So much wabi-sabi (侘寂), but the Awesome Machine keeps ejecting new widgets.

Tunnel on my walk from Bermondsey station to my flat

I've decided I can't do pub trivia here until I've been sufficiently sponge-like about my complete lack of English/British history and pop culture. Yelp trivia night with a team of Dutch, American, Spanish ex pats was only saved by the Welshman who seemed to answer everything. "Which gate in London commemorates troops dying at the Battle of Ypres?"

I don't even know how to pronounce Ypres.

It's been two weeks since I last posted, and that seems like a good amount of time between grabbing adventure by the handfuls and jotting down these notes for my future jollies.

View of the Thames from Clifford Chance

I got to play my usual role of underdressed public interest lawyer at a BigLaw event, meaning I pretend to be a vacuum cleaner that specializes in appetizers both cold and hot. Hey, my salary doesn't pay for me to have tuna tartare in adorable mini-waffle cones on my own dime.

Is it just me or do all law firms have similar heft and views?

I can't walk in the general vicinity of Shoreditch and Brick Lane without thinking about whether I can fit a salted beef beigel in me. Something about that unctuous fatty meat with a smear of mustard, gherkin, and the bag already turning translucent with nutrients when the overworked ladies hand it to you. Wilton's Music Hall was gorgeous, but what pub isn't suffused with old timesy charm? That night ended at The Bridge literally under a bridge, and it felt like an eastern European brothel, but assuredly a high class one.

I was in bed by 1 am like an old person while most of our group stayed out until 4 am. Lord, I would have died.

Pão de queijo before I took 2nd place!

Temple innards smelled so good!

I took second place at the London Signature Dish Competition, though I suspect I did as well as I did because of my recipe writing since none of us actually had to cook anything at the event. Also, milking the recent arrival sparkle for all it is worth before it fades like the glamour it is. Bought myself a snazzy Superdry duffel coat just in time for a spot o' drizzle, and walked out of the mall accompanied by a marching band.

It at least got me out to Wembley, which unshockingly revealed that all suburban sprawl with Ikea as oasis is the same around the world. Of course there is a grand Hindu temple out in the sticks. Shri Swaminarayan Mandir and your tasty nag champa incense, I've not spent such a restful hour shuffling around in my socks in a while.

V&A dining hall, though the food was not quite as splendorous

The Victoria & Albert museum dwarfs my comprehension of what exhibitions should be like, and after three hours, I think I only skimmed through a third of its offerings. Such a sheer immensity of stuff, though I suppose this is because Empire.

That seems to usually be the answer: Empire.

Zoned out from the V&A, we of course stopped into a nearby pub for a pint before escaping to Sherpherd's Bush. Dharma and Lu popped me into Harrod's to gawk at the naff-ity (I can't even use my new terms right) of a Princess Di statue as done by the Vegas Luxor crew, and then it was straight into a sugar and carb coma of Syrian sweets & mint tea, smorgasbord of meats and spreads. I also plan to singlehandedly introduce Ru Paul's drag race to English gays. Prepare yourselves.

Babylon in High Kensington was ridiculous, with Salome and I exiting the lift to immediate coctails, platters of fresh seafood, risotto, cassis cocktails. And I even left with little fingerless gloves as the five-man band sang and played Lady Gaga.

There's a theme here, since the next day was more drinking, though this time on the tax payer's dime since it was in the House of Commons. A pint of Guinness, steak & kidney pie, and a side veggie cost me less than a fiver, I believe. Definitely coming back to watch some parliamentary action, even if the security team gave me so much shit for not taking my belt off and for carrying a dangerous combination lock. Why do they have machine guns by the way?

It took me a little wander by Great Portland Street to find Pall Mall Barbers, but the cluster of people outside with alcoholic iced tea was an easy totem once close. I was taken down steep stairs into an alcove, offered a manicure for one hand. Can't tell the difference but girls seem to be able to, so I have one pretty hand, one with messed up climbing nails. Right when I was starting to get shaggy and contemplating growing it out to be a hip Asian (not really), I also picked up a voucher for a free haircut, so this will be the fanciest cut I've had in at least a decade.

Yakima Red afterwards with Ben, with cresting waves of fried balls of macaroni, chicken wings. Late night chats, and then I'm up at 3 am reading Half of a Yellow Sun since I can't fall asleep.

Finally made it to Kernel Brewery for the clusterfuck of hipsters under the Bermondsey tunnels. So many huge beards, and the kind of hipness that makes you think the place is a really posh soup kitchen for alcoholics. Export Stout was delicious, so Citra on the menu next time. Fresh sausage roll handed over with bloody change from the butcher, perfect flakiness over a girthy round of fresh porky pork.

I loved the five hours of gays playing board games in Central Station, a pub with a hidden rooftop patio, speed-putting on colorful hairties on our fingers. I should have realized the Cards Against Humanity here would be the UK edition, so an interesting experience playing cards with no idea why they're offensive, and I'm still figuring out the subtleties of British humor. After a closing trio of Avalon games, I spotted a laksa joint, and filled myself post haste with plenty of spicy coconut milk carbs. Tempted myself with a picture of 9 and 3/4 Harry Potter time, but King's Cross will always be there.

I can check Natural History Museum off my list after blasting through it with Zorah. Harkirit joined us for Hyde Park picnic, and we were starving by this point, so Sainsbury was raided.

Shamelessly had a giant chicken tikka with an equally massive steak pastry pie. Actually, no shame, no shame. Few hours of wan sun, mockery of the chair rental civil servant, and before falling into the inanity of Speaker's Corner, we grabbed a pint for the road at the Greene King.

I can now say I spent a whole night just eating endless little baskets of chicken wings, arranged in increasing order of spiciness. Not sure I would usually take the trip out to Hackney for Randy's Wing Bar pop-up in The Star, but the freeness and sociality of Yelp beckoned, and it's a rather lovely neighborhood.

Apocalypse wings made people claw their eyes and run for the windows, so I'm glad I only nibbled and broke the skin. My Scoville threshold is RIGHT there, and I can only think of Thailand as having ever ravaged me for that.

Probably my fifth glass of sparkly sparkles at this point.

Copa de Cava was an endless spree of Spanish sparkling wine. And by endless, I mean there were fifty of us, and four waiters kept pouring eight types of cava over and over whenever they saw empty flute glasses.

Cava, meet face. Face, meet cava.

The big green olives and jamón ibérico really didn't soak up much of it, and yet I didn't wake up wanting Mummy. I already want more of that smoked octopus.

Anna and I just after high school in 2004 (left); Anna and I this past Wednesday (2014)

I hadn't seen Anna in ten years since economics leadership camp (woo, nerdy apex!) as she pointed out, and sure, the first thing we decided to do now that we both live in London is to put on masks and wander an immersive play set in a four-story abandoned post office. The Drowned Man is totally worth the price, and there's nothing more lovely than wading through sand dunes and being in a trailer in the forest while you're indoors. Gave me Burning Man nostalgia palpitations. That and all the actors are very much on the sunny side of attractive. I may or may not have watched a scene twice that involved wet shirt changes in front of a panoply of rusty mirrors.

And somehow there was a surprise four-day weekend, and even while ill, I went to a 16-person Pakistani dinner, albeit with the sorriest samosas. Tesco wines, and a spicy biryani later, I'm really getting into a Greek beatbox dubstep duo at the Castle before I realize I really can't track them down later because it'd be embarrassing to listen to it.

Won another set of play tickets, so youth theatre time with Ade at Digital Ghosts/Children of the Revolution. Then it was time for circus cabaret with Kitty Bang Bang at the Hippodrome Casino off Leicester Square, but not before an amazing exchange with an Australian aerialist with ten-pack abs. I had a ringmaster drag queen with perfect legs yell at me, a Russian ballerino rub make-up on me, and then I was dodging drunk tourists to get on any bus that would take me south of the Thames.

Morning recovery in East Ham for Kerala cuisine at Thiru Anathapuram with Julia & Paolo, and that whole fish, dosa, and butter chicken totally made my day. Hour-long chat with Kenyan lady before catnapping and buying my own set of home weights. Somehow I've lost five pounds with all the walking around?

Weekend ended with me museum'd out from the British Museum (how much gorgeous stuff can you fit in there?). And I was a little kid again with all the Egyptian mummies.

A little girl threw giant handfuls of cherry blossoms at me on my block, screamed, "How is this all so fun?!"

I know, girl, I know.