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The London Years: The bridge of aspiration (10 of 20)

February 21, 2022 sofiagk 3 Comments

You can keep you Gherkin and the Barbican and Battersea Station. You can even keep your Westminster and your National Theatre. Dare I say it, you can also keep the Shard. There is nothing that evokes such tender feelings in me than a tiny bridge suspended over Floral Street. I know most people don’t see it because I’ve pointed it out to friends (and boyfriends) who had never actually noticed it.

Don’t know what’s going on? I’m leaving London soon so this is one of my 20 London stories – a celebration of 20 years of my life here.

I’m not a fan of architecture – let’s start from that. This sounds peculiar (since, how can you not be a fan of architecture considering that we all live in things that architecture made?) I basically mean that it rarely excites me. I like some things but I don’t go into the details and I don’t google them like I do with some art or some music. But, as we all know, there are some things that speak to us – and who the hell knows why?

The bridge of aspiration is one such thing. It’s a construction that literally connects the Royal Ballet School to the Royal Opera House. The entry and exit points are at different levels and the “box” itself (though I’m sure there’s a more elegant and accurate word) twists and – almost – moves. Or I’ve always thought it looks like it moves – I’m sure it’s actually quite steady.

I used to walk around London a lot (then the pandemic happened) for work, after meeting friends and usually before and after some sort of show – a concert, dance or the theatre. Especially after show, walking helps me emotionally process what I saw or heard. It’s difficult to explain… I know some people love talking about what they saw – my mother is one of those people. I loathe that. Art is more of a personal process for me – which I think also explains why I enjoy going to shows alone so much.

One such evening I raised my head as I was passing Floral street and I saw it, the bridge of aspiration. I used to do ballet as a child – have I ever mentioned that? I’ve always found the sheer exhaustion, determination and punishing life of a dancer fascinating. You spend most of your younger years training non stop, to get into a fantastic school where you are not special anymore, you are one of many incredibly talented people, to make a bet of VERY LOW ODDS that you will one day be an actual professional dancer.

I don’t know if you do this but I tell stories to myself. The bridge of aspiration is one such story for all dancers. Work hard, know that there is a connection between your school and the company. Know that the path is twisted and uneven but that there’s a door, a way, a connection.

That, as most cynics know, is a lie for the vast majority of dancers.

There is no system that guarantees you a place at the company. What there is, is hope. And a story you tell yourself to get up every day, keep breathing and follow your gruelling schedule to get somewhere, who the hell knows if it’s where you thought you might get.

That thought, is exactly how I think of my 20 years in London. Sometimes when I talk to friends in Greece they seem to think that the life of an immigrant here is a bed of roses. And that is incredibly far from the truth. The life of an immigrant – yes, even a white privileged one – can be tough. In comparison to the life of a refugee it’s a walk in the park – obviously very aware of my privilege here – but it is not a case of “Welcome to London, which company would you like to be CEO of, let us explain yourself to yourself and find you the love of your life, what will fulfill you and bring you peace, joy and happiness”.

I’m hoping that my 20 stories are giving a glimpse of the reality – there’s good and bad in every country, in every story, in every life. Yes, the capitalist dream tries to convince us that there is a connection. Study hard, work hard, be dedicated and consistent, there is a, a door, a way forward, from humble beginnings to the promised land.

There is not.

But, there is a twisted path. It’s uneven, it’s scary, it looks like a black hole passage from the original Star Trek or other times it looks like an architectural dream (not that those two are mutually exclusive). And sometimes, while you work hard and persevere and take a deep breath and stay the course, sometimes, if you are also somewhat lucky, you might be able to pass through it.

And that, basically, has been London for me over these last 20 years. The hope, the reality and the joy you find in between as well as the door, somewhere over there.

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The London Years: This green and pleasant land (9 of 20)

February 17, 2022 sofiagk 4 Comments

The three of us stood at the gate. “We are not going in there”, my sister said. “Sure we are”, I replied, “this is the path”. “Sofia this is someone’s land”, my mother said. “I know it’s someone’s land! But there is right of way and this is the path” I insisted. I looked at what seemed like 100 cows behind the gate. They were relaxed but who the hell knows what cows are plotting. And so, we opened the gate.

Don’t know what’s going on? I’m leaving London soon so this is one of my 20 London stories – a celebration of 20 years of my life here.

One of the best things about England is that the whole country is like one huge, evergreen garden. The English obsession with the countryside and its protection was weird when I first moved to the country but after 20 years here I appreciate it immensely. You can’t move for areas of outstanding beauty and national parks. Everything is maintained, protected, organised. There are signposted paths to take, information online, booking systems and little museums to visit. There are pubs to go to with exquisite food and little tea shops. And there’s beauty, so much beauty. It’s not the wild kind – the one you find in Greece – it’s not the contrasting colours of the Aegean or the breathtaking ascend to the mountains. England, above all, is pleasant and this is exactly the right word.

In my first few years in London, venturing outside the city was not really an option. First of all, I loved discovering the city. Second of all, I was poor. Money is *necessary* to be able to properly enjoy travel in the UK as it’s an expensive destination. I think that the first time I could actually afford taking a long weekend in the UK was in 2008, 6 whole years after I had moved here, even though I had already been on holiday TO SPAIN and the week there was cheaper from a UK long weekend.

When I did venture out however, I fell in love.

When it was possible after the pandemic, my parents stayed with the kid and the husband and I had a weekend together. We only drove about an hour and a half to got to a little village very close to the southern border of London, Ide Hill. This is so close to London that people just live there and commute to work in the city every day. When the husband asked me what I wanted to do I just wanted to go get the newspaper and sit in the garden. Parents with toddlers will understand.

We slept in, we got newspapers and bread from the village shop and then we walked around some scenic walks before jumping in the car to go have lunch at a pub in another village. We sat in the garden the next morning with some coffee, the sun shining. That’s what the English countryside feels like, like having coffee under the sun on a Sunday morning, surrounded by greenery.

To be able to do all this of course requires some sort of income and, ideally, a car. The best places to stay are always out of the way, better reached by car. And to get there you have to learn to squeeze your car through the incredibly narrow (but sufficiently picturesque) english country lanes. This is where – let’s be honest – you squeeze your sphincter when a car comes from the other direction, achieving pelvic floor strength and more driving experience. But you get there in the end and it’s worth it because you end up staying on a farm where they have actual horses and your accomodation used to the the old stables but they’ve lovingly restored them.

That’s another thing to know about England. Coming from Greece – accustomed to the grand ole heritage being thousands of years old – it was initially surprising that there was so much care taken of buildings that were only a couple of hundred years old. But now, every time I discover a crumbling ruin in Greece – for example something from its industrial heritage – going to waste, it drives me crazy.

I think that the way the English do it creates a virtuous cycle. They restore and showcase their heritage. Most aristocratic houses can be visited, in others people hold their weddings and celebrations. The National Trust buys up properties, protects them and opens them to the public. Normal people restore and protect old stables and farm houses – I once stayed at a restored old chapel converted to a house. And because these places are *accessible*, because they have an audio guide, a map and you can have some tea with scones there, YOU FALL IN LOVE. And then you cannot imagine not protecting them and not finding ways to uphold this practice.

Let’s go back to the field with the cows.

Every year since 2015 my mother, my sister and I take a small annual trip together. In 2022 we decided to stay in the UK since we knew that a move to the UAE was imminent. And so we piled in the car and went on a tour of the Lake District. While we usually do city breaks, this time we decided that we should enjoy the nature and so we proceeded to take country walks around the lakes – easy to find online and download the instructions to.

So there we were, we had reached the middle point, I was looking at the map, I was reading and re-reading the instructions and they were absolutely crystal clear. “Open the gate, make sure you have the stone wall to your left and proceed to the next gate”.

Now my mother is a village girl. She grew up in a farm in Greece and learned how to drive on a tractor. And so she went forth, unafraid, using her village magic word with the cows. We followed behind her, silly city girls and discovered that indeed, even english cows obey the magic word.

Obviously, I have a video.

During the London Olympics opening ceremony, they sang William Blake’s poem – it’s serenity in perfect juxtaposition to the chaos of the industrial revolution, his “dark satanic mills”. And I swear, I know that this will be what will make me nostalgic in the future, the thought of this green and pleasant land.

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The London Years: Greek London (8 of 20)

February 16, 2022 sofiagk Leave a comment

Byzantium in Bayswater was such an old cafe that I would not be surprised if part of their story was that Onassis dropped by when in town back in the days of the Greek shipowners. This is not a joke since the infamous Elysée restaurant/ bouzouki place on Percy Street did have black and white photos on the wall of someone from the Greek – now deposed – royal family smashing some plates. So you see, back in the early 2000s, the old money and the old glory days still counted for something.

Don’t know what’s going on? I’m leaving London soon so this is one of my 20 London stories – a celebration of 20 years of my life here.

I’ll be explaining some things about the Greek community in London as I’ve lived it and we need to agree right now that I will be biased, seeing everything from the lens of my own experience and probably unaware of a number of things. This should be fine, considering this is a *very personal* account of my 20 years in London and I welcome all additions and new information in the comments.

A good place to start is the first time I went to Bayswater. I’m convinced that this was sometime in 2002 or 2003 and one of my Greek friends took me to see old school Greek London. I was personally gagging for a frappé coffee which you could not find in London for love or money and the Byzantium cafe obliged.

Bayswater in those days was rich-brat central. As the historical neighborhood of the Greek shipowning community, Moscow Road was where you could find anyone who was anyone. Everyone else just went along because you could get frappe in Byzantium, actual Greek produce in the Athenian Grocery, Greek newspapers at one of the corner shops and Greek food at the Santorini restaurant. The impressive church (which everyone translates as St. Sophia – even themselves – but actually it’s the Greek Orthodox Cathedral of the Divine Wisdom) is where the well heeled and the wannabe well heeled celebrated Easter and baptised their children – ideally by the Archbishop.

I don’t think anyone who has come to London after 2010 can really understand how difficult it was 20 years ago to find Greek things. You could laugh. You could question why the hell I moved if I missed Greek things and to be honest… you’d be an idiot. Making a choice to live somewhere else does not mean you stop missing the tastes and some of the things you loved about your home country. So… spare me.

Coffee was the thing I missed the most – it’s not that you couldn’t get Greek coffee, you couldn’t even find a decent coffee shop because coffee culture was only then beginning to flourish in London. Flat white? Forget about it. This was still in the future along with checkered shirts, hipsters and the rise of Shoreditch.

Greek restaurants were also – in the main – absolutely terrible. Competition was limited and some things just didn’t exist. You couldn’t find souvlaki outside of North London for example (and even then it was probably just a couple of places making gyro). Santorini was expensive and bland and the only people enthusiastic about Lemonia were not Greek. Still, beggars can’t be choosers and so I drank my coffee at Byzantium as if it was nectar and chewed on my fish at Santorini as if I was cutting into cake. By the way, I don’t like fish.

Fun fact. All of my non Greek friends would tell me how much they loved hummus which I ONLY ATE FOR THE FIRST TIME IN LONDON in a Cypriot restaurant. Hummus is not really a thing in Greece.

In those days, our parents used to send us care packages that included such essentials as olive oil, spices and chocolate spread. Let me be clear – ALL those things were and are available in London, if you know where to look. But there was no facebook, there was no twitter, we knew what our friends knew which is why we had big lists for our parents and got excited to drink the watery frappe we could find.

This changed for me with my eventual foray into North London where anywhere in the vicinity of Green Lanes one could and still can find EVERYTHING that is required for Greek cooking in Cypriot and Turkish shops. The Turkish shops always being cheaper and stocking a better baklava by a mile.

North London is where the Cypriot community flourished. This was old school of a different kind with second and third generation youngsters driving lowered cars with music blasting through the speakers.

London Greek Radio still has its studios up in North London and I SWEAR TO GOD, they used to have a show called “Fellow émigrés who left us” where listeners could commemorate their dead loved ones. I was FASCINATED by this show as the format was also like a tiny history of the Cypriot community in London. It was always something like “Our fellow émigré Androula Kyprou has departed this vale of tears on the 21st of February after a battle with a long illness. She leaves behind her husband of 60 years, Pampos Kyprou, her daugher Chrystalla, her son in law Kostas, her son Andros, his wife Polla, her grandson Melis and his wife Samantha”. Did you see it? As the generations changed, someone from another culture always married into the family.

You might think I’m making fun but I am decidedly not. The people who can afford to make fun at that stuff are the people who came to London recently and are spoiled by the abundance of Greek coffee shops, restaurants, souvlaki places and delis – all the result of the Greek financial crisis, pushing people abroad. Greece’s loss was our gain, I’ve eaten spectacular Greek food in London (at Mazi if you must know) and even 20 years ago that would have been unheard of.

The pre-existing diaspora community maintained a core of Greek and Cypriot places for the decades that preceded the nouveaux Greeks descending into London poo-pooing on the North London churches or the incredibly yummy koupes in the Cypriot delis. And for all the pretentiousness that I know for a fact I had (possibly still have) I’ve found so much support in all the Greek and Cypriot old school places, when I missed something from the old homeland.

One of the most legendary underground haunts was Jimmy’s in Soho – now long gone and honestly missed by a huge part of the Greek London population. Jimmy’s was accessed through a tiny door, you then had to descend to what felt like the bowels of the earth and you were then in a basement fulls of arches – the most surefire way to know you were somewhere close to the Lady Door. At about one in the morning – AFTER THE SMOKING BAN – they locked the door upstairs and everyone would light up their cigarettes and their… not cigarettes. Two men played bouzouki and guitar, smoking and drinking non stop, inserting their own lyrics into popular songs. They had this waitress called Sofia, average height, slim and always bustling up and down. They would always call her to sing the song about a waitress and she did so matter of factly with one of the best Greek folk voices I have ever heard.

But that’s another story. And this one is about a hot summer – so hot that I had taken off my tights and I was wearing my green slingbacks. I was single and I seem to recall that I liked someone – the infatuation filling me with that whizz pop bang that infatuations tend to. I met my friends at a pub and then we proceeded to Freud for the legendary cocktails, this being a favourite Greek haunt mainly due to the cocktails and the ease with which you could meet people. I think that was the evening the huge Jamaican Mule slipped from my hand and smashed on the floor scraping my legs, tiny beads of blood gently blooming.

Later, much later, we went to Elysée which was half empty – this being the summer holidays and the Greek university students being back home. This is a place for smashing plates – you understand but that night I refrained and instead danced on the table. I still recall that I felt giddy and excited and impulsive. I’ve made my biggest mistakes in this state but I’ve also gotten by best stories.

At the end of the night I took a taxi home – this being a time of better income – and I smoked one cigarette before going to bed.

Looking back, there have always been these explosive moments in London. And you have to wonder… would it have been possible to thrive here without them?

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The London Years: Always have a sister (7 of 20)

February 15, 2022 sofiagk 2 Comments

Let me start with a story that is definitely against type. When I told my sister I’d go learn how to ski before an upcoming trip to Austria (the boyfriend being a skiing fan), she told me I definitely should. “You think you got it. But you don’t”, she said darkly before sharing the story of when she went up the mountain, sat on the chair lift and waited for the opportune moment at the top to gently jump and ski off. She gently jumped, skis buried in the snow vertically, sprawled under the chair lift to her eternal embarrassment. And if you need to know one thing about my sister is that this is a story that you would never associate with her, me being a bit of a clown, she being a bit of a duchess. But then, it seems we rub off a bit on the people we love.

Don’t know what’s going on? I’m leaving London soon so this is one of my 20 London stories – a celebration of 20 years of my life here.

I am five years older than my sister – this meaning that we spent our adolescence completely disassociated from each other. By the time I was graduating she was starting. Like many sisters, we loved each other to distraction but also could not stand each other. And then, London happened.

I had been in London a few years before my sister decided to join me. We lived together in a spectacular house in Chalk Farm with various housemates – including boyfriends – London being an expensive city. The years we spent together in that house were difficult and fun – thinking about this today, it was a time when we were both becoming adults and we clashed often because we assumed the other knew what they were doing. Neither did.

Most people assume I am a pure extrovert. While that is understandable, it is also incorrect. Most people assume my sister is a pure introvert. Again, while that is understandable, it is also incorrect. We discovered this about each other while we were living together. Theodora, for example, was the only person who understood that the moment I got back from the office I needed alone time.

I’d walk in the door, we’d make coffee, roll a couple of cigarettes (during those days of wild abandon and apparent cancer ignorance) and she would wait. Nobody can wait like my sister. She can sit there and her movements slow down while she just looks without seeing. And then, at some point, we’d start talking. When she decided to leave London, this ritual was the thing I missed the most about her presence.

People who don’t have siblings seem to assume that the relationship is somehow automatic, almost biological. You are born with some sort of ability to get along with your sibling. You are not. It takes constant work and a commitment by both parties that this relationship is worth it. I don’t think we would have realised if we did not have to face the world together in London.

There didn’t seem to be so many challenges and so many opportunities for us in Greece – sheltered in a culture we knew and understood. In London we had to deal with other cultures, new jobs and our own conviction that we could deal with life when clearly, nobody can and we all muddle through.

Living abroad changes the way you understand the world. And that’s difficult to achieve when you’ve been in the same place forever. I don’t mean this in a negative way. I have simply observed that your reality is *the* reality when you’ve never had an indication that a different reality is possible. (Not a better reality. Only a different one. Which is why any Brit who migrates to the USA magically starts appreciating the NHS a lot more). Knowing me and my sister, it would have been almost impossible to sustain a relationship if she hadn’t lived abroad – she would have no frame of reference for the way I see the world. And it shames me to admit – but here it is – that I would not have respected her choice to be in Greece as much as I do now.

While we spent time in London together we learned how to be adults, how to navigate being abroad and how to be sisters. And more mundane things. How to cook and how to eat. How to make friends and how to leave them behind. How to be in a relationship and how to mess up one. How to dress. How to tell a better joke. How to take care of each other. We learned each other’s rhythms. We discovered London together and apart, we compared what we had learned at work and we somehow, often, reminded each other who we were.

One of the funniest problems we solved together was cycling in central London and my sister’s terrible sense of direction. Every morning we would cycle together PAST my office, all the way to hers and then I would cycle ALL THE WAY back. Took her a few months to let me just stop at my office and for her to go on her own. I usually claim it’s because she doesn’t pay any attention. She claims she was helping me get fitter. I now think we both loved spending the time together.

Here’s another thing: My sister has a voice that is better, clearer and naturally lovelier than mine. However, I am the one who’s been in small bands and have performed. One year – don’t ask me how the hell it happened – she was convinced to come up on stage with me for the first, quieter part of the show. (The band was Niavent – you should definitely check them out – bonus points if you can tell which songs I’ve written the lyrics to). She was every bit the duchess and I love seeing some of our photos and watching some of our videos from that performance because honestly – we are so much more alike than most people think.

It could have been tough to maintain the relationship when she left – and sometimes it is. Sisterhood is never a given. But we’ve persevered and the thing that we found works really well is travelling together. We travel with our mum and just the two of us – making memories with people you love being one of the best ways possible to combat your day to day distance. In those trips I usually am the unofficial guide. I listen to an audio guide and them explain about the buildings or neighborhoods we are in.

Last time I was in Athens we went to the newly reopened National Gallery together. We were walking around and I naturally fell into my role, explaining what I knew about art, composition and symbolism. “What the hell are you on about?”, she said. “Oh, should I stop?” I asked a bit embarassed. “No, are you crazy, go on”, she said.

And that, tells you all you need to know.

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The London Years: How not to bite your nails in the Officials’ Box (6 of 20)

February 14, 2022 sofiagk 3 Comments

I signed my name and walked behind my more experienced colleague. It is surprisingly cold in most parts of the Palace of Westminster. We navigated the little corridors – green carpets for the House of Commons and red for the House of Lords – to reach another little reception. We signed in and followed a kindly lady (“nobody steals here” she said to me as I hesitated to leave my bag outside – I think about that often). She checked, opened the door and quickly ushered us onto the officials’ box – a tight “balcony” hanging on the wall behind the Speaker. I sat down and if this was a bad novel I would have pinched myself. As it is not, I just stared at the House of Commons and the assembled MPs of the United Kingdom. Ain’t life strange?

Don’t know what’s going on? I’m leaving London soon so this is one of my 20 London stories – a celebration of 20 years of my life here.

My first job in London was at Phones4U – a mobile phone retailer. I used to spend most of my time there taking stock and dealing with the admin. I was sufficiently crap at it but a girl’s gotta eat. While I remember lovely people and fun moments, it was terrible, in the main, and I spent a lot of time applying to other jobs.

Relatively early I found myself interviewing for the UK civil service and got a job at the Serious Fraud Office. Starting out as a Law Clerk and then moving over to the Policy team, this is where I found the answer to how I could get into tech without being an engineer – it was basically the start of my career in policy.

The fact that I had joined the UK Civil Service caused some hilarity for my Greek family. I had refused to apply to any Greek Civil Service positions – considering it a path to boredom – and yet here I was, bowing going in and out of the Courtrooms in London. Fun fact, you don’t bow to the Judge. You bow to the coat of arms behind him, to show respect to the Queen’s justice. Do you really get more British than that?

That was a brilliant job. I was surrounded by smart, dedicated people who believed they were working for a worthwhile cause – and to be honest, they were. I was working with police officers, lawyers and accountants. I did all sorts of things that thinking back seem extraordinary for an immigrant. I helped prepare court documents, I went to help the solicitors, I sat down with barristers as they were discussing briefs and I even participated in dawn raids.

Dawn raids are basically like unannounced inspections – only more legally complicated than that – and I’ll tell you the best thing about them. Just ask the appropriate person and you can get invited to the coppers‘ breakfast – around five in the morning before the team officially departs to go give someone’s lawyers a heart attack. I’ve discovered the best breakfast spots around London this way and was taught how to drink “proper english tea” which should always be with milk and really strong.

I think that part of the reason why I like the Ben Aaronovitch’s officer Grant / Rivers of London novels is because all the coppers in the books remind me of the coppers I knew. Matter of fact, keen, overworked and with a great sense of humour. It always saddens me when the Met gets in trouble, an affinity I would certainly not feel for the Greek police.

Anyway, the job was incredibly serious and enjoyable and it came with perks as I’ve mentioned – it was a gateway to parts of British culture. In the summer of 2005 I even followed, learned about and celebrated cricket as the England team took the Ashes, their first win since 1986–87. My boss at the time was a cricket umpire and really, they are the only ones who can explain cricket to the uninitiated even though, he used to say, even they have to look up the rules.

I worked as a Law Clerk for a good while and then I applied to a Policy position. To my eternal amazement – I became a junior member of a team that took care of parliamentary correspondence and briefed the Solicitor General.

This was serious and scary work as it was immediately explained to me that a Minister misleading the House is a serious offence and so I had to always be accurate, specific and triple check everything. I was terrified and excited every time I briefed the Solicitor General or when I responded to questions in Parliamentary Correspondence. And I was surrounded by kind people who helped me do good work.

Sometimes – not all the time but when the Solicitor General would discuss a specific issue pertaining to our Office in the House – my presence might be required. This is when a meeting might be held beforehand for clarifications. Following that, you take the back corridors to get to the Officials’ box and stare at your Minister as he gives answers you have prepared, taking care not to show any panic I guess. We all wished that would be it. Any meetings post his Questions in the House would not be good news – it being understood that you had royally fucked up with information missing or – God forbid – information being wrong.

I recall a lot of good times in that job but mostly how welcoming and respectful people were. Especially considering where we are today with Brexit, I feel particularly lucky to have experienced the fundamental decency of the civil service.

And here’s the kicker. We had an office party at some point and the Director of one of the divisions was asking me about my story. This was a talented lawyer, career civil servant and admired by her team. I remember her clearly praising me for doing so well, working hard, going to University and how she felt that as a Brit she would not be brave nor talented enough to move abroad and do well in another country’s civil service. I remember thanking her but I don’t think I explained how that would not be her fault, but the fault of her new country.

So you see, this is one of the reasons that I’m disappointed but not bitter with Brexit. I was there, part of “the establishment”, the Greek girl in her twenties. I sat at the officials’ box, managing not to bite my nails as a Minister read from my brief. I had breakfast with the coppers who had always been to Santorini. I learned from brilliant and dedicated people and they opened a door I would not have been able to open alone into British culture.

And, you know, I joyfully clogged my arteries a bit and will forever know what is the atmosphere John le Carré describes when he writes about Whitehall. Not bad eh?

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The London Years: The Rest is Noise (5 of 20)

February 12, 2022 sofiagk 2 Comments

As the symphony began there were only a few musicians on stage. The lights were down, so I knew the thing had begun but I had never seen anything like this in the Royal Festival Hall. Gradually more musicians came – some warming up, others obviously playing from the score. Until, when the whole orchestra was assembled, the sound exploded softly and I was happy, in my seat at the back, £12 if booked early enough. Welcome, to the music and the noise in London.

Don’t know what’s going on? I’m leaving London soon so this is one of my 20 London stories – a celebration of 20 years of my life here.

My favourite walk in London by very long mile is this: Exit Leicester Square station (or somehow magically be there), turn left and continue along Charing Cross Road – stay on the left side. Turn left at the Chandos (better avoid Trafalgar Square) and then take a right on Adelaide Street. If it’s late enough you’ll notice that some of the homeless are already waiting for a hot meal that gets delivered somewhere behind St. Martin in the Fields. Cross the Strand, enter Charing Cross station and find the door on the left hand side, just before the platforms, that leads you to the path suspended above Villiers Street. Look left, you can see inside some of the flats – who the hell lives there and how do they deal with the rats? Enter the little pedestrian tunnel, yellow tiles and sickly yellow coloured lamps – they always bring to mind Jack the Ripper for some reason. Exit breathing and magically you are on the Golden Jubilee bridge (east side) – look to the left and you can see Saint Paul’s. The Royal Festival Hall beckons on the other side of the Thames – as long as you can slalom between the people taking a photo and the couples dancing in front of the bridge musicians.

I’m not good with concerts. Let’s start there. This is a fact that baffles my husband who could live his whole life in concerts, preferably in Camden. To be honest I only started going to those with him – he became somewhat of a guide to my hard rock education. But before that I had the Royal Festival Hall and an intense dislike of standing up in dark rooms for hours at a time to listen to a music I couldn’t quite catch, acoustics in Camden gig spaces being notoriously shit.

I do loads of things alone. Let’s make a note of that too. Theatre, exhibitions, music, it’s time with myself I thoroughly enjoy. This seems to be a weird or rare trait – people I share this with are visibly panicked at the thought of going to some sort of spectacle or even going to eat alone. For me, these are some of my favourite memories in London.

Being poor and interested in the arts in London is no joke, even though to be honest there’s plenty to see for free, most museums not charging an entrance fee. At some point, I have no memory of how, I discovered a couple of neat tricks for booking cheap tickets. My most cost effective one is the Royal Opera House one – I’ve written a blog post here about it.

But my favourite is the Royal Festival Hall one. Here’s how it goes: The Royal Festival Hall is a venue that is *designed* to be a concert hall. To the untrained ear there is no actual discernible difference when you sit here or over there – the whole space being designed for the purpose of sitting on your lovely behind and enjoying the music. Ergo, the cheap seats in the back are not inferior even though they cost only around £13 today – £12 back in 2013 when our story takes place. By the way, my recommendation is always for row WW bang in the middle. Thank me later.

2013 was a peculiar year. I was 33, had met the love of my life (and had no idea it had happened), was exhausted by a terrible work environment, had given up on a PhD and was recovering from a monumentally regrettable and sufficiently abusive relationship. Yet, it was also introspective and interesting and actually I was quite at peace. I look at my photos and realise it was a year during which I thought a lot, walked a lot, listened to a lot of music and walked around London. A lot. It was a year I developed my relationship with myself and this city and it was actually a year I felt beautiful – which any woman will tell you is usually a revelation of her thirties.

2013 was also the year that the London Philharmonic Orchestra put together The Rest is Noise, a programme inspired by the Alex Ross homonymous book. I went to a few of the concerts – I recall the Rite of Spring which is always a difficult piece – but the one that sticks in the mind was the 30th of October concert of Alfred Schnittke‘s Symphony No 1. Don’t worry, I also had to look him up.

The maestro was Michail Jurowski and he kindly gave a talk about the piece beforehand. He sat on stage and I remember his male power stance – relaxed, legs apart and his hands controlled, an impressive belly, restrained and yet expressive. When he was conducting later he was a different man, stricter, playful, agile. Jurowski attempted to explain something of the Soviet reality and the Russian psyche but what stuck in my mind was the theatricality of the symphony, this idea that musicians enter and leave the stage. He mentioned the trauma of all the lives lost in Russia during World War II – all the talent vanished and that idea of art that never got made has stuck with me ever since.

Now, let me be honest, Symphony No. 1 is tough. It’s chaotic, it’s difficult and I lacked – and still lack – the musical education to really understand it. But, and this has sustained me always, art is not necessarily meant to always be understood by everyone. Sometimes, art is meant to be felt and to invite thoughts and questions and, why not, aversion. I might not have understood it but it was one of the most impactful concerts I have ever been too.

When I left (go up the stairs, cross the Golden Jubilee bridge etc.) I could not listen to the symphony again in my earphones – which is what I usually did with music from other concerts. I just let the sound of London float around me and realised that sometimes, in the comings and goings, in the misunderstood creativity, in the chaotic noise and in the brash people you bump into there is also life and balance and a conductor – somewhere – who can be a bit more magical when he is on stage.

I don’t think I lifted my hands to conduct the noise, walking over the bridge, looking out towards St. Paul’s, but if this was a movie script, I probably would have.

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The London Years: Words save our lives… sometimes (4 of 20)

February 11, 2022 sofiagk 2 Comments

I used to commute in London with at least one book, some journal papers, two pens and two highlighters. Once, a lovely gentleman saw me maniacally highlighting some photocopies of journal papers and we struck up a great conversation about research subjects. On the tube. He was a biologist and a lab assistant. I was trying to see if the PhD life was for me. Turns out, it wasn’t.

Don’t know what’s going on? I’m leaving London soon so this is one of my 20 London stories – a celebration of 20 years of my life here.

When I was a teenager I used to do track. I was a short distance sprinter and I was painfully average. I was sufficiently dedicated, I loved the daily training sessions but ultimately I was not a great talent. Even though, I did enjoy beating the boys in my school at PE sprinting – they seemed to take it as a personal affront that I was quicker. I trained from 12 to about 16 and then gave it all up to study for my university entrance exams (which I failed) and to take up smoking alongside a bit of teenage angst. The point is, to this day, whenever I smell the tartan track flooring I want to put on my spikes and take a few laps.

There’s something about smells and to be honest the only other smell that brings on such a strong reaction for me is the smell of books. And unlike the track, I am good with books, or, if I put aside the false modesty, I am really good with books.

Now some people will tell you that there are quality books and trash books but I take comments like that as a personal affront. There are books. There are stories. As long as you find the ones that speak to you then you’re fine, you’ve found some good books. And this, I discovered, quite by accident, in London.

I had grown up being a bit of a bookworm and I had been fed the “quality vs trash” books theory at school. I dutifully read the classics. I discovered some gems but I also discovered some of the most boring books ever written. I read Thus Spoke Zarathustra and thought I had done something of note. Which, being in my 40s now and having read a lot more I can tell you, it’s not that important.

In London – through a combination of being here during some formative years and the kinds of things I was doing – I discovered three things about words and books.

First, books have power as objects too, not just as ideas. You only have to walk into the British Library or Senate House to realise that so many books together probably distort time and space. (By the way, if you have never been to Senate House library but you are a lover of books then you are missing something important from your life.) Not that this time and space distortion idea is something I thought of, no, this is really Terry Pratchett’s theory of L Space, which brings me to my second point.

Fantasy books. I had discovered Pratchett while I was in Greece thanks to a gaming shop owner who insisted I should play Discworld Noir (he was right) but mainly due to Grigoris Miliaresis – an incredible writer and tech thinker whom I met far too young. He was a fan and he told me which book to start from (Witches Abroad. It’s the one I always recommend to Pratchett newbies too). But to really *get* Discworld I had to live in Britain – to understand what was special about Nanny Ogg, why Ank Morkpork is the way it is and why Captain Vimes’ ‘Boots Theory’ of Socioeconomic Unfairness makes sense. I am a huge fantasy fan and it started with Sir Terry.

Once, I said to a professor at uni that fantasy was my porn. He looked at me seriously and asked if I thought that fantasy was somehow inferior. He was an accomplished academic whose PhD students always went on to do great things. When he mentioned a medieval poem with the court troubadour horrified that the lady of his dreams actually defecated (that’s what you get for sneaking up on people) I thought he was talking to me. People are people and books are books.

Which brings me to my third point. Some of us have books inside us and they help us navigate the world. Some are books we read and some are books we could write. And I think I have some of those. They are unfinished, unruly and possibly a bit loud. But they are composed of words that are important to me and as Neil Gaiman says, “words save our lives… sometimes”. And trust me, words saved my life more than once in London.

This is where I stopped writing to see if I was a writer. In London I started writing to see who I am. I wrote letters that made my sister cry, I wrote stories to say the things I left unsaid or to go down a path I did not dare take. I wrote blog posts to explain myself to myself and others to find a community – which I did – in those glorious early years of blogging. I wrote to see if I was a researcher (not at the time, I wasn’t) and I wrote to understand food. I kept writing, even when work got too much, I filled notebooks I’m always embarrassed by, I wrote other letters to my oldest friend.

It’s what I’m doing right now, I’m writing to (re)discover what 20 years in London brought me. It was not enough to be here, it turns out. I had to find the words to explain it to myself.

…

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Addendum

Over the years I found immense joy in books that take place in London – a trend that started my first year at Birkbeck when we examined London in art and literature. Here are some of my favourites.

Neverwhere by Neil Gaiman
Disturbia by Christopher Fowler
Brick Lane by Monica Ali
Rivers of London by Ben Aaronovitch
The Buddha of Suburbia by Hanif Kureishi
Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy by John Le Carré
London: The Biography by Peter Ackroyd
The Uncommercial Traveller by Charle Dickes – especially the ones about shy neighborhoods.

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The London Years: The night bus (3 of 20)

February 11, 2022 sofiagk 1 Comment

“What’s your name”, he asked and when I told him he turned around to his friend and said “Why are all Sofias like that? Look at her eyes, you girls are trouble”. Which Sofia burned in his mind – I wondered – riding the N29 from Euston to Wood Green.

Don’t know what’s going on? I’m leaving London soon so this is one of my 20 London stories – a celebration of 20 years of my life here.

Back in the times before the night tube, uber and (admittedly) a better income – there was no avoiding the night buses. This is all probably before I got accustomed to the idea of going out and concluding the merriment earlier. Greek culture being a late culture, it was quite a shock to see people already drunk and going home at ten in the evening – a time that back in Athens I’d just be arriving to dinner with friends.

I’m not a big drinker. Maybe we should start there. It was always difficult to adjust to the UK’s drinking culture and this was a particular problem with most jobs. Socialising was for Fridays at the pub and even though I stood my round, I was always asked why I didn’t seem to be drinking as fast as everybody else – nursing my half pint for the evening. I prefer going out to dinner or coffee (I am mediterranean after all) and when I do go out drinking I look for a cocktail bar. Which, I’ve learned, can be a pretentious preference in Old Blighty, because the British class system frame of reference just gets applied to everyone, whether you grew up here or not.

Since at most times I was sober then, it was a particularly interesting people watching experience to be riding the night bus. Waiting around along with the drunk, the rowdy and the plain exhausted for a ride home which is somehow not as entertaining without the benefit of a few pints. At times there was singing. The smell of fried chicken or vinegar (from the fish and chips, obviously). And there was banter – so much banter – between the lads and the girls. I remember very few angry people – even though they were there. The night bus – at least the way I remember it – was the place where people tried to squeeze a bit more fun out of their evening.

I must have taken the night bus with friends or boyfriends sometimes but the times that stick in my mind are the times I was alone. Out with some friends or out on a date and then a walk to the bus stop. Don’t ask me why, but at most times a little bit melancholy. It felt like I was doing a quintessentially London thing while not exactly enjoying it. Which, to be honest, can be said about a lot of London things.

There was this party – I think it was around 2013 or 2014. There usually was some drama with a boy but I seem to think that on this occasion I was single and got invited to a party somewhere around Euston Square. There were Greeks, so many Greeks, some people I knew and some people I didn’t. I remember loads of rooms, a tiny terrace where I had a cigarette. I remember speaking to people but I have no idea what we said or who they were.

I left late – this was rare but I do recall this need to stay out very late, to feel that I had fun, had a drink, partied. I hadn’t. But I needed the pretense. I walked across the road and waited for the N29 – that and the 243 being the two most useful London bus routes I know, always having been a North London gal.

I sat upstairs – front row, left side. That’s always my preferred seat. A few years before that, sitting in the same seat, I had met a French boy in a spectacular way. He came on the bus at Angel, we made eyes at each other, he waved at me as he was leaving and we both smiled. We saw each other the next week, same time, same bus, same stop. I was fully turned in my seat waiting to see if he would come, he run upstairs, saw me and came straight to me breathless. “I almost missed the bus and I was worried I’d missed you” he said and I laughed. He had dimples. He was smart. It was the most underwhelming love story ever because even though we had a movie worthy meeting we had zero chemistry. He’s the only person I sometimes miss having a drink with – so smart and such incredible energy.

Anyway, back to the N29, two guys were sitting behind me joking around in Greek and I was still buzzing from the party. I turned around and surprised them a bit. I only remember one of them clearly, he struck me as perceptive, intelligent. He had this boyish face and he spoke up, freely, no funny business, just plain socialising with a random stranger.

We had about 45 minutes to kill till the last stop and we exchanged stories – where we studies, what we did in London, how long we had been there – this being the obligatory conversation for every immigrant meeting another immigrant. And he had a Sofia and I never asked what she did for him to be so obviously impressed by that woman – there was a thread that went from his head back to a Greek city in the North where she was from. He made my night, it was honestly the only joyous and genuinely fun night bus ride I remember – when I was not merely the observer. But he had a story and I failed to get it.

London is like that. You bump into people a lot and then you lose them, you forget, somehow you never see each other again. Like the night bus crowd. Friends for 45 minutes and then… you might always wonder or you might just forget.

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The London Years: The way to anyone’s heart is through the stomach (2 of 20)

February 9, 2022 sofiagk 4 Comments

I was sprawled on the couch, hair and makeup professionally done, exhausted and half asleep. The production assistant was sent out to get me some chocolate and he came back with a velvety patisserie sweet that put some fire in my belly again. I was soon up on my feet in front of the camera and thinking back, this was one of the most random and fun things I’ve ever done. Shooting promotional content professionally – I mean, what the hell had happened?

Don’t know what’s going on? I’m leaving London soon so this is one of my 20 London stories – a celebration of 20 years of my life here.

I moved to London in 2022, skilled in the great arts of frying an egg and making pasta. I was 22 and had lived all my life in a country where food was abundant and relatively cheap. My mother lived close by, the souvlaki place knew my order by heart and central Athens at the time was full of small restaurants with proper Greek food – nothing fancy, just what you’d find in any normal household – for a few Euros.

So here I was, in London with not a lot of cooking skills and very little money (and by that I mean almost non existent).

Maybe a little family history. I don’t remember my mum or my granny ever really enjoying cooking. There were no domestic goddesses in my immediate vicinity. Regardless though, I grew up around (and under) “tables”. The Greeks don’t give “dinner parties”, we invite people over to “a table”. It’s loud, messy, there’s always too much food and it takes hours. The kids are around and some (ahem… me) might hide under the table to listen to the gossip that comes only after good food and good drink.

Food is central to Greek culture. It’s rarely fancy but it’s always plentiful and if you are a kid who notices things – like I was – it always comes with stories. Some food is immigrant food – from Asia Minor, from Istanbul, from the Black Sea. Some food is secret food – a family recipe that’s never shared. Some food is special food – like white sweets and biscuits for an engagement party.

I seemed to have noticed all this when I was a child and then promptly forgot – only to be reminded when I came to London. To be honest, learning how to cook was a product of two necessities.

First, there was rarely ever any money for luxuries in those days. Expenses had to be tightly controlled – my salary for £900 per month and my rent was £350 (bills not included). As much as I hated lentil soup as a child, the adult trying to survive in London quickly appreciated its low cost. I wasn’t starving, but steak was not on the menu every day.

Secondly though, food became a bridge, a tangible exploration of my old and new identity. A Greek in London.

Back in the early 2000s Greek London was extremely limited. There was North London with its Cypriot neighborhoods and tavernas and maybe a couple of Greek restaurants in West London – aka Onassis-wannabe central. The influx of contemporary Greeks and the exciting new Greek restaurants post-financial crisis were in the distant future. You wanted to eat pastitsio or tzatziki? You had better learn how to make them.

And that’s what I did. My mother offered advice from afar (we used Netmeeting in those days believe it or not) and she also sent me her only cookbook. A tattered wedding gift from the 70s with no photos but plenty of old fashioned Greek recipes. It even includes advice for the server – different from the advice to the hostess and a full list of necessary cooking utensils, pots and pans. It still has pride of place on my cooking books shelf.

Slowly, painstakingly, stubbornly, I learned. I developed a bit of a reputation for cooking amongst friends. I was not accomplished but I was one of the few people in my circle who could make what the Greeks call “home food”. Simple everyday recipes you could not find in the London restaurants. I hosted many dinners, lunches, BBQs and Christmas celebrations. It gave me incredible joy to have people over and recreate in London a little bit of something of that childhood magic – grown ups around a table, community in action.

One day, as a joke and a little bit as a bet to impress a boy I liked (what a disaster that was), I put a camera in front of me and hey presto became a YouTuber. I made grainy videos – I filmed on my laptop in those days – and loved them. As I was already blogging in Greek it was easy to slot those into my… normal programming as it were. A blog post about how to find a job in London and then a video about how to make frappe.

It was all a bit silly but it did something magical for me. It helped me navigate being abroad.

Leaving home and finding a new home is a difficult process especially for a young drama queen. If you had asked me then I don’t think I would have been able to articulate it – this need to be connected to something that’s part of your core identity. An attempt to stay grounded, connected to something you know because London was wonderful and incredible and chaotic and VAST and sometimes really fucking SCARY.

Food became an incredible tool to find community, to be creative and – most importantly – to find a way to love London. The moment I became a more serious cook was the moment I also became a more adventurous eater and student of food. I went to the small and the big food markets, I tried to sample other cuisines, I read books and watched shows as well as YouTubers from other cultures.

Before I knew it, I had found comfort in London’s multicultural food scene. I had lists of restaurants I wanted to try, recipes I wanted to attempt. I went to the Turkish shops and the Chinese shops. I wasn’t always successful in my cooking but I was enthusiastic and persistent. As my actual career progressed, as the almost non existent money became a bit more existent, I managed to go to the restaurants I couldn’t before. I found places that do creative things with nostalgic food (of which Oklava is my current favourite). Above all, I found a type of home in food, a type of identity, a place again around (and under) the table.

The journey brought me to that couch in Athens, exhausted, filming with Ogilvy Greece for Hellmanns. It seems that yours truly was a bit of an influencer before that was a thing – do I sound old? I think I do.

It gave me my first journal paper, “Hybridizing food cultures in computer-mediated environments: Creativity and improvisation in Greek food blogs”. It sounds pretentious, like most academic papers, but it was the first time I sat down and thought about what cooking gave me. What cooking and writing about cooking and filming cooking and reading about cooking while being in London gave me.

One year, a Greek girl I had “met” through the blog messaged me on Christmas eve. She was in London with her mum for a little holiday. London, if you’ve never been, is completely shut down on Christmas day and I knew they would be alone with a sad slice of Christmas turkey at their hotel, served by people who honestly would prefer to be somewhere else. I made her take a taxi and come over. I had cooked a HUGE turkey that year – which in all honesty was a bit dry. The table was laden with too much food – some of it yummy – and friends were there to eat, to drink and to play music.

Her mother sat on the couch, looking around, singing along with us, kindly complimenting the turkey . I think she was one of the few people who absolutely got me. She had spent many years in the United States and I always like to think that she knew, how a new home is home and how far away from home it can be.

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The London Years: Grexit/ Brexit (1 of 20)

February 8, 2022 sofiagk 5 Comments

It might seem peculiar to start my 20 London stories with the rather traumatic story of Brexit but I think it’s been the most monumental event I’ve lived through to date. As the cliché goes, history was being made. I wish I could say I was there but actually, on 24 June 2016, when the result of the vote was announced, I was literally at the other end of the world.

Don’t know what’s going on? I’m leaving London soon so this is one of my 20 London stories – a celebration of 20 years of my life here.

2012
On paper, I was sorted. Back in 2012, terrified that Greece would crush out of the Eurozone, putting my life in the UK in jeopardy, I had applied for British citizenship. I dutifully read the books, I found ways to declare all my trips in and out of the country (hint: use your digital photos to jog your memory) and paid the (high) application fee.

The day I went to swear fealty to the Queen and all her offspring, one of the Council employees checked my name off the list and asked if I was “getting sorted while you still have time?” – I didn’t have enough time to get offended before she added conspiratorially “I get it, I’m Cypriot”.

I mean… she wasn’t wrong.

That’s not to discount a certain feeling of pride when I got the little stamp as it were. At that time I had been 10 years in the UK, working almost from day 1, studying, contributing. I had even worked in the UK civil service for fuck’s sake! My citizenship is part of my identity now. I like that I’m British, I enjoy that my child is British.

The point is that I had made a specific choice. I was a relatively privileged, educated and white European who could have chosen a number of other countries to make a life for herself. I chose the UK and on that day when “God Save the Queen” blasted through the speakers (sadly not the cool version) I felt validated.

Is that important? I think so, up to a point. Most communities in the world have myths about their identity. “We are travellers, explorers” – I imagine the British saying before they went on to enslave half the world. So yes, the story is important and this was my story. A woman who took full advantage of her rights and built a life in a place she chose. Tinged with nostalgia here and there but ultimately her own.

2016
On 24 June 2016, believe it or not, I was on the same time zone as the UK but at the other end. I woke up in Paternoster in South Africa and the first thing I did was to check the news. I had a meeting the previous day and I remember my intelligent counterpart dismissing any Brexit fears. “They will never do iiiiiiiit“, he told me, dragging the i of the “it” to show his utmost boredom with the subject. It had after all dominated the conversations of politicos for months. “The Brits are too smart to vote for Brexit“, he finished.

With the benefit of hindsight I know we all see countries as what we imagine them to be rather than what they are actually like. I still find it interesting – a result of painful history perhaps – for a South African to consider the voting British public “smarter” than that.

So there I was, cold room (they don’t believe in heating in South Africa), cold news. Brexit had actually come to pass. Play a very small violin for the woman that found herself alone in an amazing destination with her ticket and accommodation paid for. And yet, I found myself feeling abandoned. Home (i.e. London) felt very far away and a place I could not recognise. Can we really help how we feel when a lover, a friend, a home abandons us?

A few days before leaving London for South Africa, wearing my Europe in the UK pin, I went to the corner shop to get some milk. The shop assistant asked me, in the kindest possible way, why I wanted the UK to remain in the EU. I gave him something generic and asked him for his views. He was from Afghanistan, he had arrived in the UK hidden in the undercarriage of a truck – after months of danger. He had claimed asylum, was successful and made a life for himself in the UK. He was young – oh so young – and had managed to bring his sisters over too. He was convinced that the country could not take any more immigrants – and he said it very reasonably, in a corner shop in Turnpike Lane to a Greek, with a Polish girl waiting behind me in line and a Turkish boy waiting behind her to get some cigarettes for his dad.

2022
It’s been 6 years from the Brexit vote, 10 from my citizenship ceremony and 20 from my move to the UK. I’ve learned that the older I get the more insulated I am in my little bubble. Working in tech has made it a bit worse. Relatively privileged and highly educated people from all corners of the world working for international companies. It’s not exactly… middle of the road.

And I have to admit, joining tech was when I found my tribe. Before that there was always some discomfort, a sense that I was a little bit out of place. There’s a price to be paid for any comfortable little bubble – insulating me from the reality of the United Kingdom; the under-investment, the frustration, the very real struggle. On the morning after the Brexit vote, I was blind.

I’m not bitter. I love this place. I’ve reluctantly accepted that I lack the discipline and resilience to be aware of social reality at all times. I’ve grown older, softer. I wrap myself in my family and my life and do the best I can.

The older I get, the more fascinated I am by the lives of my grandparents and great grandparents. Born in Kars and Izmir, forced to migrate, losing people along the way and yet here we are. Living, moving, loving, thriving. Are countries really ever ours?

See? I told you we all invent our own story…

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Stuff by Sofia

All posts by sofiagk

The London Years: The bridge of aspiration (10 of 20)

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The London Years: This green and pleasant land (9 of 20)

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The London Years: Greek London (8 of 20)

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The London Years: Always have a sister (7 of 20)

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The London Years: How not to bite your nails in the Officials’ Box (6 of 20)

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The London Years: The Rest is Noise (5 of 20)

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The London Years: Words save our lives… sometimes (4 of 20)

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The London Years: The night bus (3 of 20)

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The London Years: The way to anyone’s heart is through the stomach (2 of 20)

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The London Years: Grexit/ Brexit (1 of 20)

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Stuff that Sofia eats/ drinks/ hears/ sees/ does in London (and sometimes other places)

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Stuff that Sofia eats/ drinks/ hears/ sees/ does in London (and sometimes other places)