Two Weeks Down in London Town

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Two weeks down in London town.

First weekend started off well, with a friendly night at the pub watching football, followed by champagne and papa dams in the back patio of the Nepalese restaurant in the neighborhood, while waiting for a table large enough for the 10 of us. For a nicely dramatic effect, the restaurant lost power and we all had to shuffle through the slushy streets looking for a place still illuminated.

Side note: I left California in 75 degree heat, wearing jeans, wooly knee socks, hefty boots, a tank top, t-shirt, long-sleeve, sweater, and jacket. Funny that everybody tells me I should have simply worn the 16 pounds of clothing I was overweight upon departure. Funny that within the period of my flight from London to the US and my return trip, United Airlines had changed their luggage requirements from 2 bags to one, with a $50 charge for any excess. Ha ha. A little bit amusing, as well, is the lack of power dotting the city due to the fact that the UK doesn’t have enough fuel to keep all the heating devices up and running in this brief time of frozen precipitation. Hee hee ha ha, it is two weeks later, the snow is gone, and all the windows are bright.

So, back to that first weekend: it was great! I was armed with new gear (or old gear that I hadn’t seen for a year, so it seemed new). Sunday consisted of mushrooms and eggs on toast, followed a little later by a Sunday roast at the Devonshire, an un-cheap pub at the end of our street. I timed my return so that I could enjoy the fine institution the Sunday roast is. This particular one was a little odd, as our order for 2 Bloody Mary’s was met with, “This early? Are you serious?” It was 1:30pm. I don’t know, when I worked in a bar, every time was a good time for a patron to order a drink. Then again I was working for tips. . . Anyway, the roast was mediocre, but no matter. We had Pete’s (our housemate’s) goose fat roasted potatoes to reminisce about. Even if they’re not on offer every day, they simply are the bomb, and I’m happy to have had them once.

The work week began. Monday. Get into it, Erin. I’ve opened my Writer’s Handbook, subscribed for online publications and publishers. I’m trying to figure out if I want to just write a story of my own free style, or if I want to cater it to a periodical’s guidelines. I don’t want to write for free. None of that. I’m trying to find where the money is. But before, or even while, I’m caught up in that, Tim is right: I just need to write.

I decided I wanted to revisit the Kyrgyzstan days. None of the travel magazines I have at my feet say much about my favorite ex-Soviet country. I don’t necessarily want them to. I don’t want just any Gap year student to flaunt their thongs all over the Tian Shan Mountains. I decided that I’ll write the piece I want people to read. Okay.

We visited a lady who has been making felt rugs for years, at the base of the mountains, she along with her 8 daughters and some of the local ladies from the village. She was featured in Elle Magazine in 1990, and some of her work was shown in the British Museum. I’m in Britain, I decide, I will research her here. Well, unfortunately I couldn’t find very much related to this woman, Janyl (Janil) Alibekova, but I did run across a company who sells the felt rugs, allegedly imported straight from the backyards of the hunchbacked Kyrgyz grandmas of my memory.

After a little more research, I find out that the owner of the company, Tim Mooch, has a showroom in Balham, which is Where I LIVE! Visits are by appointment only. Okay!

I am very excited walking through the damp neighborhood streets to see this guy. I’m looking around every corner for a small shop wedged in between the flush front foyers of the houses. I don’t find one. I find a home at the given address. Hmm. I knock. I hear footsteps coming down the stairs I feel are on the other side of the door. I see the rugs, called Shyrdaks, hung on the walls as I peek through the window panes on the top of the front door.

A sprightly man with transparent eyelashes opens the door, no doubt surprised and a little downtrodden since I’m not an elderly historian with indigo dyed hands. I tried to wear a decent outfit, however, to look like a potential buyer. I tried. I showered and matched.

Over a cup of coffee, he rambled off, in a very fast clip, his history in Central Asia, how he came to trade the rugs, and how they are made. He wasn’t sure how much of this I already knew, so he glossed over a lot of it. I had made a 1’ x 1’ rug, decorating it with scraps from the real rugs. Not really the same as the masterpieces the women produce for sale, the ones which he had hanging on his walls in his showroom, which was a home no one lives in- just a display case for the shyrdaks.

He has hundreds of rugs of all sizes. Some less than a meter squared, some floor sized, about 2 meters by 3.5 meters. He also has pillows, whose covers are produced in Kyrgyzstan, but the filling is British down. Tres comfy.

These rugs are thick, layers upon layers of sheep’s wool pressed together, heated, rolled, and decorated. Each rug can take up to 4 months to make, with a team of women doing the wool dying, the flattening, the rolling, and the artistic pattern. They’re covered with intricate designs: lots of swirls, abstract shapes, and a lot of color. When I first saw shyrdaks decorating the insides of yurts, which are traditional nomadic circular dwellings, I was amazed at how bold the use of pattern and color were. For miles I saw brown, gray, and light green mountains, looking corduroy in texture, occasionally a tan marmot popping up and breaking up the terrain. Usually a stream would bubble along the road, dark and delighted to be able to move along. Clearly there was more color in the country than my little eye could initially pick up, as the shyrdaks’ turquoise, magenta, vivid gold, and bright green colorings were traditionally produced naturally. Often now they are made with chemical dyes. The patterns the women use tell stories of birth and death, hope for prophesies of good weather and strong constitutions. Each shyrdak is unique in its design: the closest relative of each rug is its exact opposite, which is made by utilizing the reverse cut out of each design. No waste. Go green.

Tim Mooch of Felt has a good vision, I’m convinced. However the man is trying to make a pretty buck, as I suppose most of us are. His meter squared rugs retail at 400 pounds, and is floor sized rugs go for nearly 4000. In Kyrgyzstan, the smalls would be about $30, and that’s a lot. The large could go for $200. That’s at the home of the manufacturer, or the little grandma and her 8 daughters. If taken to the department stores in Bishkek, the capital, the rugs would go for maybe double or triple the local price. Nothing near Tim Mooch’s prices. Mooch says he gives a percentage back to the ladies who make his rugs.

“Where do you get your rugs?”
-All over.
“So you give money back to these women who make the rugs?”
-Not individually. But in a lump sum.

Hmm, that sounds a little difficult to me. Kyrgyzstan is a large place with a horrible infrastructure. Read: who is gonna take Akaryn Aba’s $40 kickback to her in the middle of winter along crumpling pot-holed roads once her rug sells in England for 4000 pounds?

Anyway, enough about that, and if you want to check out more about this dude’s rugs, look at http://www.feltrugs.co.uk.

So I was involved with the rug man. And subsequentlyegot to talk to my main man in Bishkek, Sergei, who wanted to get onto that import/ export chain. He wrote, "Jeez...I can overwhelm UK with that shit😊)) Actually as was thinking about something like , Europe is crazy about "organic" products and hand made shit that cost nothing here. The problem is always in money....😞(("
Maybe more will come of it, maybe not. We. Shall. See.

More about Erin in London:

Last weekend was spent dining in town with Tim’s sister and boyfriend, and me getting a little angry when my steak which I decided I wanted to take home came back to me wrapped up like a hockey puck in foil. I wanted a swan. We didn’t eat until 10:30pm. Not a good idea. I was acting like a child. Great impression of an American off the leash.

Sunday was a good day. Tim and I went to Leicester Square and saw Avatar at the Odeon theatre. I thought it was GREAT! I don’t care what anybody says. The marine-ness hoo-rah crap of it was a little OTT, but I liked the long blue beings with the taught tummies. Ferngully and Captain Nemo combined. How can that be bad? Oh, then we had delicious cheeseburgers and I didn’t even realize that Tim was being nice and doing something ‘American’ for me by indulging in the burger. Very sweet.

Another week into it. I decided I wanted to earn some easy money. I applied for some nannying positions. I visited a few families. I thought up and down about revisiting the babysitting circuit. I don’t want to be a full time nanny, that’s for sure. And now all the mom’s are my age, and that’s weird. I ended up taking on a few hours a week with a French/ Swiss family who live locally. They are fine. The mom is sweet. They eat berries and cream and lots of cheese. It is interesting to see how the kids’ English prep school works. All the students have swimming once a week, and they all have bathing caps, goggles, and Speedos with the school logo written on them. Most of the moms who come to pick up their children are stunning. Yummy Mummys is what they’re termed. Ha! The four year old hasn’t learned her ABCs. She’s learned the sounds each letter usually makes, and that’s what she calls each letter.

“It’s a bhh. (for B). It’s a nnnn (for N).” Etcetera.

I’ve got a non-narrative fiction class starting tonight. We’ll see what that’s all about. I’m mostly interested in looking at the kinds of people who will take the class, and I’m interested in whether or not I’ll understand the instructor. And vice versa.

I’ve been meeting up with a bunch of old friends. Siobhan and John from the Intrepid Morocco days. Allison from one of the most difficult trips I ever led in China. Leeat and Dave from Tibet 2008. I had my first curry on Brick Lane. Frankly I can go at least a month without another one. I’ve found some more local hot spots, thanks to Allison. The neighborhood is coming together.

In the next few weeks I’m going to do a few presentations at the Intrepid Store, informing drop-ins about the places I’ve travelled through. It’s basically just talking about ME for an hour and a half. I can’t wait!

What else? Applied for an internship, and they have just gotten back to me to set up an interview. I think a major roadblock will be my lack of a sustainable visa. That’s on my to-do list. Like, high up there.

While I’m finding out about that, we’ve got a few trips ahead. This weekend we’re driving to Manchester, and then over to the Lake District for a couple nights. I’m a big water fan, so will be happy to see that. It’s all about walks with dogs in that region, stopping at pubs all along the way. Great! The following weekend we’re going up to North Wales (!) for the grand total of one night. Tim’s bestest friend is coming into the UK from Abu Dhabi with his family, so we’re going all the way up there to meet them. I’m excited for that. I think it will be a little like the Avatar planet, but the people will be a bit more transparent and the language a little more glottal. I’m not really sure though. I’ll tell you all about that next time.

Thanks for reading this time!

The sun is sort of trying to shine down on us, so I’m going to go put on a bikini and sun myself along with the rest of the unemployed population of the UK. I hope the sun is finding you, too! x

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