Errant Ramblings: Mitzi Szereto’s Weblog

Random nights out in The Big Smoke…

Right, I know exactly what you’re thinking: drugs, booze, wild parties, The Old Bill, riot gear… Bet you can hear the sirens wailing already as a police van carts me off into the sooty London night. Booked, fingerprinted, tossed in the nick. Oh, the shame of it!

Well, think again.

How about a Turkish kebab with a bunch of tech geeks? Scary stuff, huh? And it gets better. How about a Turkish kebab with a bunch of tech geeks in a Turkish restaurant located across the road from a mosque? You guessed it, Habib – no booze! But what the hey, the meat was Halal and there was little chance of catching swine flu from anything on the menu!

You might well ask how our charming group of geek-kebabites hooked up in the first place. It was random destiny, my dears – “random” being the operative word here. It could be that we were all foreigners to some extent, therefore not confined to the Britishness of needing to have downed pints at the local with someone for a zillion years before venturing out for a curry together. See, I belong to a ton of groups – Facebook groups, Meetup groups – you name it, I belong to it. Ergo this whole mad kebab caper kicked off with a mass email via one of my Meetup groups inquiring if anyone was going to the TechCrunch party in London. I replied that I was, and that kicked off still more mass emails with others RSVP-ing that they were going too.

Anyway, I forgot all about it till the night of the party, when one of the mass messagers recognised me and came over to introduce himself and his mate. Riveting stuff so far, eh? Well, give me a chance! Three nights later I was at some geek networking event in Brick Lane and there they were again, along with some other guy who recognised me from the party – and soon we were all hanging out with our drinks and chatting about cloud computing (yes, I’m serious.). Then yet another character from this geek play entered our arena, and the next thing I knew we were chasing down the street after the elected Pied Piper of our party as he endeavoured via the GPS on his phone to lead us to an Indian kebab house that was so good everyone back in Delhi was raving about it.

As we ventured further and further away from the relative safety of Brick Lane and I became hungrier and hungrier, I began to wonder if the place truly existed. Had I stumbled upon (no pun intended) the geek version of the Manson Family? Was I going to be murdered and dismembered in a Muslim neighbourhood near Aldgate? If so, I could only hope it would be done under strict Halal guidelines. Suddenly I recalled a conversation I’d had earlier that evening with someone who stated that these people (as in tech geeks) shouldn’t be let out on their own. Indeed, the words rang ominously in my ears…

When at last we reached the holy grail, I breathed a sigh of relief. Aside from the fact that I would live to see another day (not sure if that’s a blessing or a curse), it had already gone past 10pm; I’d have eaten pretty much anything by then. Alas, the divine scent of our Mecca was so packed with people waiting for tables that we were told it would be at least an hour’s wait. I stared desperately at the sweets counter, having an hour earlier embarked upon a mad dash to my favourite (past tense) Bengali sweet shop on Brick Lane, only to find the shutters closed. I was NOT happy. It was clear we would have to take our patronage elsewhere.

And that’s how we ended up at the Turkish kebab place across the road from the mosque.

Was it worth it? Yes. However, I think the excitement of being in the company of so many geeks proved too overwhelming for me (I don’t get out much), because I got a bit carried away when, halfway through my ground lamb kebab, I took a bite of an innocuous-looking object on my plate, which turned out to be a chili. The nice young gentleman seated beside me appeared to be on the verge of ringing the fire brigade, but I persevered and downed a hearty gulp of my yogurt drink, attempting to put out the flames. I tell you, I never realised those Turks could be so sneaky!

We’re now planning to make this a regular gig. Furthermore, we might even allow newcomers to join our ranks, providing they can prove their worthiness. It’s been suggested that an initiation ceremony involving the chili should be used to separate the men from the boys. Hmm…. I wonder what Amnesty International would have to say about that?

Share on Facebook

Yes, it’s that time of year again. Spring is on our doorstep, flowers are bursting into bloom, the sun is shining (at least some of the time); those heavy winter coats can finally be put away. A long holiday weekend is on the horizon – the Easter Bank Holiday weekend, which starts on Good Friday and runs through Bank Holiday Monday. Plenty to do, lots of places to go. A perfect time for some Erotic Travel Tales, if you’ve a mind to book a trip out of town.

Well, just try to bloody get anywhere!

The sadistic stooges who run the public transportation system here in Great Britain (and, more specifically, its overcrowded capital London) prefer to hold many of us hostage in our homes rather than allow us to actually go anywhere and maybe, just maybe, derive a few minutes of enjoyment from this bleak joke we call “Life”. Oh, they may not wear balaclavas, but they’re as mean and unscrupulous as any band of hostage-takers you’re ever likely to encounter. Who needs the IRA or Al Kaida when we have these railway charmers in our midst? Foolish little me for making plans for Good Friday for what sounded like a fun night out in Brick Lane consisting of several live bands plus some rather interesting-sounding beer. Easter Sunday held the promise of a cracking good Sunday roast lunch at a city pub with a bunch of American expats, no doubt followed by still more pubs and invariably a discussion of British immigration policies and teeth.

And I was really looking forward to it too.

Well baby, it ain’t gonna happen. Why? Because this weekend is going to be chock full of engineering work on the rail lines, including those of the London Underground. Weekends are usually fraught with this sort of thing at various locations throughout Greater London and beyond, but when it comes to bank holiday weekends, they really get out the big guns. Now it isn’t completely impossible to get where I need to go, but when the routing takes on all the proportions of a clandestine attack on a major world leader, it’s time to call it a day. Both events I’d planned to attend take place in the city, near London Liverpool Street station – generally an easy commute by train, 35 minutes or so. Not this weekend, however. The trains from where I live will not be running past a certain point, meaning I cannot get to either Liverpool Street station or Stratford East London (where I could catch the tube). If I were to even attempt such a journey, I’d end up on some convoluted acid-trip of a route which would take more than two hours one way for what should only be a half hour. And let’s not even talk about whether I’d be able to make it home at night.

Fine, I’m resourceful; I figured I’d be creative and find another way that, although inconvenient, would not be quite as inconvenient as what the National Rail website was proposing I do: I’d get off the train at Romford and change to the Romford to Upminster line, then catch the District line tube from there into the city and directly to Aldgate East – perfect and right where I needed to be! Not the most convenient or ideal routing, but do-able. Well, the District line at Upminster also isn’t running, thereby cutting off yet another large sector of the population from the city. I wasn’t beaten yet though. The C2C train goes from Upminster into the city – so I could still get that train from Romford to Upminster, then catch the C2C and get off at West Ham, where I’d catch the District line to Aldgate East. Hey, not so fast, madam! The Romford to Upminster line isn’t running at all, and what should normally be a short hop on this particular line would now take nearly two hours via, of all places, Southend (no wonder the National Rail website had an ad for the local Holiday Inn posted right above the train routes). And this time frame doesn’t even factor in the other legs of the journey.

Looks like I’m not going anywhere. This reminds me of those deadly virus movies where they isolate whole segments of the population so they don’t spread the disease and infect others. Seems like a hell of a lot of people from the Eastern edge of the capital out past the M25 will be stuck at home this Easter weekend – or not going anywhere near London anyway.

I find it interesting that many third-world countries manage to maintain, upgrade, and expand their rail systems without causing serious disruption to its residents, so why can’t Great Britain? As for our European neighbours, I can’t imagine the French, Spaniards, Greeks or Russians putting up with this crap. There would be rioting in the streets, politicians would be hung from the branches of trees and publicly neutered with a dull knife. Over here in Blighty they only seem to get the fighting spirit when their football team has lost – or, for that matter, won. Sure people may moan a bit, but then they go have a cup of tea, and the rail fares continue to spiral upwards for what has become an increasingly eroded level of service.

But don’t worry, be happy! The Olympics are coming to London, and those of us who live east of the city will be made to suffer even more than we already do just so the tourists who come here to spend their money can enjoy a state-of-the-art British public transportation system (now if that isn’t an oxymoron I don’t know what is) – with nice places to wait out of the cold and wind (been to the train platforms at Stratford lately? Perfect for catching pneumonia!), and nice shiny trains that aren’t reeking with the stench of greasy chips, or littered with the gnawed-over remnants of fast food, empty beer bottles and ripped-open condom packets (I don’t even want to think about where the contents of said packets have ended up).

I don’t know about you, but I wish to make a complaint! http://www.youtube.com

Share on Facebook

An evening of tech networking at a trendy bar in Brick Lane last Friday evening kicked off to a resounding start when I had the pleasure of being searched as part of a terrorist operation by London’s finest. (Or should I say the pleasure was all theirs?) Apparently what transpired is officially classified as a “Stop and Account” – and I’ve a souvenir to prove it. Okay, I know I can get a bit intense sometimes, especially in romantic situations, but to be stopped by the police as a possible terrorist suspect? Bad enough my poor bear had to contend with a body search last September at San Francisco International Airport, but now me? Is something wrong with this picture?

I know; you probably don’t believe me anymore. Hell, I don’t believe me either. My life just seems to get more and more ridiculous by the day – and these are just the little tidbits I choose to actually tell you about. Can you imagine the bits I don’t disclose? Why, it doesn’t bear thinking about! Now before you go getting all hot and bothered, let me clarify the situation: it was not a body search. There was no patting down of my bits (they just love doing this to me at Heathrow!), and no bodily orifices probed. (I prefer to reserve that for special occasions.) Besides, it was too bloody cold out to strip off for the London Met. No, it was more of a handbag search – and a superficial one at that, as if we were just going through the motions…

…As perhaps we were.

Why me? That’s a question I always ask myself – a question for which I never receive an answer. I can only conclude that it’s my aura. It was all my fault, I realise that now. I saw people being stopped left and right, and wondered why there was such a huge police presence on Brick Lane, especially at only half past six in the evening. I’ve been there many times and never have I seen this. I mean, had someone stuck a bomb in a curry? Had one of the Bangladeshi sweets exploded with nails? Maybe I should’ve taken the hint and gone off in the other direction, but I couldn’t find the venue where this geek and meet was supposed to be held and frankly, I was getting annoyed.

I noticed one officer standing about with nothing to do, so I went over to ask him for directions to the bar, which to all intents and purposes either didn’t exist or didn’t want to be found. Well, not only did he give me completely erroneous information (guess he wasn’t from around these parts), but he glommed onto me for this terrorist schtick. I told him that I’d always thought London coppers were supposed to be nice, not like the big bad mean ones in America with their big guns, whereupon he assured me that London coppers are nice, and they don’t carry guns. (Is that a gun in your pocket or are you just glad to see me?). He then proceeded to take down my vital statistics (well, those I chose to give), even asking for my address. I should have lied. For all I know that cheeky copper will be coming round with a dozen red roses and a box of chocolates on Valentine’s Day. I mean, you can never tell these days.

Now I don’t want to get all controversial here (or maybe I do), but it seemed odd that in an area of East London so heavily populated with ethnic minorities I saw not even one member of an ethnic minority being stopped – only those who were clearly not members of an ethnic minority, just pasty English folk (or, in my case, pasty Hungarian-American folk). Granted, perhaps if I’d hung about longer it might have happened, but I was there long enough to suss the setup, and thereby conclude that what was purported to be an all-inclusive “Stop and Account” did not appear to be so all-inclusive.

Was this a case of reverse-discrimination tactics by the police to prove a point to those in the local community who are generally the targets of such discrimination? Because I can’t help thinking that if someone from a minority had been stopped for a terrorist search (and possibly detained), all hell would’ve broken loose – especially in this part of London. The incident would have hit every television channel and newspaper in the country, with every solicitor in the country fighting one another tooth and nail to take on the case pro bono. Hey, I can only go by my observations, and that is what I observed, so please don’t lay any accusations of racism on my doorstep (though I’m sure someone will still have a go at me). I had a long-term relationship with a man from a country on virtually everyone’s shit list – a country accused of sponsoring terrorism; I doubt the BNP will be welcoming me into their ranks anytime soon!

As for my new career in anarchy, despite the very respectful and friendly demeanour of the officer in question, I wonder if I should have kicked up a fuss. I mean, how often do you hear about expat American authors being “profiled” by the police? I might start a whole new trend. In retrospect, however, it was probably a wise move on my part to omit the fact that I write and edit erotic fiction when speaking to the officer, even though I could have gotten some book sales out of the deal. And it was probably wiser yet to keep stum about my foray into crime fiction with my anthology Getting Even: Revenge Stories. Think what might have happened to me then!

Mind you, don’t most prisons have WiFi access these days?

Share on Facebook