that's what she said

light & dark

Tomorrow morning, your dear author is doing something a little unusual. She is going to the motherfucking Arctic Circle.  

There, she and her companions — two hard-partying New Yorkers and a ruddy-faced Englishman — will spend a week dogsledding, snowmobiling and eating reindeer.

And, of course, looking for these.

This picture was taken just three days ago, very near where we’re going. If it looks more dramatic than usual, it’s because this week is the biggest solar storm in years.  

As for me, I’m equal parts nervous and excited. After all, as Berkowitz would say, our people are a desert people.  But this will be the first trip I’ll take where instead of feeling like a tourist, I’ll feel like an explorer — a chance most people will never get, and I’ll be lucky to get twice.

Most importantly, I think, is to note that this trip gets me close to my lifelong ambition: becoming Joanna fucking Lumley. If I hadn’t seen this documentary years ago, I probably wouldn’t be going. But as a general rule, if something makes Patsy Stone weep with joy, I want to be a part of it. 

stereotypes

guess what santa brought me

“You can wear it anytime, but it’s mostly for formal occasions.”  -Doug

a year in review

Saturday was my one-year anniversary of moving to London. I spent it in the grand English style, eating partridge and terrorizing a private gentleman’s club with my ovaries. (Though clearly alarming, they were politely ignored.)  

I still haven’t learned to speak about my life here in any articulate way, so I won’t try. The last year was all just… more. More work, more travel, more happiness, more sadness. Both the best and worst.

Incidentally, I joined Instagram about the same time that I moved here. There are only three pictures of me on it, but they sum up probably the three best moments of 2011.

Taken in the Peak District, mid-hike.

Taken while in Berlin for Beats.

Taken while meeting my Irish family for the first time in Belfast.  Did I ever tell you about that?  They taught me origami, readjusted my back, and made me feel at home. And took me here, to the Giant’s Causeway, which is essentially a giant, seaside game of Q-bert.  Needless to say, 2012 has a lot to live up to. 

things that just aren’t that weird anymore

Not one, but two of my coworkers have now been featured on the blog Look at My Fucking Red Trousers.

reverse resolutions

A universal truth about me, Sanam Petri, is that I am a terrible runner. I hate it, and I am bad at it, and today, I ran 5k all at once without stopping.  

How, you ask?  Well, it’s a simple formula.  And I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before.

I will share it with you now.

Step 1: Move to China. (This part is important.)

Step 2: Live with hyper-religious parents. 

Step 3: Eliminate all forms of drink, smoke, drugs, western television, and good internet web pages, for a minimum of two weeks. 

Step 4: Travel with Aemon, the human equivalent of a border collie.

Step 5: Add tiny apartment, thin walls, emo angst, and stir vigorously. 

And voila! You have a spry, animated new Sanam who spends her free time online reading about dri-fit shirts.  

It also doesn’t hurt that the view from my bedroom (incidentally, also the floor of the living room) is a big ass track.

On a more serious note, check out the color of the sky in this picture. It’s not overcast, but white from pollution. It really is so bad here — even in Ningbo, a city on the coast — that every run ends with the two of us coughing up a cup full of soot.  

On the bright side, I figure it’s like altitude training, only with burning garbage stench. When I get back to London, my tough, leathery lungs will be ready for a marathon. 

safety begins at home

I called my grandma tonight to say hi.  She yelled into the phone, “Sanam joon, I love you more than my eye!”  Then cackled and hung up.  

I think she’s losing it, but not necessarily in a bad way.

outside in

They might not have done the food part quite right — it was hamburgers all around —but the family thing was pretty close.

this is why you’re socialist

Somewhere on a little shelf, in a little Tesco, in a little London street, sits a mockery of everything my people fought for.  Behold.

And next to the German Frankfurters, too. It’s like the Great War all over again. 

ok ok i got a good one

Q: what do you call a runny egg that’s been dipped in blood, then deep-fried?

A: my co-worker’s lunch!

I know, I know.  It’s not so much a “joke” as an “accurate description of what’s happening two feet away from me right now.”  Still, though.  Newsworthy shit!

caro mio

While I’ve always taken on the personalities of my roommates to some extent, my current roommate has to be the most extreme. About a month into living with an obsessive cyclist/chef, I couldn’t live without either.

One of the first things I made in this kitchen, entirely out of necessity, was this recipe for spaghetti and fried eggs. Predictably, given my general approach to this sort of thing, it’s become my obsession. 

If you set out to deliberately make it, I’ll tell you this: the trick is the freshness of the eggs. I’d never put much stock in it until I made this recipe with eggs from my boss’s farm, freshly laid that morning. (“Courtesy of the girls,” said the note on my desk.)  Now I’m single-handedly supporting every chicken-coddling daycare farm in England. 

Anyhow, feel free to forget about this post until a few weeks or months from now, when you find yourself stuck in the house with nothing but the barest necessities. Maybe it’ll come in handy.

have i mentioned lately

…how much i love Chat magazine?

So listen, judgmental person on the train, I don’t see how you could not love something that cost 82p and comes with the tagline, “Life! Death! Prizes!”  So you and your Madame Bovary can GFY.

yesterday

I walk over to my boss, papers in hand, ready for our meeting.  He’s slumped down on the couch, thousand-yard stare.  ”What’s up?” I ask.  ”That,” he says, pointing through the window to the building across the street.

I peer out and see a group of people standing on the top floor, staring at us, this written in the window:

“Well… we should probably reply,” I say.  He nods and we both go off in search of something to write with.  

Five minutes later, we stand back to admire our work.

If this seems familiar, it’s because it’s not the first time we’ve made post-it-note contact with other buildings in the square.  But this is a different building, and this is a live conversation. Much more interesting.

A minute later, they reply with what we think is “OUI,” but is actually the beginning of “OURS OR YOURS.”  

“Cheeky bastards,” says Jim.  I say, “Well, it’s Friday.  Why don’t we just invite them to beer o’clock tonight?”  It’s a gamble, but he agrees, so I spent a good 20 minutes making and remaking this message:

In the meantime, my coworkers are getting excited about the possibility of this turning into some sort of Wes Anderson movie. “What if someone meets their future husband or wife because of this?” “I wonder if they’re hot?  Can you zoom in on your camera to see?”  

Behind me, one of our clients interrupts his meeting to call his wife and explain to her, in excited tones, that he’s not sure what is happening right now, but that “it will probably end up on the internet soon.”  Someone else refers to our windows as an ‘analog dating site.’

At this point, I am very, very late to a meeting across town, so I hand someone else the post-its and leave.  On my way to the car, I look up to see that they’ve issued a new response:

“Can I bring a friend?”

I take this as a good sign and jump in the car.  

Two hours later — almost exactly at 5pm — I come running back into the office.  ”What happened? Are they coming?”  

“They spelled out on the window that they were,” said the girl I put in charge of the post-its. “But I just checked and their lights have all gone out.  I think the’ve gone home.”  I peered out and realized she was right, they’d all left for the weekend.  

News spreads that we won’t be having a joint office party after all, and it feels like we all got stood up. Everyone is disappointed, agreeing the other company is a big cocktease.  

As a group, after a few beers, we decide to leave them a message for when they return Monday morning.  

Hopefully they’ll learn not to play games with us in the future.