Returning to a home of sorts

In not very much time at all, H1 and I will be jetting off to London.

I only really just got excited about this a couple of days ago, when I started organizing our social diary for the trip. We have some good friends here in New York; however, we have many more friends in London still, and it took me a while to work out that we'd get to see them all. Cue: rabid excitement, and a few half-brained ideas about how I can get all my work done and still spend all my time socializing. (Answer - I can't. But I'm sure it'll work out somehow).

It is a work trip, for both of us - or rather, for me, a 'I have to be there but I'll just work as if I'd never left here' trip. Being a freelancer has very few benefits, but situations like these are definitely one of them. As is the freedom to set your own hours and therefore visit Bloomingdales or the nail salon outside peak hours, when everyone else is in the office - something I very rarely do, but something that it is nice to know I can do, should I want to.

So. London. Excitement - but nervousness, also. A lot has changed since I was last there, nearly two years ago. Namely, London is no longer my home, and it has nothing to indicate that it ever was, apart from a group of friends. What was my home in London is now a friend's home (when you have a good flat you make sure you pass it on to someone you know to be deserving) and this has presented its own problems.

I can't imagine being in London, and not in 'my' flat. I was trying to explain this to H1 the other day, as we searched for a hotel - a difficult feat, as London has the same problem as New York, whereby all moderately-priced, clean, well-located hotels that have a modicum of style are non-existent. The problem may be even worse in London, in fact, as the English are much more attached to their competing patterns and chintzy decor than anyone else. Thankfully, we benefit from a friend's absence for most of the trip, and get to base ourselves in his decidedly non-chintzy flat, but for a few nights, we are hoteling it. So we spent a couple of days trying to find somewhere decent (somehow, and I can't pinpoint when or how it happened, we have gone from a 'lets fly Ryanair and stay in a hostel in the red light area' attitude to outright sulking when the best option is a lowly Marriott) and nearly succeeded on a number of occasions - until I found something wrong with the place (I don't like Bayswater, Paddington is soulless, everybody knows there's nothing decent in Notting Hill, and so on) each and every time. Eventually, in frustration, H1 sat back on his heels, looked me in the face, and passionately cried, "Well, where the bleep do you want to stay then?" Except he didn't say bleep.

"Our flat!" I responded in frustration. "Our flat in Fulham!"

A concerned look came over his face, as he clearly debated whether to humor me or gently let me know that it was no longer our flat, given that we hadn't paid a penny in rent on it in nearly two years. He took the practical way out, and pointed out that it was a very tiny flat, and even if the friends who now live there were happy with us on the lounge floor, we wouldn't be, even if it meant avoiding a hotel's diabolical color scheme.

I knew this, of course, and I know this still, and I've begrudgingly settled for a hotel in Marylebone which just about meets my unrealistically high standards. But I still feel a slight pang when I think of it, ridiculous as it may be. It reminds me of when I moved out of home when I was 18 (the first time - the term 'boomerang child' could have been invented for me) and had a huge, hysterical crying jag as I tried to pack up 18 years worth of stuff, to the utter bewilderment of my parents and friends. I was pleased to be moving in with my friends, and excited, and all the rest of it, but I hadn't thought about the fact that that meant my home and my room would no longer be mine, and, being the self-centered, possessive type I am, I didn't like it. Now is like that. I love New York, and I'm happy to be here, and this flat is way better than 'my' London one (at the elevated price, one would hope so) but I'm still having some trouble dealing with it (despite the fact that I am now far older than 18, and nobody in London ever cooked me meals or made my lunch with the same willingness that my mother did).

The good news is, I anticipate getting over it very quickly. Probably on the tube from Heathrow, in fact, or maybe even before, if the train is held up for some solid reason like leaves on the track, or rain, or any of those other everyday occurrences that seem to take TfL by surprise every.single.time. I look forward to it.

Peru - the France of South America

Whoever created this tagline (I suspect somebody from Peru's tourism department) did a good job. I've heard it on multiple occasions - at least, multiple occasions where we've had reason to be talking about Peru. So thrice.

The first time was from a waitress, in a Peruvian restaurant named Pio Pio* (funny that) on Restaurant Row, a line of restaurants that lies just west of the Theater District here in Manhattan. H1 and I didn't go out looking for Peruvian food - in fact, I don't think we would ever have thought of eating Peruvian up until that point - but a combination of poor planning and complete obliviousness to how busy Restaurant Row would be on a Saturday night pre-theater meant it was the only place we could find that both looked nice (I'm fussy, okay?) and could seat us immediately, even if it was at uncommonly high seats in the bar area. We had a show to get to, so were excited for both seats (uncommonly high or not) and food, and very little thought went into the eating decision.

It was therefore just luck that led us to that transcendent meal. Seriously.amazing.food. I can still remember what I had, and it was nearly a year and a half ago. White fish, which had a name that I wasn't familiar with (had to ask the waitress what to expect) and cannot remember, on top of mashed yucca**, with assorted vegetables (okay, I only remember parts of the meal) and a wine-and-mustard sauce that was not too saucy at all, and tasted kind of like something you'd get in France, but less recognizable. It was magnificent.

The second time I heard it was from a friend who lives in South America, not long after this meal, when I was raving to her about it. "Oh, yes," she said. "Peru's like the France of South America. Their food is known for how good it is."

"Really?" I responded politely, not letting on that a waitress had got in ahead of her with this little bit of knowledge. "I can believe it!"

All that said and done, I didn't eat Peruvian again, or even think of it much, until a couple of weeks ago, when some friends invited us out to dinner at a new (ish) place opposite Madison Square Park, called La Mar Cebicheria. And wow. Just wow. I was excited for dinner anyway, remembering my last Peruvian-food-eating-experience, but this place was even better than the first. Or maybe it was just as good. Or maybe it was better, or not quite as good. I don't really know, because when I eat good food my brain stops working properly, possibly as a mechanism to ensure nothing distracts me from the eating***. And therefore, I can't tell you which was better. They were both just - wow****.

At La Mar I had seafood again - a red grouper dish with yucca (again, though this time, I couldn't taste it) and clams and vegetables, again in a white wine sauce (just this blog entry is showcasing my food ideals pretty strongly!) preceded by shared starters of prawns with mango cebiche and chicken anticuchos, which our waitress told us were a common street snack in Peru. I asked H1, as he has actually been to Peru. He looked sad and forlorn as he explained that he was in no fit state to be sampling the best of Peruvian food while he was there, being exhausted and vulnerable after months of traveling around and having had all his money stolen.

This evening, incidentally, was where I heard the Peru-France thing for the third time, from my friend whose mother had just travelled there. I laughed, explained why I laughed, and started mentally planning the holiday. Some things can't be ignored, right?

*I knew this place had a few locations, but I did not know the place called Pio Pio in my neighborhood was one of them until I looked it up just now - I assumed it to be different, as the one over west is beautiful, and the one up the road looks, from the street, like a greasy takeaway joint. I may try it - or I may ignore it until next time I happen to be both over the west side and in the mood for Peruvian. We'll see.

**I always assumed yucca (the food) to be related to yucca (the plant) but this article on Wikipedia tells me the food is different, and the confusion is down to a name mix-up. Whatever - it is delicious and if you get the chance to try it, don't pass it up. I also once had it fried, from a food truck in SF - just as fabulous as it was mashed.

***I would make a very poor food critic.

****See?

The Yoga Nemesis

I am writing this from bed. Ooh la la, right? I'm not trying to be all sensuous (if you saw my pajamas you'd realize that pretty quickly!) but rather, trying to be a good blogger (better late than never). It's 9:15, I've been working almost solidly up to this point, and if I didn't do it now, I can see tomorrow heading in the same direction.

I know it's on the early side to be in bed, but I like to read before going to sleep - it's the one bit of downtime that I both promise myself and rarely renege on. Plus, I've been at yoga tonight, and that's always good to thoroughly wear you out.

I go to classes in the gym in my building, and do a sort of ashtanga/power yoga mix. I love it - for the aforementioned wear-you-outiness and the challenge of it and how strong it makes me and (just quietly) because I'm almost always the best in the class. Mostly that last reason, actually.

I know that's terrible. After all, yoga's not really the sort of activity where you're meant to compare yourself at all, let alone favorably. But I can't really help it. I'm your average over-achieving competitive personality, and if I couldn't compare and judge, I probably wouldn't do it at all. And I'm not the only one who does it. My nemesis does too.

Yes, I have a nemesis - in yoga, at least. She kind of looks like me, but her hair is shorter and her legs are longer (grumble). We're nearly the same ability in yoga, but she is maybe a tiny bit more flexible than me and I'm maybe a tiny bit stronger than her. And we compete. We never say a word to each other, but trust me - it is on. We do our asanas, and we peek at each other in the mirror to see how the other one's doing, and we push ourselves a little more, and then the instructor tells us to look at our navels, or whatever, and we stop, until it's time to move into the next position. I know it's a mutual thing because sometimes she mouths 'nemesis' at me when we're in Warrior 1*.

So anyway, that's my nemesis, and that's probably how it would have gone on indefinitely, had H1 not taken it upon himself tonight to - gasp - speak to her (for reasons that will be explained later). I know, I know.

So what's she like? Oh, you know, nice, friendly, not too warm, not too cold. She's a bit like me, really, although she's a med student, which I find slightly intimidating because med students use such different parts of their brain to me (big difference between pulling apart a person and pulling apart a press release, believe it or not).

So that's that. Now my nemesis has a name and a life and is no longer just someone to compete against. Maybe we'll become friends, even. But probably not...because you can't compete against your friends. And I'd rather keep my nemesis. I'm quite fond of her, you see - and, I like to compete.

*Part of this story may be made up, but most of it is true, I swear.