A Friendly DFL in Brighton

I spent the day in Brighton yesterday visiting my friend Vicky (the same Vicky I visited in Berlin during her time teaching there). The subject of what Brighton thinks of London came up when I mentioned that I liked how many of the streets shared the same name as famous streets and places in London (Bond Street, Trafalgar Street, Kensington Street etc).

DFL. Down From London. It's not generally something that's said in a positive light when uttered by Brightonians- wealthy, rude, arrogant Londoners buy up holiday homes and drive property prices up, make an almighty mess during raucous hen parties and stag nights, and generally clutter up the streets as clueless tourists during weekends. However, since I fit into none of those categories- especially not the 'wealthy' part- I'd classify myself as Mostly Harmless, like the entry on humans in the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.

I love Brighton. I love London as my home and territory and have no illusions of leaving, but I love Brighton as its own separate entity, with its own separate personality. It's something I never felt about Birmingham for example, despite having lived there for five years. It does have some similarities to Central London (particularly Camden Town in some areas, and Camden Town is one of my favourite places in the entire world), in terms of diversity and wonderful quirkiness. However it embraces these sides much more heartily than London rather than being politely embarrassed by them. As for the atmosphere, it's simply more pleasant. People joke about having to be a certain kind of person to be able to bear London: big, bustling, hectic, shiny, dangerous, brilliant London. Well, it's true: you do have to be a certain type of person to survive my city. I say this with a unique and exquisite mix of pride and shame.

I think you do have to have a small, bitter, hardened kernel at the centre of your heart to stand a city where millions of people are crammed into one small place, always in a rush and not allowed to look each other in the eye- or worse, smile at each other. I am definitely a Londoner: I can phase seamlessly through a solid wall of bodies on Oxford Street, mentally shut myself out on a Spam-packed tube carriage and never feel safe while feeling like it's normal to never feel safe. However, I also notice strangers that need a hand and help them, chat to sales assistants like they're human beings and, horror of horrors, smile. I think this small, alien part of me belongs in Brighton, even though the rest of me is and always will be organically Londoner. I'm not saying Brighton is without its own problems, but in any case, it's nice to know that that little part of me has somewhere to feel at home in for a while when it feels like an outsider the rest of the time.

Also, you can see the sea!!

Quasi-Multilingual Adventures

My status update from Facebook, 31st May 2014 (last week):

Brussels Chinatown = speaking French AND Mandarin today. 'Bonjour, 早上好!' Chinglish. Franglais. Franglese. Ow my brain.

It's awesome to know other languages, even if only a little. I can't understand three types of people: people who don't like animals, people who don't like music and people who don't believe in learning a little about another country's language before visiting.

You can't learn a language fluently just like that, but you'd be surprised at how just learning a few words and phrases can do, and how that in turn makes you familiar with the structure of another language, making you instantly feel a little less like an alien on someone else's planet.

Last week, I went on the trip to Brussels I won from the Godiva Chocolate Challenge (you can read all about the trip and all the lovely things I ate on my blog Tashcakes!) and I got to exercise some of my language skills. I was nervously looking forward to dusting off my rusty French, having done well at it at school up to GCSE level, after which I dropped it to take sciences instead (a regretful decision in hindsight, but you can't go back in time). Even so, although all I could only remember basic conversational French, I felt secure in the knowledge that I wouldn't have to know how to converse with someone about something like politics or global warming.

As a result, I was able to visit restaurants that the locals like, and experience more warmth and smiles from strangers (after all,  people do in general appreciate if you try to speak their language even a little). In fact, I ended up barely speaking English at all to anyone aside from my non French-speaking mum (my travel companion for the trip) and occasionally the hotel staff.

What I wasn't expecting was getting the opportunity to put the Mandarin Chinese I've been learning into practise.

I've been taking evening Mandarin language classes once a week for nearly a year now, having decided that it's high time I learn how to converse in the common language of one half of my heritage. It's been going well- I impressed my Chinese family when I went to Malaysia earlier on this year (okay, more like entertained, but at least I was understandable when I spoke), and my fellow classmates often tease me for being the 'teacher's pet'. However I've only been able to practise in 'safe' environments- up until last week.

We ended up stumbling into Brussels' unofficial Chinatown on the second day of the trip, and to my delight the common language of the community was Mandarin. London's Chinatown seems to have more Cantonese speakers, my Chinese friends are all Cantonese speakers and my Chinese family primarily speak Hakka and only a little Mandarin, so I don't often get to practise with others outside of the classroom.

So, I went to a Chinese supermarket and spoke a little to the cashier in Mandarin, who to my relief understood me through my surely glaring Western accent. Best of all, mum and I decided to test our Mandarin skills at a little Chinese restaurant, where they literally only spoke Mandarin and a bit of French (at one point I asked our waiter- in Mandarin of course- if he spoke any English. He said no, and looked a little panicked, but relaxed when we continued in Mandarin). Both my mum's and my own Mandarin skills are a bit basic, but between us we were able to order, ask if they had Chinese tea, ask for extra utensils to share one dish and handle the bill.

It's a unique, amazing feeling to be able to speak to someone in a language other than the one you grew up with, and an even more amazing feeling to do so in another country. To many English people and Americans believe that they don't have to try learning another language before going on holiday because 'they'll probably all speak English there anyway'. I've even known some people who believe that everyone should know English when you go to another country. I believe this is just arrogance and laziness. Maybe I only believe this because I'm a linguaphile, and I find the variety of languages on this planet beautiful and interesting. Even so, people often forget that English itself is a patchwork mishmash of other languages that has been developed over a very, very long time.

Besides: when you go to a friend's house, you respect the fact that they have a different way of doing things, don't you?

Small Acts of Defiance

I'm a pretty straight-laced kind of gal. Okay, I'm a rather kooky straight-laced kind of gal, but I'm no firestarter or rebel. The wildest thing I've ever done is break into a park at 2am with a couple of friends, a picnic blanket and some snacks and fruit juice to watch a meteorite shower (we crawled through a wall of bushes to get in, all the while worrying about angry badgers).

However, every once in a while, I'll demonstrate my disdain for society's more silly unspoken rules, in my own small way. Breaking into a park on a Saturday night to watch the stars and have a non-alcoholic picnic instead of going clubbing was definitely one of those times (I still believe that secretly no-one actually enjoys clubbing). I had another of those moments yesterday on the way to London Comicon.

I've been looking forward to this year's Comicon for ages, because it's only the second time I would have gone in full cosplay- wig and all. I'm pretty proud of my costume: it took a lot of time and effort to put it together. Originally I was going to go with a group of people, also in costume. However, at the last minute, it transpired that I would now be the only in costume, as a result of either people dropping out or others not finishing their costumes in time.

It also meant I'd be meeting my remaining friends at the venue, and that I'd be travelling alone in costume.

On public transport.

To hell with it. I did it anyway.

Of course, since this is England, no-one made eye contact with me- instead there was a lot of surreptitious setting of smartphones to camera mode around me. And of course, no-one will sit next to you if you look like this:

(Especially if you put on a creeper face).

But to be honest, this is London: there are far stranger folk on the London Underground than a girl dressed as an anime character (Homura Akemi from Madoka Magica, for the record). As I got closer and closer to the venue, I ceased to become the only person in costume on my carriage, anyway.

Still, it does take a bit of guts to do what I did: I did have to remind myself just to have fun since I wasn't hurting anyone, and not to care about people thinking I was weird. Okay, they may be right, but I'm not bad-type weird.

This is an age of of self-image, where you can filter your life to look however you want it to look on the likes of Twitter, Facebook and Instagram. However, it takes a lot more effort to actually *be* the person you want to be in real life, with no filters or editing. The person I want to be isn't afraid to do something just because others might raise a judgemental eyebrow. Sometimes, to be the person you want to be, you just have to stick your tongue out at quirked eyebrows and do it your way.

Like a boss.

A Foodie's Living Nightmare

I am a foodie. That's pretty obvious, given the time I dedicate to other two blogs Tashcakes! and Where I Like to Eat. I love looking at food, smelling food and tasting food. Well, almost all food. Show me a raw tomato or an aubergine in any shape or form and I'll run in the opposite direction, I have a very mild phobia of mushrooms and avocado makes me so sick I hallucinate; but in general, food is fun.

For the last couple of weeks I've been ill. So ill, in fact, I didn't notice what was gradually happening to me until a couple of days ago, when I began to feel more like a human being again. There were a few clues, although I didn't realise at the time.

The first clue was a most obscure one: my mood was flat. Not bad, just flat: walking to different places or putting something delicious in the oven or hanging out the washing triggered no emotional response from me. I put it down to just being run down from being ill.

The second clue was when I snapped off a square of dark chocolate to celebrate being able to breathe through my nose again, but somehow still feeling flat. Again, it did nothing.

The second clue was at work again when I decided to treat myself to a carrot muffin for breakfast at work. My colleague noticed me poking at it forlornly with a fork and smiled.

"Well? How is it?"

"It's got the perfect texture: light, moist and with just enough bite. But it tastes of nothing."

My colleague looked surprised, saying that our other colleague had eaten one too and had thought it was perfect, but then again I did make cakes every week so I'd be the most qualified to comment. We all shrugged it off- I can usually pick out obscure notes and flavours in things no-one else can when it comes to food, so we all assumed I was just being a tad critical. I finished my carrot muffin dejectedly, bemoaning the waste of calories that I could have spent on something tastier.

The final clue- the clue that made the awful penny drop- was yesterday evening when I was cooking beef rendang (a highly aromatic Malay curry) and baking vanilla cupcakes at the same time. My mum came home, and commented on what a wonderful smell it was.

"Which one?" I asked, beaming, and then I froze.

It hit me at once: I couldn't tell which smell was which.

In fact, I couldn't smell anything at all.

I panicked, and went to my cooking chocolate stash to snap off another square of dark chocolate. I popped it in my mouth, chewed, and swallowed. My worst fears were confirmed: I had also completely lost my sense of taste. Even worse: the loss of my senses of smell and taste had also bizarrely robbed me of the memory of smell and taste. Everything was just... nothing. Nothing at all.

Have you ever been in a silent room, minding your own business, when suddenly everything just goes *silent* silent? You realise that the room was never silent to begin with, you just didn't notice the noise of the boiler, or the fan, or whatever droning noise there was in the background until it stopped? Well, losing your sense of smell is exactly like this.

What was I going to do? I knew of people who had, like me, gotten a severe cold, lost their sense of smell and taste, and then had literally never gotten those senses back again, even years after. I'm a baker, for pity's sake! How the hell am I going to experiment with new flavours when I can't taste what the frig those flavours are?

After dinner yesterday evening, my family trouped down to vote for the elections. Like always, the voting was held at my old primary school down the road. How I missed being able to smell the rubber smell of plimsolls and the sweetly acrid smell of wood polish in the gym, and all the old smells of when I was five years old. I've always been aware of the power of smell and how evocative it can be: certain smells can give me very strong flashbacks. However with my sense of smell gone, I was even more acutely aware of what I had lost.

The worst thing about it though is how disconnected to the world you become. No familiar smell of home when you walk through the door after a long day of work. No smell of damp leaves when it stops raining and the sun comes out. No smell of freshly cut grass, of people, of fresh baking or cooking, or more seriously gas leaks or burning.

My experience has so far been met with mixed reactions, mainly of those who can't imagine what it's like and understand how terrible it actually is- and those who can't imagine what it's like and think it's really no big deal.

IT'S A BIG DEAL.

Of the things I've eaten so far, the only way I know what I'm eating is through texture. I have the vague sense of if something is sweet or non-sweet (not even savoury), but it's more like an echo of sweetness rather than actually tasting sweetness. The lovely fragrant curry I made may as well have been textured cardboard. The chocolate I ate may as well have been pleasantly melting plastic.

However, there is hope: despite realising I've been like this for the past week without noticing and fearing I might be like this for a while, if not indefinitely, I noticed a faint scent of flowers a couple of hours ago when I put some hand cream on. It was there and gone again in a few seconds, but at least it gives me hope that my sense of smell and taste have only temporarily gone on holiday!

Not Afraid of Children

Well, maybe a little bit. But not enough to run away from one.

There I was in Centre Point, one of Kota Kinabalu's most popular shopping centres, eagerly clutching a syrupy iced drink. I heard a happy little sound next to me, and looked down to see a small child beaming up at me: he must have been about two years old, judging by the confident mixture of Bahasa Malaysia and toddler-babble he was burbling.

Smiling absent mindedly, I made to jab my straw through the plastic film that sealed the cup. The next few things happened all at once.

The moment the straw hit the film the little boy made towards me at top speed. A brightly coloured sugary fountain spurted out from the pierced film of my drinking cup, and scooted backwards to avoid getting syrup on someone else's child in a mosquito-filled land. As I scooted back the child chased after me, and I ran backwards even faster trying to staunch the flow of palm sugar and coconut milk. I heard the kid's family laughing in the background as I ran backwards, myself covered in syrup, as the child gleefully chased after me with outstretched hands.

Eventually the father came and scooped up the giggling child, and the family started off. Feeling the need to explain myself, I called after them in English:

"I didn't want to get him all dirty!"

All of a sudden, the family fell silent and stared at me icily, smiles all gone. They turned around in silence, the little boy still reaching out towards me from over his dad's shoulder.

What.

At first I thought they didn't understand me and were a bit wary of me as a foreigner, but I realised shortly afterwards it's sort of worse than that: they were treating me as a harmless (hapless) passer-by at first because I sort of look like I could come from Malaysia, in the right environment (especially around my family). I think I shocked them when I instinctively spoke English, 'revealing' my true origins. Ah well. At least the little nipper didn't seem to mind. Even if I did nearly accidentally turn him into mosquito bait.

Humans are Humans Wherever you Go

"Would you like a bread roll miss?"

"No, thank you." I smiled politely at the air steward proffering me the bread with a pair of tongs.

"It's nice and warm fresh from the oven." He jabbed the roll at me.

"Er... no, thanks, I'm good." My smile faultered.

"Here." He leaned over.

"No really, I'm-"

The air steward scowled and dumped the rejected bread roll on my tray and stalked onward with the meal trolley.

That was during the journey back from Kota Kinabalu to England. I suppose it was only fitting my trip ended with an awkward encounter.

Taking My Weirdmagnet With Me

Well I was going to allow myself a break since I'm on holiday in Malaysia visiting family, but then I realised I hadn't mentioned my two-week absence. I'm already halfway through my holiday, Sorry! I mentioned it on my baking blog Tashcakes! But somehow overlooked Wacky World.

Fear not, for there are stories to be told when I return: for example, getting chased against my will by a small child at the shopping centre today.

Until next week!