Cornwall: it really IS another country.

‘Can you tell me how to access the wifi?’

‘The what?’

‘The wifi. Wireless internet?’

(merry chortling) ‘Oh, we ain’t got that kind of fancery up here.’

No mobile signal and no internet for five days: I haven’t just entered a coastal village in Cornwall--I’ve entered the Dark Ages.

I initially thought the 'quaint and charming' holiday cottage came with wifi. I don’t know why I thought this. Delusion, maybe, or the fancying notion that it’s almost 2010, doesn’t EVERY accommodation come with wifi? After arriving late Sunday night, however, it quickly became apparent that 'quaint and charming' not only meant no wifi, it meant no phone signal, poor plumbing, no toilet paper or bath towels, and an electrical box that you feed with pound coins to avoid getting plunged into darkness. It's pretty hilarious, actually, though that can only be said because the price to stay there for a week is an absolute steal, and the location--the coastal village of Crackington Haven--is so beautiful it takes your breath away.

A trip 'into town'--not Crackington Haven, which seems to consist of a pub and a post office--but the nearby metropolis of Bude (consisting of a pub, a post office, and a surf shop), has yielded one lone internet cafe, which is where I am posting from right now. I feel drunk with power having a connection at last and am loath to leave it, but with the beach right outside the window and the loads of weight to be gained on the fabulous local seafood, well...sacrifices have to be made.

I really can't wait to tell you about Cornwall, though, when I'm at a computer that doesn't charge by the minute. It's a stunner--not just in terms of the coastline (which strangely resembles a lot of northern California), but in terms of the villages that dot it. They are sweet and cobbled and tiny and full of fishermen and fresh seafood--and oh, the seafood! I can see now why Cornwall is known as the British foodie mecca--it's absolutely overflowing with gorgeous cuisine, all locally and organically sourced and impeccably prepared. It's the land of Rick Stein and Jamie Oliver, and the bar these chefs have raised reveals itself nearly every place you stop, from the fish and chippies to the pasty bakeries and farm shops. You really can't go wrong.

Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a coastline to hit and a waistline to pad...life is GOOD.

It's only a WEEKEND. I don't need to PACK.

I think I've frightened off Heather. I don't know if it was from my walking on her heels all day, or staring at her while she slept, or licking her spoon at dinner or WHAT, but either way, she's headed off for the weekend to a 'family reunion' (likely story) and her dad came and picked her up this morning (like that was her dad), and now she is gone...

But I'm healing, pulling it together, and looking forward to her return on Sunday. In the meantime, I'M GOING TO BRIGHTON! I love the Brighton. It has the best eating and walking and shopping and bathtubs-in-bedrooms that a girl could ever ask for. This time, per LeaLea's recommendation, I'm going to seek out The Lollipop Shoppe (how have I missed it before??) and then heading straight to Bill's Produce Store, where I will, at long last, get to try the peppered steak sandwich that I was eyeing last time I was there and which had better still be on the menu or we are going to have WORDS, Bill.

I still haven't packed yet, even though I'm leaving for my train in an hour. I'm shockingly sleepy right now, considering I slept for over eight hours and had a hearty pancake breakfast with Hedder and am now sitting down with my blog and a coffee. These are all GO TIME conditions. But I'm thinking about that lovely, rocking train, and that lovely, bubbly bath awaiting me at the Maison Mascara, and all I want is a little catnap. I don't feel like packing. Packing is lame and I'm horrible at it.

I'm currently going back and forth about whether to bring my laptop with me ('I'll have time to post!' 'You're on vacation! No computers on vacation!' 'But what if I need to google a restaurant??' 'Ask somebody where to go or look in your guidebook!' 'But but but!') Ultimately, it's probably a good thing my computer weighs eighty thousand pounds, because my compulsive need to check email pales only to my compulsive need to not carry heavy crap. Plus, you know, I'd have to pack it, which isn't apparently something I'm into right now.

Alright, I should go...at the very least, Brighton will appreciate it if I'm wearing pants.

See you all soon! Kiss hug.

Happy Heather Day!

Omg guess who is sleeping in my guest bedroom as I type?? GUESS!

Okay, I'll tell you because I can't stand the tension. IT'S HEATHER!

Seriously, if this doesn't flip your skirt, I don't know what will. When she wakes up, we're going to go hit the town and get some lunch and top up some phone and oyster and WOOO HOOOO all things good and exciting and fun because HEATHER'S HERE!

Seriously, I've got to go poke her. This is too much excitement to bear.

This has nothing to do with the missing Glasvegas singer.

Today has been a wonderfully productive day and it's only one in the afternoon! This only bodes well for the rest of it, I have to say. So far I have completed a scavenger hunt for a friend's wedding (and I made those mother effing clues RHYME, biyotches, because that's how much I owned it), did some route-markering for the road trip, emailed a handful of relevant people about my move back to SF (anybody got a room to rent? Anybody?), and polished off a load of dirty dishes that were threatening to overrun the kitchen. I know, I know. I'm awesome.

Now I'm heading out to run some errands! I'm checking the prices on some Camden chairs (not for me! I swear! I'm done shopping!), looking for a London design magazine (again, not for me! I swear!), getting my favorite mega-burrito, and returning a book to the library! Man, I amaze myself. I am a TOTAL maniac on the floor today.

And then tomorrow, HEATHER ARRIVES! She's going to be in and out of London and Barcelona for the next two weeks, and will be staying here in the midst of her travels! I cannot WAIT. We are going to party like it's 1999. Except for next week, when I'll be in Cornwall. But after THAT, watch out, London! Here we COME!

boot sales and bootlegging

The Old Butcher on the Corner: Say, have you been to a boot sale yet?
Me, slightly confused: I've been to shoe sales before, but never specifically 'boot'...are they different here?
OB, chortling merrily: No, no, a BOOT sale! Like a CAR boot!
Me: OH! A trunk!
OB: YES! All these cars drive into a lot and sell things out of their boots! A boot sale! They're great fun!

I have to admit I was intrigued. People selling things out of their trunks? This can only lead to excellent, semi-illegal dealings of black market goods. Of course I couldn't resist. So I did some research, and narrowed it down to two boot sales this past Sunday: one on Holloway Road, a rougher part of town, and one in Battersea, a nicer part of town. I was curious to see if the difference in neighborhood would effect the quality of wares...

Holloway Road...where I have never seen more broken electronics, bootlegged dvd's, and questionable designer sunglasses in my LIFE. It was awesome.

I also overheard the following snippets of conversation:

No, man, I can tell you, that stereo WORKS. I mean, I can't plug it in or anythin' to show you, but it's good, it's good.

Hey! You broke the cork on that jug! No, no, don't try to tell me the cork was already rotted away, it was ALL THERE a minute ago. You have to buy that.

This, this is very old, very valuable, one of a kind. You put this saint in a good spot, you get good luck.

Despite all the trappings, however, I managed to score a 50p copy of the Bill Bryson book I want to take with me on my road trip. This will happily replace the one I'm reading right now that belongs to the library, as they may not appreciate me marking up various pages and then stealing it.

Then we have the Battersea Market. The crowd here was much different than the Holloway crowd, where you worried about getting pick-pocketed or having someone accuse you of stealing a cassette tape. Here, there was slightly more space between the rows of cars (though not between the people), the items for sale didn't look like they had been stolen the night before, and the delicious smell of frying food wafted across the lot.

It was also crazy busy. People were selling used clothes, boxes of dusty bottles, china, wooden elephants, toys, EVERYTHING. Part of me saw a romantic treasure in everything, and part of me was compulsively santizing my hands every eight seconds.

One of the sellers there had some great old wooden toys. 'His neighbor' gave them to him to sell. Everyone's got a story like that--the handbag came from a cousin, the vase from an aunt--because if you aren't selling things that you got for free, or that are yours, you get classified as a 'trader,' with all of the legal implications that come along with the title--including small things, like accountability. Plus, saying a bag came from your cousin sounds much nicer than 'it's a knock-off from the Philipines.' This man's story I believed, though, because his toys were so FUN, and I'll always believe a person when it's in my best interest to do so. Check out this fantastic taxi:

I know. Killer cute, huh? I didn't get him, but I should have.

A brief detour

I was going to do a blog post this morning when I still high on caffeine, but then I remembered a last minute doctor's appointment and had to hightail it across town.

Then, while I was across town, I decided to do a bit of shopping. (Not to actually 'buy' anything...after all, how frivolous would that be when I'm about to move halfway across the world? I just wanted to take a LOOK, and maybe TOUCH some thing, and it's just so NICE to stroll through beautiful shops with a coffee in hand on a rainy day...I wasn't even going to fall for these Concetta Gallo dessert bowls at 20% off....certainly not.) (Okay, maybe just a COUPLE...but then, what good is two? Maybe just FOUR...)

And now, a few hours, several cups of coffee, and one engorged tote bag later, I'm home at last...

But TOMORROW! Tomorrow we'll be back on track, blogging and doing chores and reading up on the highways of America. Without a DOUBT.

If Dolores Park and Pac Heights had a love child, this is what it would look like.

Primrose Hill has been on my to-visit list since...well, since I moved here a year ago, really. But it was also one of those places you can be like, 'I'll go next week,' and then next thing you know you're moving away and thinking, 'SON OF A!' So then you sprint over, camera in hand, and then think, 'Oh. I think we've got one of these in San Francisco.'

As far as 'parks on a hill with a view of the city' go, it was remarkably similar to Dolores Park. Except bigger. And with really wealthy, over-dressed people, AND the chance that you may run into Gwyneth and Jude (but not Madonna, who I hear kicks it in East London, but again, all hearsay, don't use this information on Jeopardy), and with a few dozen more tourists. 'They say' the best time to go is sunset, but this time of year that's 8:30, which means by the time the sun went down, I would have been too busy chewing off my arm to take a photo. I personally called it a day around 6:30 because HELLO, feeding time!, and headed down the hill to Lemonia on Regent's Park Road (which, by the way, was amazing, DO IT. Also, make a reservation, because then you feel like a stud when you pass the crowd at the door and get seated immediately).

Primrose Hill is an authentic London village, both in the denotative definition ('any neighborhood that doesn't have its own tube stop,' which is a definition people from Crouch End are quick to point out), and in the connotative definition (small, intimate, charming, self-sufficient). It's also one of the loveliest parts of London I've seen yet. It felt very...SAFE. And quiet. And all the dogs you passed were tiny and groomed, and the owners were smiley and gracious, and everybody appeared to know each other, and it made you think how nice it would be to live there and wear big sweaters and have your own stall at the annual street fair.

You can tell by the shops alone what sort of person lives here: the kind that are into pets, paper, and patisseries. Islington, where I live, is lined with vinyl shops and antique stores. Cool in a John Cusack sort of way, less cool in a stepping-around-piles-of-dog-crap sort of way.

For all of London's usually-appalling weather, there is a significant bike community here. Although some of the hardcore riders would be pressed to tell you that most of the summer bikers are 'fairweather posers.' I don't believe it. I mean, this girl above looks like she pushes her bike ALL the time.

Dolores Park? Or Primrose Hill? Wait. There aren't any drag queens. Definitely Primrose Hill.

This is the view you hear so much about. It makes you feel like you're a million miles away from London while being in the heart of it.

When you finally get to the top of the hill, you feel like this guy looks.

Yep. From up here, you can see the BT Tower, and the London Eye...

...and St. Paul's With Its Many Cranes...

...and my personal favorite: 30 St. Mary Axe looking for all the world like it's trying to hide behind some buildings. Come ON, St. Mary, we can see you back there. You're a giant GHERKIN.

My favorite row of houses...living here has GOT to be like permanent Easter.

Is it just me, or does that stroller look like a lawn mower? OMIGOSH, I just had A BRILLIANT IDEA: somebody should invent a lawn-mower-stroller! You could use it to cut the grass AND lull your baby to sleep, all in one go! I can see the commercial now... (fade into a tired mother, pushing an old, unwieldy stroller): 'How many times have you taken your baby for a walk to put them to sleep and found yourself circling the same park for hours at a stretch, while your chores list back home grows beneath your weary feet? Well, now you can knock off one of those chores while you're walking, using the LaMoStro--the one and only stroller that also trims your lawn! The humming and vibrating of the motor will sooth your little one to an instant slumber while your yardwork takes care of itself!' (switch to a view of the happy, invigorated mother next door, effortlessly pushing the LaMoStro around her pristine lawn, while her good-humored baby sleeps with a smile on his cherubic face. She waves merrily at Worn Mother trudging up her weed-covered drive.) (fade out to: 'Naptime will never be the same again: LaMoStro.')

Oh, this is gonna be GOOD. I can FEEL it.

And once the millions start rolling in, I'm SO getting this house. Primrose Hill won't even know what hit 'em...