Farsi Beat

Are you there internet? It’s me Deb.

Please anyone out there listening feel very free to use the comments section at the bottom of this page to help a sister out over here.

I’m not saying I was at all witty to begin with but what few wits I had, I am definitely now at the end them. The child is becoming too much to cope with and her quote unquote father is giving me no love from his big, important we-are-the-world job or whatever it is he’s doing.

In a desperate move to fix this, I turned toward my faithful solution, shopping, and headed out looking for retail miracles.

I ended up in Brixton Market, looking for Latin American products and after some hunting around these lovelies appeared:

Authentic fresh cactus sold by a Jamaican fellow. I cannot bring the child to her daddy in Mexico but it is possible to bring a little bit of Mexico to her. Between cactus and liberal applications of Mano Poderosa spray, perhaps I can make headway.

The stroll through Brixton Market was superb—as I paused to marvel at another impressive array of tropical vegetables and fruits, an extra-friendly chatterbox of a merchant struck up a conversation with me from across the aisle.

This is Farzan.

He told me he was from India, from Delhi and had been in London for 12 years, selling hair care products and cosmetics to his mostly African and Caribbean clientele.

Farzan had big plans for taking me to India with him, to Goa where he told me there were “lots of white people”. Flattered though I was, I told him I saw plenty of white people all the time and didn’t need to go all the way to Goa to see any more.

I asked Farzan if he spoke Hindi and he said “Of course and Urdu also and Farsi”. Why Farsi? Because actually Farzan was born in Afghanistan and moved as a child to India, a part of the story he left out. I asked “You are Sihk, right?” He told me that yes, all the “organic Sihks” come from Afghanistan.

This is Deb in the City saying, Khoda hafaz, namaste, wa-hey guru and goodbye from Brixton, Lambeth where more than 157 languages are spoken and many more are understood.

Please Sir, May I Have Some More?

Hello internet, Deb in the City here, live from uncharacteristically sunny London, England.

So I decided to try and do some real sight seeing and in the spirit of Oliver which was very influential for me, I trekked over to Kings Cross to the Foundling Museum.

Starting with Charles Dickens, a strong case can be made for Britain’s genius in converting the social tragedy of abandoned children into a lucrative export product in the entertainment industry. A movie, a musical, a movie-musical, numerous television adaptations and an animated series can all site "Oliver Twist" as their source.

Dickens apparently based much of his well-known book about London orphans on stories he heard from children at what was the Foundling Hospital,

In the basement, there is a wonderful exhibit of art work by young people who have been “looked after” in foster care.

This picture, done by a young lady named Amy Brittan carried a quote alongside:

“You can do anything you want with art, it can be rubbish to other people, but good to you”, not unlike this blog.

I managed to find the modest gift shop, because an American, it is my god-given right to buy something on any occasion and I picked up a couple of very nicely done orphan paper dolls.

Grateful for being born in the 20^th century and not the 18^th I wandered out once more on streets that have been here since before my country got mad at this one and jumped ship. I know it’s uncool, but I am amazed by all the history around here.

But London’s modernities are impressive too and I am very curious about civic signage that I’ve seen.

There is the ubiquitous:

And accompanying camera. Americans love to be on camera and we are bred to believe that we deserve to be on television and become famous, so to me closed circuit tv is still tv. Watch for me on the next installment of Farnborough’s Got Talent.

So, whenever I talk to my friends back in the States, they always say something annoying like “Did you see the Queen yet?”, as if Her Royal Majesty is on some kind of permanent display for tourists, which she probably would be back in the US.

But just the other day when I was lost in the cement back alley of the Southbank Center I ran into a small crowd of people waiting by a very non-descript entranceway. I looked to the curb and saw this beauty:

The royal flag and lack of license plates gave it away so I patiently waited, feeling a little bit like a fake since I’m not even a subject of the crown, or anything official like that. Everyone around me in the little royal scrum was telling me stories of their last royal sightings and all I could contribute was that I’d seen President Obama’s dog the last time I was in Washington.

My patience was rewarded and in a few minutes, there she was.

I found myself suddenly queenstruck and though I am not at all a monarchist, I totally spazzed out and the next picture I took

betrays my royalty panic. I have to say though, when the driver turned the key on that Bentley, dude it purred like a kitten. I don’t really understand queens and stuff but as a Yankee, I am glad that Missus Betty Windor has got a sweet ride.

This is Deb in the City, where I have been up to London to visit the queen, like the pussycat. Mrrow.

London Calling

Hiya internet. My name is still Deb and welcome back to my blog, Deb in the City.

Like most misguided people on the web, I feel I have something to say that someone else would definitely want to listen to and I have access to a high-speed connection. Plus, I just moved and instead of my usual gin-and-tonic stress management, I’m trying to cope creatively. That's called harm reduction.

As you can probably tell from my keyboard accent, I’m not from around here. And by here I don’t mean the digital everywhere of the internet but, I mean an actual place, London, England.

And by London I mean Farnborough. And by Farnborough, I mean here:

This is my home now and I like to think of it as a little slice of America, with enough garage space and pavement to give me a feeling of security, just 23 minutes by train to Waterloo.

So, I moved here to London with extensive knowledge about the place that I gathered from movie musicals like Mary Poppins, plus a television combination of Ab Fab and Helen Mirren on late night repeats of Prime Suspect. And I know, like every person who was a child in the English speaking world that London Bridge is falling down.

My first day out, with hesitation I walked across the famous span and it felt pretty solid. How long must children sing their song to get satisfaction? Keep up the optimistic singing kids, and maybe one day this reinforced concrete ode to civil engineering will obey.

After crossing and meandering for miles in the wanderers’ paradise of this massive city, I eventually found myself in an incredible shop called Original Products, the "foremost source of spiritual supplies, herbs and books". Standard holy cards and medals of saints sit side by side with blessing candles depicting more secular figures like Martin Luther King, Jr.

Another shopper in the store was trying to buy an image of Jesus:

Which looked pretty standard to me but I heard her say “in my country, this is the one that works”. I struck up a conversation with her.

She told me her name is Elliqua and that she is from Togo. Sadly the particular Jesus she wanted was not for sale.

As a nanny, in charge of a willful 8 year old, I thought Elliqua might have some tips on a special nanny charm or spell or prayer that could help me with my situation. She suggested I try an easy solution with this product, "Mano Poderosa" or "helping hand":

a quick, handy aerosol version of what is a much more complicated series of rituals to invoke divine help that my busy nanny schedule does not allow the time for.

This is Deb in the City, on the move in the Big Smoke, London England.