A Post Modern "Moving to London" Peptalk

Conflicted about this pho, conflicted about life.

Here we are again, dear constant readers. Ms Violet Dear about to embark on yet another adventure - moving to London for grad school. To say I am conflicted is an understatement.

This time, it feels different. This time I'm not just packing a bag and leaving the kitties with my mum and zipping off for a set amount of time to work and play in the far, only to return to Vancouver with a bag full of weird souvenirs and a belly full of tall tales. No, this time I am really leaving. For a good long while. I sold all of my belongings and have only a few boxes in storage. Leaving and, to coin a phrase, "I don't know when I'll be back again" (but my bags are NOT packed). I will probably use Vancouver as a home base for many years, but I can't see myself living here again, so this feels final. And scary. Can we rewind?

I may have imbibed a bit of wine this summer....

Not too far, mind you, just to the start of the summer. When I arrived to Vancouver everything seemed so far away and idyllic and filled with time. Time to earn money, time to do yoga, time to wear adorable dresses and visit with friends, time to drink good beer and great wine. And I did do those things, in spades. But now it is time to leave the safe cocoon of my mother's suburban chateau and head off back into the wilds of the real world where I have to engage in the daunting tasks of paying for things, and taking care of myself and.... reading.

 Oh yeah. I have to do this thing.  

I have started my required pre-term booklist and oh fuck. Oh fuck fuckity fuck fuck. Vast swaths of teensy text about semiology and hermeneutics and phenomenology and epistemology and I can NEVER remember how to actually apply the concept of ontology and who was Baudrillard again and what does Marx have to do with architecture and oh my god I am dumb. I feel like Carrie White's mother is whispering in my ear and I am in way over my head - let's just hope there's a shortage of pig's blood at UCL.

Anxiety-causing facts also include:

• the fact that I don't yet have a flat and I land in a few days
• my interpersonal relationships are in limbo
•  I now own just a few boxes of random childhood mementos and eighth grade notes. I sold all of the things that made me a functioning adult (like, with a couch and pots!)
• I am really kind of poor 

So what to do, right? Ke garne? The only thing that there is to do, sister. And that is reel in the storytelling, stop psyching myself up and be compassionate, not just to others but to myself. Easy, right?

The three things I need to work on (as always):

1) First of all, I need to chill out and practice letting things be what they will be - you can't control everything, little Dear, nor should you try. That goes for flatmates and boys and pals and BIG SCARY future after school plans. Sometimes I have to take a breath and allow things to happen without stepping in, without meddling and trying to force the conclusion that I want in order to ease my anxiety. That shit doesn't work.

Oh, how I can relate.  (also, I made this meme, which made me really proud)

2) Second, I have to trust that all those things, those things that will "be what they will be?" They will be exactly what they need to be. A guest on one of my walking tours asked me about my career plans post-Masters (I'll be a magistar!) last week:

"So, what will you actually do? Like as a job? Like.... what would your tasks be?" I hesitated.
"erm. Like.... policy? and liasing? and consultancy?"
"Sure, but what does that look like?"
"ehm. Like, I would work for an INGO that deals with heritage and development? Like, I will, erm, work there? At a desk? Doing tasks?"

So I have to trust that I will learn so much about my chosen field - and myself - over the next year at UCL that the big scary career stuff will become more obvious and I will come away with a modicum of understanding of what my day to day skillset will look like. And of course, I'll have, like, a plan to one day pay back this lovely student debt I am accruing *nervous laughter/adjusts collar*.

3) Third, I have to have confidence in my abilities and my intellect and my passion and remember that I can fucking do this, and do it well, because I fought for it - hard - and the fight's not over. I love the subject matter.  I love buildings. I love history. I love learning. And damnit, I love loving things!

So let's see - to sum it up, Dear: chill out, trust that you chose the right Masters program and have confidence in yourself. AND be compassionate to one and all. Piece of cake, right? RIGHT?

See you in Brixton, pals and gals.
xoxoVioletDear

How I Got Right Here (and to London) - 2012 in Review

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                                          They said "get thee to a nunnery" and I was like, "yeah, that's probably for the best."

2012 was not an easy year.

At some point in late 2011 I woke up and realized how badly I had fucked up my personal life, and I reacted with a horror akin to a David Lynch heroine in a surrealist nightmare. I had spent years making selfish choices in a cloud of self-grasping ignorance, and one of the most devastating periods of my life was when I truly realized that the choices I had made were in no one’s best interests, including my own.

I could barely live with myself. I tried all of the old remedies to make myself feel better, and nothing worked. I had a new dharma-inspired window of self-awareness that made it impossible for me to bury my head in the sand with quick fixes. I plunged into a brutal depression that lasted four long months of anxiety, rumination and deep, dark sadness. I think the only thing that kept me afloat were the 24 credits I was taking at school – I was forced to stay responsible and not spend all of my time drinking wine and crying, no matter how much I wanted to.

Time passed, as it does, and made things a lot easier. I started a pretty strict regime of yoga, meditation and dharma practice and began eating healthily and drinking less booze and a lot of kombucha. By April I graduated with First Class Honours and was feeling much better – and thank god for that, because I soon had a major bombshell explode: I was denied entry to grad school at McGill University.

I had been so confident that my perfect gpa and spectacular references would get me into the Masters of Communication program at ‘Canada’s Harvard’ that I didn’t actually apply to any other schools. When I was informed that the admissions board didn’t think my proposed research topic (dealing with the ethical issues around UNESCO World Heritage Sites) was suitable for the department I was absolutely crushed. I felt rejected and disappointed in myself. All of the sudden I had an empty calendar ahead of me - 12 months of panic-inducing blank pages.

Good thing I like filling pages.

Within a few days I was feeling better. My mum said, “Vi, I know it doesn’t feel like it now, but this has happened for a reason - you didn’t get accepted because it wasn’t right for you. I promise the right path will reveal itself.” I didn’t know if I really bought her new age garbage, but I did decide that another year of vagabonding was in order.  I wanted to start my journey in Nepal with the November Course at Kopan Monastery and then I would backpack through Africa and the Middle East.

My favourite prof was not jazzed on the idea of me lacing up my nomad shoes - again. “You need to get experience in your field, not only for your CV but also for your grad school applications. Backpacking is not going to help with your goals, Dear.” I knew she was right, but I also knew that I still had unfinished business with my wanderlust. I was at an impasse.

And then I went to Chapters. Normally I abhor big box bookstores, but I was downtown and needed to buy some gifts. On my way to the checkout I noticed that there was a table of discounted books – 2 for 25 dollars. I snapped up a copy of Little Princes, a book about an organization in Kathmandu that works to reunite trafficked children with their families. “Salient to my interests,” I thought. I had no idea how salient until I sobbed my way through Conor Grennan’s account of starting Next Generation Nepal. I went home and drafted a very unorthodox cover letter (it mentioned that I like to make salads and other random Violet Dear facts) and sold NGN on the fact that they needed to let do pro-bono professional work for them. Turns out I had some free time in 2013. About 10 months of the stuff…

Within 4 hours I had sent the email, and two days later I heard back from a very interested Martin Punaks. Over the next few months it was solidified – I was offered a spot on the NGN team. I was (am!) humbled, grateful and excited to start working for this amazing NGO.

My plans to explore Africa were scrapped and instead I started making arrangements to live in a Kathmandu, a city that I once described as magicaland mystical and… filthy. But first, before I could even leave Vancouver, before I could attend the November Kopan course – I had something even more important to attend to. Grad school applications. Oh yeah. Those.

My last few months in Vancouver were a hectic whirlwind of packing, dating (don’t ask. Murphy’s Law.) and tourguiding my little heart out, attempting to save up a nest egg off of which to live as I worked in Nepal. My research on different grad school programs was completed in fits and starts, great energetic bursts during which I would read journal articles by professors with whom I was interested in working, compare course names, peruse syllabi and search tuition costs.

I realized that as much as I love the theory of Communication Studies, my interests are now more allied with Anthropology. I wanted to marry my love of architecture, travel and heritage, and lo and behold – the United Kingdom actually has many grad programs dedicated to just those things! I knew that I wanted to obtain a Masters Degree in Cultural Heritage Studies, and that I wanted my longterm career to involve working with governments of developing nations to manage their built heritage in a way that does not maintain or create the oppression of vulnerable minority groups. As I researched schools, one choice came up again and again as a perfect fit - none other than the University College of London.

Now, I learned a lot from my experience with McGill – it’s foolish to only apply to one school. Do not do that - rejection stings, yo. But I also didn’t have the one valuable asset that I needed – time. Applications take forever, and my departure date coincided almost perfectly with the opening of UCLs application portal, so I knew that I would be applying in the literal last hours before entering a month of silence. I carefully pre-planned all of my references, my essays and my personal statement and waited for November 1^st to approach. I also chose a back up school – the University of York. I submitted my packages online and headed to Nepal.

Schools in the UK do things a lot differently. In North America there is a deadline for grad school applications, a date by which all applications must be submitted. At that point a panel compiles all of the candidates and goes through each one by one, deciding all of the admissions at one time. In the UK, nuh uh. New students are all decided on a first come first serve basis, and I knew that I would receive a yay or nay answer within 10 business days. So, let’s do some math (or maths – I am heading to England, afterall):

November 1^st – I applied

November 11^th – I checked into Kopan for a month of meditation 

November 15^th ish – answer sitting in inbox

December 11^th – Sprung loose from the monastery; allowed to check email

Fuuuuuug.

By December 5^th I couldn’t bear it any longer. I was positively brimming with nervous anticipation for news that I knew was so close, yet so far away. I snuck out to an internet café and there was indeed an email announcing that I was accepted to the University of York. I was pretty elated, but still no answer from UCL. I trudged back up the hill to Kopan and let everyone know. I got a lot of high fives, and it was nice to be a confirmed for something, but I was still hoping for London.

Two days later we took a massive group trip to circumambulate Boudhanath Stupa and many people decided to stay behind to grab lunch and a coveted espresso before returning to Kopan Hill. After a gut busting lunch of momos I guiltily snuck away to a small internet café. I was about to announce the trip a bust when amongst all of the spam and junk I noticed a message with “Congratulations” in the subject line. I clicked on the email and began to cry. It was from UCL, advising me that I had been offered a spot in the Masters program for 2013/14. Did I want to accept?

Yes. I did.

It’s been a month, and the news still hasn’t sunk in. I am a future alumnus of a school that was ranked fourth in the world this year (nbd, nbd) and that feels awfully weird for the white trash spawn of a teenaged mother from Surrey. I have a morbid fear that everyone will be all Eton-y and fancy and I will be way out of place with my tattoos, course little trucker’s mouth and my love of John Waters. BUT. That doesn’t really matter when I think about how excited I am to live in LONDON, a city that I love. One of the most exciting, interesting and fun cities I have ever visited. A city that looms large in my imagination as a place I’ve always felt I belonged. And if I am worried about my white trash roots, honey, this is a country that has spawned Little Britain, The Sex Pistols, Vivienne Westwood, The Arbour and Geordie Shore. In this company I’m all class.

2012 started off unbelievably terribly, and when McGill turned me down I thought that it was only getting worse. But, it turns out that my mum was right – THANK GOD I WASN’T ACCEPTED. It was not the right thing for me. Right now I would be sitting in Montreal working on a degree that doesn’t really fit what I want to do for a career. I would not have gone to Kopan and met hundreds of amazing people and learned more about dharma – and myself. I wouldn’t be the Ethical Tourism Advisor for NGN, a position that will enable me to help countless vulnerable children and learn about my field, and I wouldn’t currently be in Sri Freakin’ Lanka. Most importantly – I would not be moving to London in October to attend my dream school.

So, 2012, you taught me a lot of lessons. You kicked me around a bit, but you were filled with a bounty of surprises and wonder by year’s end.

And 2013? I like you already.

Lots and lots of love. Go follow your fucking dreams, bitchez.
xoxoVD

2013 is off to a good start.

Battersea Power Station

Oh, you pretty thing.

Last week I went on an extremely last minute trip to London, and I spent my time soaking in the culture of this grand old city, trying to see the little touristy bits here and there that I have missed on past trips. I was having a splendid time, that is, until I got a bit tipsy in Brighton on my final day and lost my camera. Inside was a memory card with 3 days worth of photos on it. :(

The photos I am saddest about losing are the 50+ I took of the Battersea Power Station.

I first saw a photo of this 1930's era abandoned coal burning plant in a Lonely Planet and chills went up my spine - I knew I had to see it in person. I took the tube to Pimlico station to stand across the Thames from this wonderfully monstrous building - it was well worth the trip. The building filled me with one part horror and one part awe - it is an unimaginably huge monolith and even from a distance it took up the whole sky and made me shudder in a delightful way. Certain twentieth century buildings do that to me....

Sadly, this big old Art Deco queen is a victim of "demolition by neglect" (which we are all too familiar with here in Vancouver) and is only a shell (you can see right through the windows above). Hopefully the government with step in to protect this eerily odd, strangely beautiful, magical building.

So, unfortunately this is NOT my photo, but nonetheless here is the Battersea Power Station. Only just now did I realize that it is also famous for some Pink Floyd (my most hated band ever) stuff, but I don't care about that. I just want to go around the world and stare at more buildings. Please?

Please sir, I want some more...

I elbowed a few young French girls outta the way to get at the cupcakes.

Admittedly, London has not been historically known for its culinary offerings. Meat and fish fried beyond all recognition, soggy vegetables and bland, flavourless meals are what comes to mind, but in reality the British food scene, with its stars Gordon Ramsay, Jamie Oliver and Nigella Lawson, is changing in leaps and bounds. No longer are you limited to fish n'chips and a fry up (although I had both and they were marvelous) and Indian curry - the world's food has come to London, and the old favourites are getting a dose of refinement. Here's a sample of what I ate:

They tried to make me go to Rehab, and I was like "hang on, lemme finish these eggs."

You've got to start the day with a proper British breakfast Fry Up. Now, if I ate meat, this already monstrous plate of food would be further laden with hunks of ham, blood pudding and bacon, but I think that this is still pretty divine. A forkful should consist of a little bit of every item, enrobed in the runny eggyolk and then schmeared with HP Sauce. Bliss. I got this one in Camden, at a pub called the Elephant's Head in Amy Winehouse's stomping grounds.

3 course meal.

Snack time! Pints of beer in London are not the delicious, creamy, delicious pints that I think of when I pop into a pub for a Sunday afternoon tipple with my pals - there are no delicious cream ales or dark honey lagers. The beer is half flat, and is served just above room temperature and has that sort of flavour that pissy American beers like Budweiser have. That said, there is something oddly pleasant about it, even though I had to keep telling myself that it was not last night's warm forgotten party beer. *Shudder* Before London, I liked my beer ice cold, fizzy and yummy - like Granville Island Winter Ale, or Belgian Heffweisen. I still do.

Hello Oyster. You horrify me a little bit. But in a delicious way.

Maldon Rock, French Prestige and Gigas Rock oysters.

For my birthday, S took me to a lovely gastropub called The Commander, an old pub that has been renovated to be a bit more light and airy and specializes in fresh seafood and raw oysters. I love oysters. I love their briny, fishy little bodies swimming in vinegar and garlic and slurped up with their salty ichor, half chewed and half rolled around in your mouth like a swallow of fresh sea. We had 3 different types, and they were all different; one was big and vulgar and abrupt, announcing his ocean-y flavour a little too loudly, and the other two were more delicate, like pretty little jewels. We followed the oysters with a great salad that included roasted shitake mushrooms (we had just watched this documentary, so I really enjoyed them) and then I had a pan fried Scottish salmon fillet served on a bed of dill and squash risotto. The whole meal was genius.

All four foodgroups: potatoes, sauce, pastry and cheese. Mwah!

Ahh, is there anything (other than fish n'chips, which I forgot to take a photo of!) that is so quintessentially British as pie and mash? We found a lovely chain called Eat that specializes in seasonal, fresh and organic food and rather than the stardard "steak and kidney" pie, they had these wonderful, homey sweet potato and goat's cheese pies with mash and veggie gravy. I ate this twice, it was so good. Although, if you served me a man's show with mashed potatoes and gravy, I would eat that too.....

You shouldn't leave me unnattended with all of this food. Like, for serious.

Tuna and onion salad in the foreground, cod and crab croquette in the rear.

Pintxos (peen-choes) are an phenomena that you find in the Northern Spanish Basque region, and famously in San Sebastian, a town I visited on my 18 year old "backpacking fail" trip. Little bites of savoury food, like canapes, are placed directly on the counter at all of the local bars (and there are hundreds, teeny standing room only affairs) the idea being that you pop in, grab a glass of wine of beer, eat a few pintxos and move on to the next bar, each of which specializes in a specific type. Walking down Neal St in Covent Garden, I noticed a tiny pintxos restaurant and we sampled six - all of which were good, and a few really great. I wish Vancouver had a Basque restaurant, but alas we don't. Business opportunity, anyone?

Squee!

And finally, I will leave you with cupcakes. They are called "Fairycakes" here and these ones at Camden Market were so cute that I couldn't resist (not that I even remotely tried to...) I won't lie - they were a bit stale, but so pretty that I willed myself into loving them. It worked!

Everybody Must Get Stone (Henged)

Tours in the 19th century provided a little hammer so you could chip off some Stonehenge to take home.

Yet when I tried it they got angry.

Stonehenge is one of those things that I read about as a little girl in the musty smelling Childcraft encyclopedias that lined the shelf in our living room. Paging through the books I was always most fascinated by the chapter about ancient structures - The Hanging Gardens of Babylon, The Collossus of Rome, the Pyramids, to name a few - and Stonehenge.

Stonehenge is 5000 years old, an impossibly long time ago, and while I always imagined robe-clad Druids lighting candles and acting overwrought about Solstice around the stones, it actually would have been Fred Flintstone caveman types (Druids came about 1000 years later) building and using them.

And what was Stonehenge even used for? Despite claims that it was a burial ground, a calendar and/or a sacrificial altar, no one is sure. It always gives me a weird feeling to be standing at an ancient site and realize that in all probability, no one ever will know...

My friend Joanna told me last week that despite her recommendation to visit, "its just some rocks in a field" and I spent the morning psyching myself up to prove her wrong - afterall, I had my childhood sense of wonder safely stored in my brain. I would find it magical and amazing and cathartic.

Who's got 2 thumbs and likes Stonehenge? This guy!

And then my first glimpse from the motorway was a bit anti-climactic - we were in a large coach and we were kind of taller than Stonehenge and yeah, I had that Spinal Tap moment. But once I gathered my audioguide and walked through the underpass from the entry way to the actual field I regained most off my awe. It was windy and cold and my hair whipped around my face, but I just kind of stood there for a moment with a dumb look on my face. "Look S." I said as I poked him. "There's Stonehenge."

Ultimately though, as Joanna predicted, there were only so many angles I could stare at before my brain was like "OK. Let's go. It's just rocks. I believe there is a sandwich back on the bus." However, I did turn around one more time to stop for five minutes and just reflect. As the hairs stood up on the back of my neck, I tried to imagine the hoards of literally pre-historic people lumbering around and erecting this mystery.

Cavemen, apparently? Not so dumb. Druids are still assholes, though.

Stonehenge ahem...rocks.

My Love Tate Relationship

Even the building is amazing! A converted power station.

Admittedly, I know little about art. Sure I know about the main movements, the big artists, some symbolism, but I can't tell you that "mmm, Oh, yes, well it is apparent in Krasner's work the pain over losing her husband, Jackson Pollock. oh, mmm. Yes. This squiggle here is, rawther indicative." Like, I'm not an asshole about it.

That said, I can immerse myself in (late) nineteenth and twentieth century art for hours. Even days.... S and I visited one of the world's greatest modern art temples, the hallowed (yet accessible - in Britain museums are free, and man - there were a lot of strollers and wee ones!) halls of the Tate Modern on the Southbank of London. After a morning at St Paul's Cathedral, a short walk across the Millenium footbridge, we arrived at 2 pm thinking that 4 hours would be enough. It was - barely.

With my new boyfriend, the Tate Modern Audioguide (it's like an ipod Touch! With extra pictures! And videos of interviews with the artists! And you can listen to commentary on almost all of the works in the museum! AMAZING!) I could have spent 4 more hours inside. Easily.

Now, I don't have the space to show you all of my favourite highlights (I took 100 photos. That'd be a loooooong blog) in my own words - no fancy schmancy art-critic talk! I will show you a few of my faves:


Venus of the Rags
Michaelangelo Pistoletto

Something so mundane as these rags coupled with the divinity of ancient Roman sculpture? From my photo it is hard to tell, but this statue is not made of marble or stone - it is a plastic garden version. Now, I have an affinity for Venus as I am a Taurus (my birthday was yesterday, matter o fact) and because she represents love and passion - does this common material cheapen her, and love itself? With her back turned to us, is she ashamed to be surrounded with something so mundane as what is essentially dirty laundry? This artist is from a school called Arte Povera (literally "Poverty Art") in which the artists use mundane materials to make their statements. I just love the colours and the questions it raises.


Untitled
Glenn Ligon

As a self-professed Neon Sign historian (like really. I am obsessed lately. Ask my pals - they'll roll their eyes.) I have always liked neon artists (Keith Sonnier is another fave) and I love that this piece breaks convention by depicting the word "America" - a word that invokes so much imagery, good and bad - in black rather than the fruit-punchy colours that we expect. I want to see this lit up. Badly.

Skulls
Andy Warhol

Oh Warhol, you will forever be linked to my teenaged coming-of-age, mixed in with memories of Candy Darling, Kenneth Anger, Jon Moritsugu, Robert Mapplethorpe and John Waters. How I love thee, and yet how cliched it can easily become to admit it.... Oh, screw it - despite your fame, you introuced the world to "pop-art" and for that I am thankful.

I love this photo, because there are actually two pieces of art in it. One is simply the wallpaper - Warhole designed this when a pal lamented that "no one paints farm landscapes anymore" and the other is the painting of 6 skulls. On its own, without context, this would be a bit of a boring piece, I mean, even then skulls had been done. But when I think of the other subjects that Warhol painted in this repetitive tile pattern (Marliyn Monroe, Elvis, the glitterati of Studio 54 and Max's Kansas City) it takes on a darker, more genuinely sinister meaning. Once celebrity has been done - what is left?


The Music From the Balconies
Edward Ruscha

Sometimes you don't have to get it. You just love it. This is a quote from a JG Ballard novel, he of sexual violence and depravity (don't worry, we'll get to Francis Bacon soon) and it is like a line of poetry, which is art itself, and so why not?

Nude Woman Reclining in a Red Armchair
Pablo Picasso
She's so chubby and sweet and a lot less "cube-y" than his earlier work! I'm actually a bigger fan of Georges Braque than of Picasso, but I really am drawn to this painting. I think all of her femininity and naked sexuality has been rendered non-threatening by this somewhat over-cutesy depiction - especially when I remember that Picasso used a lot of prostitutes as models and that this may have been his way of disarming their power over him.

The Carnival
Max Beckman

This was painted in 1920 and I think that it shows current artists such as Mark Ryden to be the self-indulgent, overly-derivative posers that they are *smiles sweetly*

Bacchus, Psilax, Mainomenos
Cy Twombly

Walking into this room (there is a third monolithic piece on another wall) was like wading into a warm bowl of pent up lust and rage and something I couldn't quite put my finger on. Despite these very serious emotions, there was also something homey and comforting about the way that the red and pink and orange blended together and it was kind of reflected on people's skin tones as they walked through and it was magic.

Study For a Portrait on A Folding Bed
Francis Bacon

Last but not least - my favourite: Francis Bacon. No other twentieth century artist depicted such chaotic, deeply layered and passionate emotions, all with an undercurrent of death, rot and metamorphosis. His artworks remind me of the body-horror of Bunuel, Dali and even Cronenberg - of things slightly not as they should be, askew in a way that recalls war and change and even sex. While this is simply a study, it evokes such strong emotions that I can't even imagine it completed. Bacon's personal life was just as facinating as his art. Oh you crazy thing!

London and Paris and Lions and Tigers and Plans - oh my!

So little time to plan. In some ways that's good. (Right? Riiigggghttt?)

This week I have jetted off on what has to be the most last-minute trip I have ever taken. Thursday morning? Toast and tea and planning a weekend (and birthday) in Vancouver, making use of my amazing tourism passport and hanging out. Friday morning? Chaos and giddiness as S found out he was being sent to London for business tout suite, and oh yeah? Would I like to come, expenses paid? (F%$! yes) We left Saturday afternoon, volcanic ashcloud be damned.

It's lovely to be heading back to these cities for the first time since I was an eighteen year old idiot with my head firmly up my own arse (below are things I am planning on visiting, yes, but they are also things that I missed the first time when I was poor, ignorant and flighty.) So now, I have 6 days in London, 4 in Paris and then back to Vancouver to start my Summer job and head back to school for two classes. But in the glorious meantime?

My plans:
London

• National Gallery - da Vinci, Michaelangelo, Raphael, Botticelli and Van Eyck all just off of Trafalgar Square.
  
• Tate Modern - As much as I love Renaissance art, twentieth century art makes my heart sing, my pulse race and my head spin. That's passion, dears.
• Stonehenge and Bath - on my birthday, no less! I just hope that this doesn't trivialize the experience too much...
  
• British Museum - Oh, did this belong to you? Our bad.
  
• Portobello Road - because I love Bedknobs and Broomsticks.
• Fish n Chips and Bitter. Hit me. Again.
  

Paris

• Musee d'Orsay - again with the modern art. A bit earlier, but still swoon-worthy. Toulouse Lautrec FTW!
• Notre Dame Cathedral - S said he wanted to pet the hunchback. I told him that that was just a homeless man and he should stop going on Parisian peyote benders.
• Montmartre - the historic artists enclave.
• Edith Piaf walking tour - The Little Sparrow's small village, ending at her grave in the Pere Lachaise cemetery, also home to Oscar Wilde, Jim Morrison and Balzac.
• "Paris during the Occupation" walking tour - because we're both history nerds. Like, a lot.
• FOOD AND WINE. Like, all of it. Moules et frites, sole meuniere, FROMAGE, pain au chocolate et beaucoup de vin Bordeaux. Beaucoup.

See you along the way, dears.
xo Violet Dear

S, peeking out from behind London.