Eglantine European Evenings

When my favouritest Jimchae told me he had landed a summer internship in London, and that there would be a free couch in a lux flat in Pimlico, I knew what I had to do. South America was turning cold anyway, and I needed a place to hole up and rewrite my first book. And who'd turn down a rent-free summer in London? Not me.

I had two layovers on my way from Latin America to London. The first involved three days in the best city on the best coast, San Francisco. My fellow robbee, Chellis and I, threw a fundraising party in the big bad Mission to try and recoup some cash, music, photos, and sympathy for our newly re-gadgeted selves.

A big fat sloppy thank you kiss to everyone who attended, hugged us, paypaled money, emailed sympathy, called to commiserate, and otherwise made us feel so damn lucky to have such fabulous friends and family.

My second layover was in Galway, Ireland. While trekking in Peru, I met two crack girls from Galway who told me that if I were ever in Ireland, they'd show me how much more fun Galway was than Dublin. And indeed, I have to say that it was one of THE BEST party weekends I have ever had (and I've had one or two).

In Dublin's defense (and I had a fine time when I visited 2 years back), I didn't go out at all at night, I didn't know any locals, and I didn't attempt to meet anyone either.

Everyone knows that having a local host is the best way to visit a new place. I've eaten home cooked feasts in Bangalore, gone to house parties in Buenos Aires, picked frozen apples in Bohemia, been guided through the crumbling treasures of Old Bombay, traversed little known bike paths in Barcelona, and strolled around Brasil's magic seaside city of Rio. I wouldn't have done most of those things if a local hadn't joyfully been showing me the secrets of her city.

Galway was no different. Niamh (pronounced Neeve) picked me up from Dublin airport and drove me all the way across the country to Dierdre's house in Galway. Niamh's and Dee's immense overwhelming hospitality didn't stop there: a fridge stocked with yummy veggie food, my very own guest room, and a 3 day itinerary packed with parties, pubs, walks through the quaint downtown, a road trip through the limestone landscape of the Burrens, ending in the towering Cliffs of Moher, and more kisses than I knew what to do with. Can I tell you how much of a sucker I am for light coloured eyes? Sometimes I was the only brown eyed girl in the room and I could hardly breathe from the beauty.

I arrived in the Big Smoke, (s)exhausted. Chellis, I love this word of yours. But also ready to (re)write. And determined not to go broke in London despite having less than $500 to my name and July and August to kill. Impossible, you say? You're right of course. Unless your best friend provides you with a mobile phone, a magically topped-up Oyster card, weekly groceries from M&S, cash whenever he thinks I'm scraping too much, and a flat complete with daily maid service, broadband wireless internet, a full sized pool, exercise classes all day, and free gym membership. I'm a lucky lucky girl.

Still London manages to bleed me dry every time I step outside. I try to stay home as much as possible (this isn't hard, after all, my digs are pretty fucking lush), but there are SO MANY fun festive things to do in the summer over here. Poetry slams, walks along the South Bank, cute dancy bars in East London, punting in Cambridge, free museums and festivals and parks, double decker bus rides all over town, musicals, home cooked Bangladeshi meals, weekends in Liverpool, dinner parties, concerts, performances, bowling, scones and cream, Nigerian(!) restaurants, and more.

And in the meantime, I've almost finished rewriting my memoir-novel, Olive Witch, An American Dream. I hadn't looked at it, as a whole, since summer 2003 when I finished it, and so I had collected a bunch of ideas over the years about how to make it longer (it was well under 200 pages to start with), more tied together, deeper, wider. ie the next great (Nigerian born) (Bangladeshi bubbled) American (dream) novel. harhar. We'll see what the NYC agents think of that and my story collection, The Lovers and the Leavers.

Summers are a magic time in the north western hemisphere. The days are long and warm, the sun is out, and it feels like holiday everyday. Especially in a country known for its dark damp clime. I'm hard pressed not to overly romanticise my summer in London. Even though I have to say that the English aren't nearly as friendly as the Irish, or the Indians, or the South Americans, or the Thai, or really almost any other nationality of people I've met these past few years. Still, I'd love to come back next year and spend a year or two here. But now autumn's on the horizon, my money's run out, and my next stop will be New York City, where I'll be working to pay off my debts, wondering how I'll afford health insurance, and trying to find an agent for my books. Fun, no? And how.