tomorrow) to watch Bike Polo, which is apparently just what it sounds like. Given this option, or the alternative, which is staying in and re-reading Augustine's Confessiones, I think the choice is clear.