Notting Hill Craziness

Sunday, 24 August

I set my alarm for around eight in the morning; I did not rise, however, until eight-ten or perhaps eight-fifteen at the latest. Based on the comments of Ben Roderick, one of my roommates, I can tell already that in addition to my tendency to be "over-helpful" and my half-baked efforts to be witty, my (relatively) early hours will be a major source of amusement at my expense. I do not particularly care, of course. So long as people are laughing, I suppose that it is not too bad.

After my almost customary breakfast of scrambled eggs, fried tomatoes, sausage, and peaches, I went with Shannyn, Leah, and Tristan to the market in Covent Garden. We were not looking to buy anything, so much as take in the sights and enjoy our first British market. At least from my perspective, Covent Garden did not disappoint. There was a street performer there--his name, he said, was "Lucky Jim"--who, dressed in a yellow shirt and black suspenders, juggled bowling pins and small, plastic, hourglass-shaped cyclinders, rode the unicycle, and continually chided the audience for their want of generosity. We also passed by a series of vendors whom were offering up all manners of intriguing goods for sale, including clocks made from old DVDs, scarfs and schalls, and homemade straw hats. It was very enjoyable.

We spent an hour at Covent Gardens before Shannyn, Leah, and I decided that we wanted to go to the Notting Hill Carnival, which was scheduled to open at twelve o' clock. We, thus, bade the Covent Garden Market a hasty adieu, and boarding the Underground, we made our way toward Notting Hill. (Tristan was not terribly excited by the thought of dodging through crowds of thousands of hungry, probably drunk carnival-goers, so we parted ways at Tottenham Court Road). Reaching the carnival, the three of us walked around for little over an hour, partially in the pursuit of something acceptable to the Leaf Eating Crowd--that is, Leah and Shannyn. There was an abundance of options. Nearly on every street of Notting Hill we visited, there were three or four booths selling such Jamaican staples as jerk chicken, red beans and rice, chicken curry, and dumplings. Most had menus that listed vegetable curry among the items that they offered for sale. Unfortunately, wherever we stopped to eat, they never had any vegetable curry ready. All I can think throughout this, of course, is, "Damn it. We're not going to have to find a pidgeon, are we?"

Finally, we discontinued our pursuit of vegetable curry and stopped at a stall near what was the centre of the festival. I ordered chicken curry and plain rice--at first glance, a dish whose appearance did not appeal greatly to one's senses. Indeed the sauce, in particular, reminded me of the contents of an infant's soiled diaper on string bean day. Disgusting. But I was hungry, and when I shovelled in the first mouthful, all my misgivings dissolved into the ether. The food was simply incredible; the chicken was thoroughly cooked but tender, and the curry was so delightfully spicy that I could but smile while my tongue melted. I let my traveling companions (who wound up sharing a plate of red beans and rice) have a taste of the curry sauce. They both expressed their approval. Leah, though, wondered whether I was in pain because it was so spicy and I had nothing to drink. All I could say: "It hurts so good." And it did. It hurt so good.

We then wandered around the Carnival for a while longer, enjoying the pulsating rhythms of the music blaring all around us and taking a turn around Portobello Road, where ordinarily there are all kinds of vendors selling books, beads, posters, food, beer, etc. Deciding around one-fifteen that we had enjoyed our fill of the Carnival, we headed toward the Notting Hill Gate, which was the nearest Underground station to the Carnival. We did not become aware that due to the sheer enormity of the event, the London authorities had decided that Notting Hill Gate was to be entirely for exiting the Underground until we arrived there. We then walked a further five to ten minutes east, finally boarding the Underground at Queensway and boarding the Central and Northern Lines for home. As we headed away from the festival, we were surprised by the thousands of people whom were heading toward the festival; I realise that I come from Nowhere, Colorado, but I have visited a few metropolises in my time--Los Angeles, Washington, Denver, and Chicago--and I have never seen so many people concentrated in so small a space. It was positively astonishing; most shocking, though, was the fact that it was the first day of the carnival, which was expected to be significantly less busy than the second day.

Later than evening, the Arran House staff, entirely at their expense, treated us to a supper of grilled hot dogs, hamburgers, potato salad, cole slaw, and beer. It was excellent, especially the beer. Everyone was talking, laughing, and generally enjoying one another's company. As one member of our group noted at breakfast on Monday, the barbecue was fantastic because it afforded us our first serious opportunity to relax and interact with one another. It also afforded us an opportunity to meet Professor Rudalevige's wife and two children, whom had taken the train from Norwich for that specific purpose. Very sweet family from all appearances. And in many regards, their presence simply added to the delightful nature of the day--the veritable cherry on the sundae. Did I already mention that they had beer?

All and all, it was a fine day. A fine day, indeed.