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But since moving here, I've stopped noticing or liking the accents (except when they say literally, that's still hilarious) and tend to focus on the more irritating aspects of the culture. Case in point, the daily free papers that are strewn all over the train and the drivel found within.

Britons on the Titanic had less chance of surviving than their brasher American counterparts because of their good manners, according to research. While most of the British followed queuing etiquette, allowing women and children to get to the lifeboats first, American passengers pushed their way to the front. (Article, Article)

Luckily for the British, they've learned a thing or two since 1912. I've often found that a refreshing way to start the day is to be elbowed in the stomach by a banker in a bowler attempting to get a seat on the Tube. I try and pretend that this is indicative of a truly equal society--there's no evidence of the British "stiff upper lip" in play when they're pushing aside old ladies and pregnant girls in hopes of finding a place to sit. So go on, United Kingdom! You've nearly caught up with us--maybe the next time an ocean liner sinks you'll fare a little better.

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I know I’ve written about Bangkok street food before. But like all obsessive, boring people, I like to come back to my favorite topics time and time again, worried that if I don’t mention it, it might just disappear.

The street food in Thailand was phenomenal. There were the dumplings, delicately balanced on a Styrofoam tray, doused in soy sauce and with nary a utensil save for a toothpick. They weren’t dumplings so much as thick rice noodles wrapped around a variety of vegetable fillings, and they weren’t delicious so much as they were mysterious. How is it that in a country where a vegetarian could starve to death (at a minimum, there’s fish sauce on everything) I managed to get dumplings filled with greens?

My first night in Bangkok I was alone and terrified. And by terrified I mean hungry and by hungry I mean ravenous. I was too timid, of course, to try and get food at any reasonable time, and my traveling companion wasn’t due to arrive until nearly midnight. So sometime after ten at night I ventured out of my hotel and wandered onto the streets of Bangkok. I needed to be at the hotel when my friend arrived and didn’t want to stray too far from there. I didn’t have a map, and between the jetlag and having no sense of direction to speak of anyway, making more than one or two turns could be disastrous. So I walked up and down the same street a few times, checking out all of the street food vendors and wondering how I was possibly going to order anything. These are the sort of things that paralyze me—not knowing how to communicate and being nervous about acting like an American dickhead, saying the same things over and over in English more and more loudly in the hopes that someone will finally understand me. So instead I just walked around until finally starvation drove me to stop at one of the cart vendors and attempt an order. This is probably a good thing because if I had walked up that street one more time, they would have taken me for a farang prostitute.

I pointed at a ground pork dish with chilis and holy basil, pad kaprao moo, which was served with a pile of rice for less than a dollar. It was so spicy that my nose was running and tears streamed down my face, but I was nonetheless grateful for the fact that I was gorging myself alone on a plastic deck chair perched on the curb of a nearly empty street, save for the woman cooking over a sterno flame under a tattered yellow and white umbrella.

At the Khao San Road (which we went to just to see what all the fuss was about, and hated) there were woman standing every ten feed or so holding giant woks and expertly frying eggs into steaming piles of pad thai. After watching a few of them, I finally realized why the pad thai I made never tastes quite right—apparently a least a cup of oil is required for each portion. I thought it was delicious and disgusting, but I’m known for having a stomach of steel. My traveling partner was less resilient, unfortunately.

There were little sweets that looked like miniature tacos, ready-made curries on carts parked on roads teeming with cars and minicabs. Sticky rice with all types of fillings and toppings, savory and sweet. There were the grilled bullfrogs on skewers that we avoided and the grilled everything else that we couldn’t stop ourselves from stopping for every ten paces or so. There was mangosteen and unripe mango and green papaya salad and bags of cucumbers with nam prik sauce. There were plastic bags filled with ice and condensed milk and flavors ranging from tea to blue raspberry, hollowed out coconuts with straws sticking out of them and plastic cups filled with all kinds of fruits, from limes to pineapple to watermelon and others that I didn’t recognize.

But more than the food, it was the whole street food scene that I was impressed by. A vendor would have a cart, some source of heat and possibly a few chairs. Sometimes they would have their husband or wife as their sous chef, some of them would have a friend standing their chatting their way through the curries or sometimes they would be alone. Some of them had terrible food and some of them had dishes to rival anything I've ever tasted. My favorites were the women with the blank faces wearing shirts with nonsensical phrases on them sitting on stools, gripping giant cookers with their florescent shorts-clad thighs and frying skewers of just about anything. I think about my current job, which involves skewering nothing but my soul and I pine for my own food cart.

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For this, she is the shutitdown commenter of note. Thanks, Brandy, you always brighten up my day.

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(Brandy Vogeding on Jan 9, 2009 3:07 AM) I figured I'd pander to your vanity. I'm glad to see it worked. Also, an awesome website I'm sure that you're already aware of but that I'm going to send just in case: http://www.passiveaggressivenotes.com/

My mother then made loud, angry regurgitation noises over the phone and said sagely, "that's what London's doing to you." I'm not sure if she meant that London was just trying to evacuate me, or if it was actually chewing me up and spitting me out, but either way she's not far off.

Since then, I blackmailed my new landlord and moved into a flat that is an active construction site. On Sunday morning I woke up to three builders staring into my bedroom. Right now I'm sitting here, under the covers typing and I have goosebumps. Tomorrow, I've been told, they are planning on putting a hole in my wall to the outside. It snowed today. I asked if they could maybe finish it the same day as I wasn't particularly fond of camping. "Don't worry, love. The 'ole will only be about as big as this 'ere," the 'ead builder said, pointing to a packing box that was two feet tall.

But all that said, I get a kick out of the East End. I went to the Brick Lane market on Sunday and was pleased as punch to find a Japanese deep fried street food stand set up. Last night I had a curry with my new flatmate who seems remarkably sane and visited my new local (that means: the closest pub to my home) and found that they have a pretty decent jukebox. My flat is just above a Thai restaurant so no one is going to blame me for the stink this time, and I'm just a few minutes away from about fifteen Vietnamese restaurants. 'appy days.

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(Brandy Vogeding on Jan 8, 2009 3:16 AM) I AM NOT SURE IF THAT IS THE MOST CLEVER CONSUMER-SPECIFIC ADVERTISING I HAVE EVER SEEN OR IF THAT WHOLE THING IS A JOKE. My favorite part is how Humans is capitalized, as if perhaps you are being targeted by a group of Aliens trying to launch their new anal probe in disguise as a phone. DON'T BUY IT LINA. DON'T.

(Just Someone Friendly Passing Through while Leaving a Thought for You on Jan 7, 2009 10:42 AM) Confront the issues in your life. You can no longer submit yourself to the irony of your own choices. You respond to people indifferently because you want to be perceived as indifferent to them. Perhaps you should then ask yourself to at least consider your own feelings. You feel this way because you continue to make choices that fall between a very grey area drawn between moral and social dilemmas. Sometimes what is acceptable in the self-gratifying sense is not always acceptable in the social sense. You are very familiar with this. You are a stronger person than you give yourself credit for. You comprehend and analyze more than most Humans do, but so do you also internalize more than most. You are a victim of your own vices, and an addict to your own perception. The world and reality you perceive is a grand illusion that induces delusion. What choices will you make? You spend so much of your time walking the city streets. Stop and ask yourself - "are you living the life you imagined?" Have you considered getting a new phone by the way? http://www.livetelecom.com/images/footer/LgLogo.gif

(rachel on Jan 6, 2009 9:38 PM) I'm glad to hear you're resettled in a good food district. Keep the commentaries coming!

My latest piece is up on Splice Today: Searching for Jesse Camp. The true story of my first forays into stalking.

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(Brandy Vogeding on Jan 8, 2009 3:10 AM) Lina, do you ever read a piece of writing and feel that your soul has become just a little bit emptier? It's exactly that feeling that makes your writing so unique.

(rachel on Jan 2, 2009 10:00 PM) What a sad story about that poor fellow! It seems like an example of how withdrawing one's projections from someone makes them less attractive. I am trying to complete a similar story about a girl projecting shadow stuff onto a boy. I read RusselL Brand's autobio, speaking of wounded young men, and he seems too crazy even to be a candidate for such things. He seems like a borderline personality or just brain damaged.

The punk drummer: I moved into this Williamsburg, Brooklyn with a man 15 years my senior. Joe was a drummer, but luckily didn't play at home. The kitchen was zebra striped, the living room was red with a giant chandelier draped in feather boas, and my room was purple. Luckily Joe and I got along very well, and he would regularly share tidbits of general knowledge. One fact that I've never forgotten is that brazil nuts are also known as "nigger toes."

My ex-boyfriend: While changing the sheets, once I found a stash of drugs under the mattress. Eviction (his) quickly ensued.

The French student: My first foray back into living with other people happened in Dublin last year. I lived with Bertie for a year. Bertie was miserable living in Ireland and stayed in his room 90% of the time. The other 10% of the time I berated him about never putting dishes away or cleaning the house. Bertie finally took up with another French student and had his girlfriend living in our house three or four nights a week and never introduced me to her. In retrospect, I feel sorry for Bertie. However, I also sort of feel like it's his own fault for not being very sound. He wasn't very fun.

Gooballs: Lived with me for a month while I packed for London. I was introduced to the fellow through a friend. The night that he moved in he told me, "I used to have a drug problem but I don't anymore, like. I learned that drugs are like people. If you don't respect them, they will fuck you over." Because he was from Cork, even semi-frightening statements such this still were amusing due to his outrageous accent. He broke a window and invited a lot of seedy characters over during his short tenure.

The Italians: My most recent flatmates. Sabrina and Lucio were "just friends." Within a week of me moving in, one of my friends asked me what was up with my flatmates. "What do you mean?" I asked innocently.

"Uh, they're obviously boning," she informed me.

As it turns out, this was true and they seemed to get off on the illicitness of the situation and used my presence as a prop for foreplay. When I would come home I would often find them on the loveseat (the only piece of furniture in the living room) making out. When I entered the room, they would try and pretend they hadn't been sucking face, and stare fixedly at the TV while Lucio adjusted his pants. I found this very uncomfortable-making.

Later, they evicted me for "cooking too much Asian food." The next day I told Sabrina that I thought her habit of falling asleep with her light on and bedroom door open in the hopes that Lucio would stumble in on his way to his room, was pathetic. I should note that said stumbling-in only occurred every few weeks, but Sabrina kept her vigil up on a nightly basis. Lucio later threatened to report this incident to the police as well as having me prosecuted for libel. I helpfully tried to explain that it wasn't libel since I had only said it. Now I suppose since I've written it on my blog it's actually libel. I'm sure this will please the Italians.

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(rachel on Jan 1, 2009 2:20 AM) You achieve the literary equivalent of the 'slow burn". The more seedy details and petty persecutions the more amusing it is. Are you sure you want to come back to the United Snakes, with all this material you're gathering? Happy New Year!

I know that getting irritated with him is just giving in to trolling, but it's hard not when someone tries to beat me at my own game. It also irritates me when people make such shameless attempts to sound smart, I nearly take it as an attack on my own intelligence. He must think I'm stupid, I think to myself. He can't possibly believe that I would fall for this shit. This just ratchets up my fury because in addition to attempting to evict me and threatening to sue me, he clearly thinks I'm a moron.

Just since beginning this post I've received another email from the flatmate. This in response, I guess, to my saying that I'd likely stay in the flat for the next ten weeks and wait for a court order to leave just to make him miserable. Just to be generous, I'll provide you with a sample:

Again, let me be clear that the remarks you made on our presumed attempt to unfairly overcharge you are unsubstantiated, factually incorrect and libelous. In saying this, may I remind you that this country has a stricter stance on what is considered libelous than you may be used to in the USA. Since you are understandably keen on your legal rights, I suggest that in the future you carefully consider those of others, who may be far less gracious than me in responding to similar accusations.

Current possible responses: LOL, unsubscribe

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(rachel on Dec 23, 2008 10:47 PM) In one sense this began as a tempest in the proverbial tea pot but the gravity with which you relate it is richly amusing.From my experiernce with room mates finding anyone gainfully employed and tidy like yourself was like striking gold. I can't believe their aversion. Give 'em hell!

(clare on Dec 18, 2008 12:42 AM) it's the people who live in london that make it one of the worst places on earth. when i read that you were going to move to london, i almost choked on my ojinguh bokkeum. you should do yourself a favor and jump on the eurostar without telling your flatarses and never look back.

The other night I made one of my favorite Korean dishes, ojinguh bokkeum, spicy stir-fried squid. I made it with not only squid, but mussels and shrimp as well, just for a laugh. The next night, soon after I polished off the leftovers, my flatmate came home for a chat. After about an hour of inane small-talk he finally got to the point. I'm being asked to leave my flat because my cooking stinks. As in, actually smells too bad for my Italian flatmates to handle. "We just didn't realize that you'd cook so much Asian food," he said lamely. "When we were advertising the flat we had decided that we weren't going to let any Pakistanis in for that reason, the curry, you know."

Interestingly enough, I had let some Chinese cabbage go to waste last week because I thought making my own kim chi might be sort of inconsiderate. Now that they've decided to evict me, though, I'm going to put a few prawns in the lining of their mattresses while they are gone for Christmas. We'll see who stinks then.

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(rachel on Dec 15, 2008 10:24 PM) Thanks for the gift! I thought Londoners had advanced since I was there in the 70's and horrified my landlady by sauteeing garlic. I hope you can find a windowed room (And try sewing some shrimp into the hems of the curtains of the current flatmates).

(Lina on Dec 12, 2008 9:22 AM) Clare, you aren't wrong.

(clare on Dec 12, 2008 2:09 AM) london is one of the worst places on earth.

When I lived in New York I used to live above a pizza joint called 'Little Frankie's.' Ever the lazy slob, I'd order delivery from upstairs and sit around playing video games while the poor delivery man walked my pizza up four flights of stairs. I ate a lot of Little Frankie's during this period of my life. I think it's likely that I was also clinically depressed, but the pizza certainly did help temper that.

Little Frankie's pizzas were amazing. Very thin crusts and simple topping were the key. After I left New York and went to California I found a few places that had good pizzas. Dopo on Piedmont Ave in Oakland was one. But the wait for Dopo was ridiculous, and so were the prices. So I started making my own pizza. Not by my own hand, mind you. I bought fresh pizza dough at Trader Joe's and despite it already being made for me, spent a good long time wrestling it into a circular formation and onto a pizza pan. I also ate a lot of pizza during this period of my life.

But then when I moved to Dublin, I gave up on pizza. No one would deliver gorgeous thin pizzas, and no one wanted to sell me ready-made dough. I thought my pizza life had ended. But recently, being inspired by the grocery delivery services available around here, I decided to give it a go. Somehow, having yeast delivered just made the whole thing more manageable and I decided to make pizza from scratch. I'd been hearing and resenting Fran's casual "oh, we have homemade pizza twice a week at least" stories for years, so I figured I might as well make her recipe.

I was remarkably pleased with myself. The crust was thin but not mushy, my guest was delighted and I was full and smug. Pizza? Yeah, I made you.

Fran and Dan's pizza dough recipe, adapted from the Cook's Illustrated Best Recipe bible: Fastest Pizza Dough