Tiny/Shiny

It's Very Possible That You Had To Be There.

Pascha means Easter, but it's also a food. This is what it looks like, though Andrei's didn't have gum drops. It's delicious. It tastes like cream cheese frosting. XB is JC (for Jesus) in Russian.

Yesterday, as we were half-watching "Law & Order: Criminal Intent," and waiting for it to be time for Easter Dinner, Andrei's little sister Sonya started talking about her old pet rock. This prompted Andrei to leave the room in search of said rock--which was named, I think, Norma--and after he left his mom began telling me about Andrei's general store.

"Whenever Andrei didn't have any money," she said, "he'd line up rocks and pencils and sell them to Sonya. He had a little shop in his bedroom."

"Why did you have money when Andrei didn't?" I asked.

"Because I didn't spend it," Sonya said.

"Oh I see," I said. "You were frugal. Your only indulgence was rocks?"

"I didn't buy rocks," Sonya insisted.

That was pretty much the end of it. Later, Andrei and I were walking around his parent's yard, which is kind of rocky, and he told me that he used to have to pick up little rocks as punishment when he was bad.

"But at least you could turn around and sell them to Sonya," I said.

"What are you talking about?" He looked at me like I was crazy. "I never sold rocks," he said. 

Then I told him everything and he said it wasn't true and we laughed. It makes me laugh right now.

Puerto Rico, You Lovely Island

So, the timing was pretty far from ideal, but I still can't really complain about a business trip to San Juan. I spent the morning working in the sun, and it's nice and warm. I won 30 dollars on a 25 cent slot machine at the hotel casino. And every time I stop by the hotel shop, I buy another package of these "Tropical Sweets."
Tropical Sweets

I keep buying more because there's something just a tiny bit wrong with each kind. The ingredients are appealingly all-natural--the mango one, for example, really just contains mango, sugar, and water--but there are some serious textural problems that I can only assume are a side effect of the lack of artificial stabilizers. The coconut ones are impossibly dry and crumbly. The mango ones are too squishy, only slightly more solid than, say, marmalade. Up next: Coconut Leche! I'll report back.

Nearby.

Le Sigh.

"Light" Lunch on the Eurostar.

So, we were in Paris from Monday to Friday. Events overtook us, and we failed to take the promised pictures of our entrees, but let it be known that Couscous, Tellus, and Chez Nenesse are all good things. Also nice: The Seine, Sacre Coeur, the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, the Jardins des Tuilleries, and the Arch d'Triomphe. (All: Spelling? Too sleepy to check.)

So Many Stairs.

Also, we loved the little shops near our street. Even if my attempt to get a baguette with butter and jam resulted in baguette with butter and ham, the boulangerie was totally rad, as was the fromagerie (Brillat-Saverin, 2.5 Euros), the butcherie (we didn't get anything, though I wanted some rilletes), and the fruit and vegetable stand.

Les Fruits.

On our way home, we took the Eurostar, deluxe-style. C'est La Vie!

Andrei took many very good pictures. I hope he'll post them soon.

Sunday at the Tate Britain.

We Made Our Own Art.


Untitled, or, I Was Going To Pretend To Make A Phone Call, But It Smelled Terrible (Like Pee) So This Was As Far As I Went.

Fancy Times

Buckle Up.

On Saturday night, we got dressed up and went to dinner.

Here comes the lift!

In England, scallops have this whole other part. It's weird, but it actually makes sense because the former amateur marine biologist in me never understood how what I always thought of as a "scallop" could possibly sustain life.

In this picture, the weird part is hiding.

There it is!

According to Matt, this extra part is actually banned in America, either by the FDA or by all the shipping companies that don't want to deal with it. It tasted fine. As you can see, it wasn't my favorite. Also, the crowd was kind of awesomely weird--spaghetti-strapped teenagers going to some kind of private party, lots of old English people, and a Russian (I assume) dude who looked like Victor Krum, dressed in a full-on red Russia-branded tracksuit. Le Cafe Anglais: Two thumbs up! I didn't take a picture but the salsify fritters were the best. Also, the fennel sausage. Gone too fast to photograph.

Pub Life.

Saturday afternoon, Kenya and I elected to skip the soccer (sorry, football) game at the last minute, sending the boys on to the local stadium so that we could go home and read and think about where to have dinner. This ended up being slightly more complicated than expected, because apparently people in London just love to go out to dinner on Saturdays, economic crisis or no, so many of the places that we called (admittedly, only a couple of hours ahead of time) were fully booked.
Ultimately, we ended up making reservations at a few different places for a few different times. But we didn't feel confident enough to make a final call without first consulting Andrei and Matt. Happily, at the exact moment that we made that (non) decision, I happened to look out the window and see them ambling down the street toward the house.
Strangely, though, a few minutes passed and they still hadn't materialized. "Maybe they went to the store," we said. Another quarter of an hour went by, and we realized that the store explanation was no longer making sense. "They've gone to the pub," Kenya said. "No way," I said. "They love us. They would have hollered up and invited us if they were going to the pub." But it was getting pretty late, pretty close to dinner time. "I'm not calling them," Kenya said. "You can." Instead, I sent a text:

 

Shocking, no? Please note the time: 5:48. Dangerously close to dinner, once you factor in the commute to central London and the fact that certain people had probably been throwing beer or whatever all afternoon and should probably bathe. We hightailed it down there post-haste in order to browbeat them about their shiftiness, but the best part was that Kenya had only just made a cup of tea, and didn't want to leave it behind. She simply threw on her fur coat, grabbed her mug, and headed off nonchalantly down the road. 

Stylish!

 

Matt's like, Oh shit!

Paella

At Borough Market

Last Post Til London

Tonight, Andrei and I depart for our ten-day trip to London and Paris. We are extremely excited. Hopefully, I will be posting to this blog while we're gone (the idea of attempting a brief travelogue--excuse me, travelblog--was what got me going on this again), so if you are my friend and you care, check back.

Meanwhile, I will leave you with a sketch that I made yesterday during my fiction craft class. I think I would like to start taking drawing classes once I get out of graduate school. This picture depicts my teacher, the lovely Lucy Rosenthal, although I really didn't do her justice (and made her mouth too wide, to boot).

Darling, Don't You Go And Cut Your . . .

If Only It Still Looked Like This.

I can never decide what to do about my hair. Technically, usually, I like it, but I am often feeling two distinct things: 1)That it is always a work in progress, and therefore always subject to discussion (i.e. should I grow out my bangs, should I dye it darker, should I dye it lighter, should I I cut two inches off the bottom), and 2)That I will eventually hit upon the one right idea, at which point my hair will be officially perfect and I will never have to think about it again.

This is all clearly problematic. Thought process number 1 is boring, especially for people such as my boyfriend who actually have to hear about it. (Me, to Andrei: "I know you want me to grow out my bangs." Andrei, to me: "It doesn't matter what I want. Plus, I do not care.") And thought process number 2 is simply faulty. People don't always realize this, but even Anna Wintour changes her hair. She has an iconic, set style, it's true, but it gets lighter, it gets darker . . . I'm pretty sure she messes with the fringe.

Anyway, I'm not going anywhere with this, and as I go on I'm starting to remember why I quit blogging, but: Readers! By which I mean, Sarah, and Sarah. You guys have known me through so many hairstyles. Do you think I should grow out my bangs? Should I get highlights again? Just kidding. Don't answer.