Happily, Manchester Fulfills Sterotype

Some of the effect is lost when you write in a notebook and type it up later....

I am inside an old brick house on a rainy day drinking tea and eating a crumpet (which, as it turns out, seems to be the same thing as an "english muffin"). June in northern England is still sweater weather, but I don't mind so much.

I had my first full night of sleep in days, though I couldn't sleep in because I had to be around when Aer Lingus delivered my luggage. It was lucky that my luggage got left behind at Dublin because my bike box would have never fit in the diminutive car that I was picked up in.

In my first day here, I rode around in double-decker buses, ate Indian and Middle Eastern food, went to a pub and a reggae club, drank lager on the steps of the BBC, wandered around downtown with Frank (AKA Kickball Jesus), and almost got hit by a bus because I looked the wrong way when I crossed the street. It's also notable the it's light outside until almost 11.

The neighborhood I am staying in, Whalley Range, which seems to be a working-class neighborhood with a mix of Afro-British, West Indian, South Asians, and white people. It's hard to gage the socioeconomic status of a neighborhood (and, perhaps, its safety), since the housing all seems to be in good condition and there are no outward signs of destitution. Still, the street down by the bus stop is blocked off by bollards, which I assume is an attempt at crime prevention. Since everything around here is made of brick and the housing architecture is fairly uniform, it's difficult to tell exactly how old the buildings are in this area.

A topic that has come up a number of times in the past day is fighting. When I was waiting for my baggage at the airport, I saw a man in a finely-tailored suit walking with his wife and young child; he had a black eye. This struck me as unusual, and somehow charming. An old man at the pub was lamenting that, in the old days, you could just go to a pub and start a fight with anyone, any time. Later, at the "off license, " what they call liquor stores around here, there was a drunk hooligan picking a fight with the security guard. I found it amusing as soon as I realized that his aggression wasn't aimed towards Frank, since he was standing in the doorway. At one point, he raised a metal shopping basket to swing at the guard. Then his girlfriend pulled him away, without a hint of embarrassment on her face. I think fighting still might be alive and well.

Yes, I know, this is not about biking. I start on Monday. I have to set up my photo show downtown tonight, and I will spend most of my time this week at the Territories Reimagined: International Perspectives conference at Manchester Metropolitan University. I will also be hanging out with the Loiterers Resistance Movement and helping teach the Mancunians how to play kickball.

More to come, since I am across the street from a cheap internet cafe.