I found myself at one end of Leonard Street, which is not far from the Liverpool Street Station, a bit early for the press view of the Stuckist Real Turner Prize Show in Pure Gallery, located on the other end of the street, and so I went to an old local pub to kill the time. The Griffin was full of locals. It took me a short while only to realize why I felt ever-so-slightly ill at ease not only in this cozy pub, but in this part of London, as well: almost everyone around me was British. As soon as this thought took shape, I remembered having similar feelings in the States: whenever I went out of Cambridge, Massachusetts, with a possible exception of New York City, I would find myself surrounded by Americans. Come to think of it, I am not a good foreigner.