"Remember, remember the fifth of November..."

I'm sick. Like, really really sick. I basically haven't left my bed since retiring to it at 4am on election night. And mind you, I was already sick before that - but being a history enthusiast I couldn't resist spending Tuesday night mingling with fellow Americans at The Light in Shoreditch till the wee wee hours as electoral results came through.

It was a decision that I knew at the time was foolhardy; effectively overriding my body's need for some serious R&R... but honestly, what's the neglect of a little sore throat and some mild hacking compared to witnessing something monumental unfold? Nonetheless, while I take full responsibility for the degree of my current illness, it has been nothing but sniffling, and sneezing, and coughing, and watery eyes, and just all-around yuck, ever since.

Unfortunately, my heedless commitment to election night has also subsequently meant missing another historical evening - pretty much the only widely-celebrated, uniquely British holiday that goes on in the UK: Guy Fawkes Day.

For those of you who've never heard of it (And who has? Really? Besides the British?) Guy Fawkes Day is perhaps one of the most bizarre "patriotic" holidays on record. Basically, in 1605, a group of people, including Guy Fawkes, plotted to kill King James I and blow up Parliament on November 5th. Before they could manage it, Guy was caught in the basement of Westminster Palace among kegs of gunpowder. He was then tried for treason and executed by literally being hung, drawn and quartered. (Yikes!)


Since then, each year a dummy of Mr. Fawkes is sinisterly paraded around on the date of his intended treachery, and then strung up and burned in effigy. In my experience, the burning takes place while fireworks are simultaneously shot off and Pink Floyd is played in the background. It's really all a bit eerie and disturbing. From the American perspective it sort of feels like an amalgamation of Thanksgiving, Halloween, and the Fourth of July, with the added odd element that whether Guy was actually in the wrong or not is up for debate - his group was trying to usurp the Church of England to bring Catholicism back into control - so despite all the fiendish burning, some people think he should have succeeded!

Anyway, I managed to see the plenty of the "Bonfire Night" pyrotechnics from the view of my sickbed window last night (they'll be happening across the city all week long). But just so you get the idea of what it's like up close, below are some pictures from last year's celebration in Victoria Park.

Enjoy!


Guy Fawkes being strung up (Doesn't he look like a skeletal Thanksgiving Pilgrim?)



Big Ben: iconic of British Parliament. (Why it has been turned into a spaceship we don't know... maybe to go with the Pink Floyd anthems?)



Uh oh... there he goes again... trying to set the Houses of Parliament alight.



Moments later... Guy's just a traitorous fireball in the sky.

Have Yourself a White Diwali!

On the night of Diwali my friends and I went to the Hindu temple in Neasden to pay honor to the day and watch the glorious fireworks display. Diwali is the Hindu New Year and marks the beginning of a five day "Festival of Lights," which celebrates the triumph of good over evil and light over dark; it's the start of an entire week of lamp lighting, gift giving, and indulging in pyramids of Indian sweets.

The festival is often likened to Christmas, not just because lights are strung and people exchange presents, but because the celebration is South East Asia's most popular and widely-celebrated holiday, cutting across both regional and religious differences. Usually, the trimmings of Diwali that evoke Christmas end somewhere between the outflow of well-wishing and the traditional overdose on sugar, but this year, London's weather had something else in store to give the holiday echoes of Noel.




Although the morning and afternoon had been crisply blue and clear, rain arrived in the early evening, and by 9 o'clock, when the fireworks were to begin, we found ourselves standing outside atop squishy grass in a freezing downpour. The show was delayed, and as the air got colder and the precipitation more fierce, the crowd's patience waned; treacherous sleet and the raucous wind made it almost unbearable, even for those of us decked out in ski-gear (me) and outright torture for the unfortunate souls without umbrellas.

After a particularly nasty gust of wind, the crowd began to shout "START!!" in Hindi. Although the overseers of the fireworks ignored us, something even more magical began to happen... the sleet turned white and began weighing down the jostle of umbrellas and sticking to hats and coat shoulders - snow! Never mind that it was London, or that it was October, or that such miracles are prayed for by Christmas revelers rather than those who were out that night for Diwali... wonder of wonders, there was proper fluffy snow showering down on all of us there to venerate benevolence and the possibilities of the Hindu New Year.



As we stood looking at the sight of the white stuff in short amazement, another magical miracle happened... the fireworks began - and they were far from timid. For an entire half hour, the sky glowed as six, seven, eight, rockets launched and exploded simultaneously in the pitch black before us, blossoming into rhythmic and ethereal cascades of glitter spiraling through the darkness.



It was a vision of such spectacular luminosity we forgot our feet were frozen and that the air was growing colder and we were getting even more drenched. Instead, there were stood, completely in awe, blanketed by aerial sparks and clumps of frozen water... a seemingly cosmic impossibility.

And as we trudged home in the full-blown blizzard, hearing exclaims of excitement from those who had never before seen snow, it was indeed a meeting of holidays and minds. You could feel the amazement and goodwill in the air. All of us like children smiling at the a truly unimaginable site we had just witnessed - that we were still witnessing.

Ah, witnessing the unimaginable... I love it when that happens.

Happy Diwali!

Expat Mischief: "Boo!"

I don't think the Brits really get the concept of Halloween. This is pretty apparent form the many Halloween-themed party adverts that read: "Halloween Celebration! October 22!" or "October 24th!" or my favourite, "November 1st!"

Umm, November 1st? All Saints Day? Seriously? Shouldn't all Halloween activities be, uh, dead and buried, so to say, by that date?

No, they're definitely a little lost when it comes to the ghoulish night and all the trappings that go with it. Of course, since this is a quasi-capitalistic system, the merchandisers are aiming for it to catch on here, so you'll find promotional displays here and there, but it all feels a little misguided - like the stores know they should be pushing this holiday for the purpose of profit, but haven't entirely grasped the overarching concept and how they could should be going about doing it. So while you may find obscure decorations and a smattering of foil-wrapped chocolate pumpkins, it pretty much ends there.

No matter. Just because the British are little clueless doesn't mean Kasey and I can't properly carry on with our own traditions. And with the definitive smell of fall in the air, and the darkening nights, we felt almost compelled to do so. It's just the sort of thing that must be done to usher in and welcome a new season.

So first we made a batch of warm candied popcorn to sustain us through the night's activities.


Then carved some pumpkins (much more difficult without all those intricate patterns and special tools that are now so en vogue in the States - we had to go back to more simplistic traditional designs... I ended up with a cat and Kasey, a toothsome Jack). And after we were done scooping out our endearing goblin-lanterns' insides, we even roasted their seeds.


Ta da! I guarantee we'll be the only ones in the building with glowing gourds on our balcony come Halloween. Happy (early) All Hallow's Eve!

Uxbridge and What I Found There...

Perhaps you remember, last year, I journeyed to the far-flung place of west west London known as Uxbridge. And I stumbled upon this magical window filled with birds.

Well, for whatever reason - actually, for a very specific whatever reason: a book I'd perused on rituals at the local university library - was calling me back. So I put myself on the Metropolitan line and didn't get off till the last stop.

And as I walked back from the library, having failed to locate the book that inspired my journey, there was the window and there were the birds, just as they were - only one year later - as if nothing had happened at all.

Some things are so comforting like that.

Pictures follow. Enjoy!


"What do you think she's looking at Roger?"


"I don't know, Simon. Well, I mean, us, obviously."


"I'm going to stare her down."


Still staring: "Well strange lady? Is this going to become a ritual?"