Day 5: Crisps=Chips, Chips=Fries and Fries=Pav bhaji and Aloo saag

A few of my favorite UK things!

 Fish and chips. The stuff Anita’s London dreams are made of. That flaky, crunchy, too hot to bite into but I will anyway, so greasy on the paper I can read through it, too large for a single serving but I'll try anyway, pure white cod with silvery skin, throned upon a thick stack of vinegary fries, FISH AND CHIPS…mmmmMan! London is worth coming all this way, just for that! But aside from the fish and chips, there wasn’t too much else to get excited about in English cuisine until, the entire subcontinent took over the place! Yes, South Asians are here to stay. From the ticket clerk on my first day at the train station, to the cab driver who brought me home, to the over-eager IT guy who tried to sell me a SIM card to the museum docent who told me, “No, photography allowed yaar” Indians are everywhere in this country and boy am I thankful for that.

Chicken tikka masala and korma

Shelved alongside the standard English fare of bangers and mash, eggs and watercress sandwiches, pies and pasties and every –shire pudding you can imagine, is an abundance of pre-packaged Indian food in boxes, tins and plastic containers that simply require “heat and serve.” Marks and Spencer’s refrigerated section reads like the menu on a Chandigarh dhaba! Lunch time here may include dishes that contain words like “tikka masala” or “curry” in them. Even the “Ramen Noodles” here are tikka masala and curry flavored. Why don’t we have this in the US?? Fast food to go (or rather “take away”) here doesn’t really include fries and why should it when the international fare offered from street vendors, to food trucks, to subway huts, includes some of the best Indian food I have ever eaten (don’t tell mom).

Brie, baguette, tomato and Alice

Pilau, aloo saag, and rogan josh

Don’t get me wrong. No one can go head to head with the Brits when it comes to some foods, like chocolate for instance. Cadbury chocolate at home and here are WORLDS apart (maybe because the Cadbury chocolate here isn’t made in Pennsylvania), and I actually have a box of my favorite Cadbury Fingers sitting at my deskside (for only 50p!!) as I write this, but when it comes to the more savory of victuals, you gotta hand it to the Motherland. I don’t know about you, but if I had to choose between tripe, brine and blood vs. saffron, basmati and cardamom, I’m taking the biryani every single time.

Day 4: The Representative from California has the floor, but which floor?

Cafe Nero, my new Starbucks

Thought provoking signs everywhere

School is now in session. Registration complete, books received, ID badge procured, new favorite latte spot commandeered and computer login running. I got this. The University College London is a sprawling and not really well labeled, campus. And if you're already "directionally challenged" as I am, getting to the right place at the right time is going to be a task. Needless to say, after Day One’s directionless mishap, I should have been more on top of things. But I wasn't. Aside from knowing exactly where my new favorite Italian coffee shop was straight off the tube, I'm pretty much at a loss the rest of the time. As I await my internal GPS to kick in, I read the sign near the elevator doors. There’s the ground floor, the lower ground floor, and the underground floor. All of these were before the first floor and none of these include the entry floor (!!!) and who knew what floor my class is on. Needless to say, I arrive to lecture late, but don't worry, still with latte in hand. The entire international quorum of students has already been seated for a while and are now fixedly engaged in debate on the global question of "What is the single greatest health problem developing countries face in 2011?" when I walk in. Priceless. 

After embarrassingly introducing myself, where I am from and what am I doing here, I squeeze into the only available seat left (and yes, still with latte in hand). In an attempt to conciliate for disrespectful tardiness, I raise my hand to answer a few questions and then think to myself, "Isn't that just like a true American? Shows up late to the world party and then thinks she has all the answers." Note to self: Be on time tomorrow and try not to represent so hard.

Day 3: The London School of Hygiene and Tropical Medicine

The London School of Hygiene and Tropical Medicine

The London School of Hygiene and Tropical is on the corner of Keppel and Gower Street in the famed Bloomsbury district. Bloomsbury is home to the University College London, the British Museum, The British Medical Association, the Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts and founding place of the Bloomsbury Group whose best known members were E.M. Forster and Virginia Woolf.  

The Library

The entire area from Tottenham Court Road to Russell Square is peppered with buildings, old and new, that create a bustling cosmopolitan campus. International students the world over come here to study every subject imaginable. Along the narrow streets that line this central area are cafes, pubs and bookstores, where if you stop long enough, you can hear languages and accents none of two which are alike. On one side of the street hurried students late to orchestra practice run past with large black cases, on the other side, art students precariously wheel a 6-foot tall paper mache tree-sculpture in a shopping cart while apologetically shouting to curious on-lookers, “it’s not finished yet!” There are theater students practicing their lines in the park, anatomy students dashing up stairs with copies of Netter in hand, and public health students rambling on about neglected tropical diseases. This is where I come in.

Campus

Bikes for rent

I wanted to study at the London School of Hygiene and Tropical Medicine for many reasons. I was born in London, my father was a Fellow of the Royal College of Surgeons here and did some of his training on this campus and my mother, a nurse who he met while training here also studied at the London School. Seeing as I was an infectious disease physician-in-training wanting to eventually work in developing nations with a focus on public health(and wanting an excuse to take 5 weeks off from any clinical responsibility sans pager or call schedule), I thought this would be a natural fit. As so far it is. But it was having the chance to study in an international setting alongside other like-minded students which had the greatest appeal for me coming here. Here, in this environment, the breadth and spectrum of points-of-view are numerous and vast. No two people, professions, or countries approach any topic at hand with identical technique. It is this variety of opinion and diversity of thought that I thrive on. Hearing the different problems these countries face in terms of health care needs, policy reform and access is expansive. It is even more humbling to realize how little we in the US know or even understand about what countries outside of us face.

Signs around UCL protesting tuition increases

The ability to step out of the US and onto the global platform is transformative. My class called “Designing Disease Control Programs in Developing Countries” has brought the world into a single classroom in the heart of Central London. There are students here from Nigeria, Ghana, France, Sweden, Slovakia, Zimbabwe, Canada, Southeast Asia, Bolivia, South America, almost every continent. Their backgrounds are varied, but their focus is universal, to establish firm tenets of public health training that they can later take back to their countries. The world renowned London School of Hygiene and Tropical Medicine seems just the place to start.  I am going to learn a lot here. I can already tell. But aside from the international students who visit here to study, there are the students of London itself who come here to stay. All around campus are flyers and signs for student protests against tuition increases. It seemed a world away when I watched the masses of students in protest on CNN a few months back, but as I sit alongside them on break in the refectory, I can understand what it means to them now.

Day 2: I’m going to need a hat.

Around Kings Cross

London is cold. Not cold like the chilliest day in California cold, not cold like the A/C is on full blast in Yogurtland while you’re trying to eat your green-tea-chocolate-cheesecake concoction in shorts and sandals cold, but cold cold. 

Highbury Park

So cold, in fact, the wind pierces through your clothes like you’re not even wearing any and your face freezes so tautly you begin to realize what Botox would feel like if you ever got into it. As my damp hair turned to crisp strands of icicle weaves, I realized I was going to need a hat…and some gloves, and thicker socks, and woolier scarves and a portable furnace if I was going to survive the next 5 weeks. My “California Cold” wardrobe of fashion scarves, delicate knits and “party cardis” wasn’t going to cut it. I was going to need an upgrade. 

The sloshing rain water up my leg from missteps into puddles that came out of nowhere, were not helping my morale any. Ok, Anita, just keep walking. You’ll just have to go shopping tomorrow, out of necessity of course, not indulgence. Some things can't be helped. But despite the cold, I realize a beauty here that is undeniable. My walk through Highbury Park each morning reminds me of this. The looming gray clouds over wet lawns give the grass verdant hues that are otherwise lost against bluer skies. The strokes of black branches canvased against grey-white skies look like pen and ink drawings and I am trapped staring as my neck crooks upwards as I walk. There is a quiet, stillness here that forces me to listen, that forces me to slow down. The locals though carry on about their business unshivering, unwaivering, accepting the cold as another part of their day. Mothers stroll their children through the park bundled in layers of scarves and hats, elderly couples walk their dogs with hands nestled inside long woolen coats, merchants set up shop for the day and patrons still sit outside on the sidewalk for their morning coffee. The cold chill of the day is as commonplace here as the warm glow of the sun is in California. I'm going to have to adapt. But I haven't acclimated yet so I walk fast and tell myself not to think about the cold. Onward! The Victoria Line is straight ahead.  (I think. . .)

Day 1: The Victoria LINE and The Victoria STATION are not the Same Thing

LAX --> LHR

London. I had arrived. The Virgin Atlantic flight, was as promised, effortless and pleasant. Customs and immigration on the other hand, were not. Standing in line with four other flights that had just arrived from Shanghai, Delhi, Canada and somewhere in North Africa, I was in for a tedious start to journey’s end. After standing in line for nearly and hour and a half, I was 'stamped' through immigration in 6 seconds, nevertheless, London Heathrow, here I was and I was excited. With over-zealous enthusiasm to have finally crossed the Atlantic after months of planning, I grabbed my suitcase, grateful that it arrived, and made way for familiar red and white 

Islington

signs that read “UNDERGROUND.” Fully equipped with what I thought was a flawlessly drafted google/London underground research of maps and directions I bought a month-long “Oyster Card,” hopped the Picadilly Line and set course for Victoria Station. Pleased with myself for such foresight and planning, I settled into "The London Experience." What could go wrong? I had it all planned out, right? Well, let’s just say things didn’t turn out as precisely as I expected them to. Derailed by station construction and forced off the line, I herded my way with other weary travelers onto a bus that took us to another station where we rejoined the subway. (Glitch #1). But. . .these stations didn’t have elevators or working escalators! (Glitch #2) What?! How was I supposed to lift all my bags up these stairs??  Thankfully, the legend of British manners is not limited to myth alone and many a heroic Englishman came to my rescue. (side note: British accents: swoon, Well Dressed men with British accents: double swoon, Well dressed men with British accents who come to your rescue: Mind the Gap swoon!) Ok, back on track. I pressed on unruffled by glitch #1 and #2 and once again consulted my flawlessly drafted print-out of directions. Picadilly to the District Line, exit Victoria Station, walk about 3 blocks and arrive at the front door of the “Doctor in the House", all in enough time to call home, unpack, wash up and go out for dinner. An hour tops. Four hours (!) later I arrived at my lodging in Islington. I won’t bore you with the painful details of walking around the streets of downtown London with the sun setting fast (Glitch #3) and the rain sprinkling harder (Glitch #4), or how finding a taxi on a Saturday night in the middle of a bustling restaurant and theater district was an epic feat (Glitch#5), I’ll just tell you I made it (after surviving Glitches #6-14).

Doctor in the House

The street where I live

“Did you get lost?”

“Well I thought I had the directions perfectly mapped out? I’m not sure what I did wrong” I said pulling out my trusty sheet.

“Oh, dear. Well, the Victoria line and the Victoria station are not the same thing. They're miles apart. You would have been here hours ago if you had known that.”

Of course they're not the same! Duh. Ok, note to self: there are going to be a lot of things on this trip called 'Victoria' try and keep 'em straight.
Lesson learned. Just show me to the bed.