> tapioca world tour

i will miss chorlton. not the theives who smash my windows and steal stuff, but the big brick houses…the swaying green trees…the organic supermarkets…and, especially, Barbakan Bakery. they have the best bagels, loaves of bread, imported cheese and chicken coronation sandwiches on the island. and quiche, apparently.

i moved into 8 Ruskin Ave, Rusholme, Manchester, M14 4DQ yesterday. just, you know, kind of packed and left. it was a warmer day for this freezing city — probably lower 60s — and after calling 20 cab places, someone finally agreed to move my stuff.

the driver, though perfectly harmless, immediately started hitting on me:

“so, you have boyfriend?”

i should have quickly switched my grandmother’s wedding ring from my right hand to my left and held up my finger, but i thought just telling him i had a boyfriend would be enough. it wasn’t.

“but why not have another boyfriend here?”
oh god. i don’t do that, i said.
“why not?” he persisted. “i bet your boyfriend already has another girlfriend.”
he can see whoever he wants, i said. as long as i don’t know about it. if i knew about it, i’d have to kill her.
“oh, i’m sure he has many girlfriends. that’s the way of guys. you know, they go to club, they drink, they meet women…”
stop! stop it! can we please stop talking about this?

we drove on for a little while, silent except for his stiffled chuckling. soon we hit rusholme, on the border of moss side, my new neighborhood.

“oh my god,” he said. “you’re moving HERE? are you crazy? this is the worst area of manchester.”
thanks, i said. i was already robbed in the posh part of town. i think i’ll be fine here.
“no,” he continued. “this is where all the drug dealers live!”
whatever.
[i did come to find out, however, that our neighbors directly across the narrow street are in fact some big players in the drug underworld, as evidenced by the yelling and screaming mob of questionable persons who form a queue outside the house every morning.]
“my friend got robbed here the other night!” he said. ” i got robbed here a month ago! you’re crazy. don’t ever walk alone.”

you know what? if i can survive manchester, i can survive anything. despite the misery my congenial taxi driver tried to inspire in me, i kept my chin up and moved right in. peter from germany, who’s in his mid-thirties and has spent the past 3 years integrating technology in tiny villages in peru, let me in, helped carry my stuff, and set up my bed with me. he and i share the third floor, which i think was an attic at one point. i just wanted to be high up. he’s going to be a great neighbor, since he’s quiet but not shy, owns the entire Macromedia MX Suite for PCs and is not afraid to share all his applications. he’s unfortunately a chain-smoker, and the smoke seeps through my walls all day, but c’est la vie. a little tobacco never killed anyone, right?

so that’s my move-in story and i’m sticking to it. my 12×10 room is just lovely. i went to the pub last night with peter and ben and michel’s girlfriend, who’s visiting from canada, and a friend of hers from liverpool. do you know, the pubs here all shut down at 11p? if you want to drink or hang out after that, you have to go to a CLUB! a club, where you pay to get in, and where skanky girls/guys come up to you, smashed, and try to dance with you. um…no thank you. and all the pool tables here are tiny, i mean tiny, and the balls are also tiny and they’re only red and yellow.

peter and i have bonded over lack: the lack of decent bread and pastries from good bakeries (the new ghetto neighborhood hasn’t a bakery in miles), the lack of late-night pubs, curry with vegetables, affordable sports facilities, and sun.

i miss you all, but please don’t come to visit me because it would never be worth the investment, and i couldn’t bare to see any of you subjected to the horrors, anticlimactic though they may be, of this sad wet city.

happy sunday!