Trappings in London

Bonus - The Heathrow Report

2008-07-04T17:28:00.001-07:00

Well, my darlings, it seems I'm not the only one who thinks going to the airport the night before a flight is a very clever thing to do. There is a veritable rave going on here - if you replace the derelict warehouse with a coffee shop and the "energy juice" with espresso shots. And the only music we have is the "swoosh swoosh" of the floor waxer. But the sentiment is the same. We are all locked in a huge building with a common goal...to stay up and rock the night away.

They say "rock the night away" at raves, don't they? I'm so kewl.

I really like spending the night here. It's kind of fun. All-night cafe, free internet, big building to wander around in...what's not to love? In fact, if I ever go traveling again, I'm totally putting this on the itinerary. Even if I don't fly.

It's 2AM, which means it's probably 9ish in the States. The added bonus of partying at the airport the night before I come home is that I've already gotten a leg up on my jet lag. I'm one day closer. But please don't expect me to be nice for a week.

Well, it's time for another espresso round. I'm getting sleepy...and bored. I feel like a 12-year-old stuck in a house all day with no video games.

I might post again, I might not. It depends on how loopy I get and whether or not I can get my fingers on the right keys. Also, we might form a scouting party and check out the tunnels. We're convinced that it's where Stephen King's monsters go to retire. This place is freaking spooky when it's empty.

It's SO much fun.

~

So Long, and Thanks For Fullfilling My Wish

2008-07-03T14:22:00.000-07:00

This is my last real night in London.

I’m checking out of my hotel tomorrow and spending the night at the airport. My flight leaves at 8:30AM, which means I have to check into the airport by 5:30AM. The Tube doesn’t start running until 7AM, so I don’t really have a choice. I almost missed my flight when I came here (gads, that was a scare) and missing my flight home would be devastating...mostly because I only have 12 pounds left in my pocket. The extra money I had to pay for the room really killed my budget. But, it was all part of the journey. I wouldn’t have felt like myself over here if I wasn’t constantly worrying about money.

Even with the budget constraints, this was the trip of a lifetime. I’m going to miss the people and the places. There were things I expected and things I didn’t expect...which all makes for a very educational journey. Seeing how others live and relate to one another helped put my own little circle into perspective. I’ve been feeling very small lately, and venturing out of the bubble in Austin has shown me that I am, indeed, very small - but that everyone else in my bubble is just as small. It’s a very comforting realization.

London is what a city should be. I love the flow. There are main streets, and by luck or intention the residential areas fan out from them. So, you have the High Street where you shop for your food and clothes, then you simply turn off the High Street and BANG. You’re in a residential neighborhood. No one has to have a car unless they want one, because the buses and tubes are only a few blocks away. Every area is a mix of residential and commercial...not the faraway “burb living” Americans seem to think is so great. In London, everything is within walking distance...which is a good thing since the roads are always chewed up with construction.

But for all its faults the locals love to point out, London has it right. There are always tons of people walking around, which gives this city a community feel. There’s always something to see and do...even if it’s drinking water in a local pub and talking to the people next to you.

I will really miss London. There is power in its History...a knowledge in the eyes of its people who know they are deeply connected to thousands of years. They walk the same patch of dirt that their ancestors walked. They eat in the same buildings that hold their past. The memories locked in their DNA from generations past are as close as the brick they lean against while waiting for a bus.

That’s what I’ll miss most about London. The fierce pride of deep roots. The fierce pride of deep roots and their birthright to bitch about it.

See you guys in a few days. If the plane crashes, know that I love you all.

~~~~~~~~~

I probably won’t have Internet access, so if you have something important to tell me do it before 5AM CST Friday. Cheers!!!!

~

You Say Potato....I say Tatty

2008-07-02T10:14:00.000-07:00

The most entertaining difference between British and American culture I’ve found are the funny little colloquialisms the Brits use. They have such endearing names for things...such nice, wholesome labels that make anything appropriate for discussion in mixed company. The dichotomy between the stark harshness of Americans and the genteel constitutions of Britons is typified in the images these words produce. It makes even the most disgusting topic safe for dinner with the Queen.

For example, we have “sidewalks” in America. Get on the side if your going to walk. Out of the way. Walkers on the side. In England, they’re called “pavements.” It’s like a special area has been paved just for you if you want to walk. Paved of ment. Like a mint. Like a little after-dinner treat paved just for you and your walking needs.

“Retirees” are called “pensioners.” Instead of bringing up images of tired old people shuffling off to their Craftmatic Adjustable Beds, older Brits are taken care of in their golden years with the promise of wonderful money...so wonderful, in fact, that they are given the honor of the name as a reminder. It’s something for the younger crowd to look forward to. A pension. “I’ll be a Pensioner and get a pension”...instead of, “I’ll be a retiree and have to go to bed early.”

If you lose your job in England, you are “made redundant.” You aren’t “fired,” which brings to mind images of being burned alive as well as out of a job. In England you are still out of a job, but you have been made something. You are “made supervisor” or “made a partner” or “made redundant.” The only difference is the paycheck. It seems so much nicer that way.

And then there’s the “fart.” How crass is that? It even sounds like the name. Farrrrt. Here, it is a lovely “wind.” Like a spring breeze that smells of roses and honeysuckle. “Pardon me, I have wind.” Much better than, “Hey, I farted.”

America’s poor are often relegated to live in “the projects” like it’s some kind of special homework assignment. In England they live in “Council Estates” which makes you think of lovely historic buildings and palatial lawns. “I live on an estate.” It’s probably good for morale. So much lovelier than living in something that sounds like a shoe box meant to look like the Parthenon.

Children in England have a cute name for their...erm...number two. They call it a biggie. Which is probably why Wendy’s has never taken off in this country. After all, who wants to buy a poo fry?

~~~~~~~~~~

Big Brother Update - Jennifer, who is the pretty girl whom all the boys are trying to woo, was nominated for eviction. She's one of those popular girls who think she is the sweetest, the kindest, the smartest, and the most down-to-earth, but is actually an annoying pain in the arse because she thinks so highly of herself while putting everyone else down...in a "nice way" of course. Her reaction will be legendary. She'll probably cry...she does that a lot. You know the type. Huzzah for the underdogs.

~~~~~~~~~~

Lesson for the Day - Camden Market is the coolest place on Earth - but it’s hell when you don’t have any money to spend. I’m glad I waited until the end of my stay to go there...otherwise I would have been sleeping on a park bench for the last two weeks.

~

Crazy For You

2008-06-30T16:02:00.000-07:00

One of the main reasons I wanted to visit London was the people. It’s the people who make a location distinct, so I knew my London would be dictated by the people who live in it. I knew the basics from films and television shows, but it’s hard to get the true nature of an area from one-dimensional dramas and half-hour sketch comedies. For the past month I have planted myself in various cafes and pubs, nursing my coffees until the battery in my laptop runs out, watching and listening to the real London.

I’ve come to realize that we are all the same when it comes to the big things - we all have the same dreams and desires and wants and needs - but it is the little things that make the difference. It’s the little things that define a culture. If taken on their own these little things seem insignificant...but when you place them next to the multitude of other little things you can see just how different people are.

I have met a number of people here, and I suppose I should be grateful that most have been very kind and enjoyable - but statistics are an annoying fact of life. You can’t have a 100% hit ratio. Histograms don’t work that way.

In general, the people here are open and friendly. They sit down next to you and before you know it you are engulfed in their conversation. It’s just the way people roll in London. It’s in their nature to talk, and they enjoy it to the fullest.

There are two categories of people I’ve met in London...the nice people who talk with you and the crazy people who talk to you - then won’t go away.

There is a distinct difference here when you sit in a public place. I’ve heard from my trusted locals that the group mentality is the English way. There is no privacy when you are sitting on the streets of London...if there is an empty seat next to you, it’s fair game.

For the most part, the Sitters have been genuinely kind and helpful...but it’s hard to tell the difference between the ones who will chat casually with you and the ones who will drink too much and propose marriage. Loudly. I’ve had three drunken proposals of marriage so far, so by now I am an expert. The first time it happened I sat in numbed shock, humiliated and dumbfounded. Now, however, I know to shake my head, gather my things, and make a hasty exit. Apparently drunken marriage proposals are par for the course in London, so I now I feel like I’ve been initiated in some strange, embarrassing way.

Then there are the crazies who run in packs. They seem nice and friendly, but then one of the girls will start yelling at her boyfriend or the guys will start yelling incoherently at people passing by and things quickly turn pear-shaped. Before I know it, the people around me are getting chucked into the streets and I have to scoot away from them to avoid being towed in their wake. It’s fun to see it from across the room, but not so fun to be caught in the middle.

Still, most of the people here have been lovely. I’ve carved a little niche in this area, and that’s the best part about being here. I leave at the end of the week, but maybe one of the locals will talk about me to another visitor as they talk about the people who have preceded me, then they will carry me back home with them as I carry home the ones before me...even if it is just a thought or an image filed away in the back of the mind.

I have left my web-trail here. My tendrils will fan out in silvery threads.

~~~~~~~~~

Accomplishment for the day - I finally got that autograph from Blog 11. In fact, I got two. It was weird...I felt like such a fanboi.

~

Ramblings

2008-06-29T14:25:00.000-07:00

I know I promised to write about all the crazy people I’ve met here, but I’m tired so I think I’ll leave it for another time. It takes work to think of those loonies again.

It’s another gorgeous day in London, and I just want to sit on a bench and look at 600-year-old buildings. That’s become my favorite past-time. Really, you can’t imagine it. When you see places in pictures and films, you automatically assign proportion and proximity to give it a sense of reality. When you finally see the object as it stands you realize that all of your preconceived beliefs are wrong. So, you have to go back and rearrange everything in your mind to fit reality.

It’s more exhausting than it sounds, especially if you’ve given these objects and places a lot of thought throughout the years. You have to sift back through the mountains of pictures filed away in the dark corners of your brain and change them. All of the boxes labeled “London, Eng-a-land” have to be pulled off the dusty shelves and its documents redrawn.

I’m reminded of The Alamo. Remember The Alamo. All my life I imagined that the crumbling building was located in some vast field with only the wind and the tumbleweeds to keep it company. When I made plans to see it for the first time, I imagined a long, bumpy bus ride to a lonely desert somewhere. It was a total shock to discover that the Alamo was located in downtown San Antonio, surrounded by modern buildings that overshadowed it with 20 stories of steel and glass. It still boggles my mind.

It will take time for me to rearrange all these places in my memories...and I still find myself feeling shocked every time I get off the bus and see Big Ben by the river - I imagined that he would be smack in the center of town, surrounded by “Ye Olde Arms” and “Queen’s Arms Inne” and people dressed in frocks and powdered wigs. I know, I know...but that’s how I imagined London.

I love sitting in St. James Park with the spun sugar steeple of Westminster Abbey peeking out over the trees. It looks like a fairy tale...I can squint my eyes and imagine what it would have been like for a maiden 500 years ago taking a break from scrubbing the stone floors of her thatched-roof house. It’s easy to go back through time in this spot I’m sitting it...but I have to block out the tourists with my hands.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Big Brother Shocker - Housemate Dennis was booted out for spitting in the face of another housemate. It might be the accepted way of saying, "You're a twat" on the streets of London, but Big Brother didn't find it as effective.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Lesson for the Day - Buckingham Palace, while being the “Official Royal Residence,” has only housed the Royal Family for less than 200 years. It started out as some guy’s house. All the cool stuff happened in other castles.

~

Oh, The Horror of Man's Fetid Soul....

2008-06-27T12:55:00.000-07:00

We have a coffee thief amongst us.

Yesterday morning I awoke at 8:15 (not bad for someone with no alarm clock, eh?) and was greeted for the first time with the dismaying sight of an empty coffee urn. The breakfast table is “First come, first served,” which translates into, “Grab it before someone else does, because we ain’t filling it again.” It’s my only shot at real, filtered coffee (surprisingly, these cultured English people think powdered crap is a viable alternative) so I was doomed to spend the morning caffeine-free. I know from my recent experience with the White Trash Lemon Cleansing that: me - coffee = bitch for a day. It’s not the most pleasant equation to wake up to.

So, this morning I told my brain to rouse me at 7AM otherwise it wouldn’t get its daily injection of wake-me-up. My brain is so prompt when it's motivated.

At 7:03 I was at the first one at the breakfast table. I passed the cereal boxes and stale croissants to grab the first cup of brownish goo they pass off as coffee. The virgin cup. I clomped back upstairs to my room and spent a lovely 3 minutes drinking it. Empty so soon? Never mind. It was only ten past the time service began. Surely it was early enough to grab another round. Besides, the coffee thief might have checked out. I slipped my sweater over my pajamas and walked down for another cup of coffee.

But it was gone.

Not only was it gone, but in their thieving haste the selfish bastard hadn’t even bothered to place the carafe back in the machine. It sat smoldering in the middle of the table, mocking me with its brown ring of dregs at the bottom. I stood there, stunned. The coffee thief had struck again.

My only comfort is in the knowledge that the coffee thief’s life is a miserable, worthless, insignificant, contemptible, wretched waste of cells...because it takes a real ass to steal coffee from a hotel full of people.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Big Brother task for the week: Choreograph and perform an exact rendition of the OK Go treadmill video. They won. There will be cookies and beer this week.

~

Tomorrow, by request - “The Loonies of London”

~

Goodness...I almost forgot! Today there was a little party for Nelson Mandela's 90th birthday in Hyde Park. I went down earlier just for the honor of being in the vicinity of such a great man. The juxtaposition between the sacrifices he made to fight for the rights of Man and the selfishness of a hostile regime bullying its people during the election in Zimbabwe today seem poetic in its disparity. However, it started raining as soon as I got off the bus so I didn't stay long.

I admire that man, but my camera was getting wet. Sorry, Nellie. Maybe I'll see you on your 100th.

~

A Room With (No) View

2008-06-26T12:12:00.001-07:00

Unfortunately, I have finally been moved to the smaller room. I’ve taken to calling it the naughty closet, because that’s exactly what it feels like. “You won’t pay an extra 10 pounds for a room? Naughty...get in the closet until you learn better.”

There is just enough room for a bed, a table, and, in the most improbable renovation decision, a sink. What was the reasoning behind the sink? A compromise, perhaps? “You don’t get a bath in the room, but we’ll meet you halfway by giving you a sink next to your bed so you can listen to it dripping all night long and dream that you are wealthy enough to afford a proper room.” There is no cross breeze and the view stinks. Still, I am saving some money, and I’m finally meeting the other guests...who for some reason never come out of their rooms until I am trying to make the mad dash down the hall in my towel after a shower.

Tomorrow I am going into the heart of London again. On my first trip in, I spent most of the time getting lost, but with my new and improved map I think I’ve got this tourist thing licked. This time I am bringing my camera, and to all the people who look at me with contempt while I block the sidewalk trying to frame the perfect shot I say, “Sod you.”

Less than a week left. I’ll miss the people I’ve gotten to know, and I won’t miss the crazy people who can’t take a hint. One thing I’ve learned is that the people who live here are either really nice or really insane. This is a city of extremes.

~~~~~~~~

What I’ve learned today - Shopkeepers do not know what “flip flops” are, no matter how skillfully one tries to pantomime it for them.

~

10:45PM

2008-06-25T14:32:00.000-07:00

It's still light out. I can still see a sliver of light across the horizon in the park. It's strange to think that some people grow up in areas that sometimes stay light throughout the night.

There is a band playing across the busy High Street, something raw and awful, sung at the top of some poor boy's lungs. The applause is measly, and it doesn't seem worth the effort the band is obviously putting into it. Still, each song is more powerful that the last, as if they believe that fame will come with the volume of their speakers.

The wind has died down but it's still strong. It no longer knocks over my bottle of water, but it still cuts my unaccustomed cheeks and tears through my flimsy sweater. I have dispensed with fashion and have taken to wearing socks with my sandals. My face might be blistering from the cold, but my toes are warm and toasty.

The Arabic mothers in their burqu'ahs have all gone home and left the streets to the London Youth, trawling from pub to pub in hopes of catching someone. It is quieter at night with all the shops closed behind their metal security gates, but the lack of density gives the people-watchers more to look at. The Yuppies and the Rollers and the Elite become easier to pick out of the thinning crowds. This is the only time you can hear individual voices...voices from Australia and Eastern Europe and India....

This is my favorite part of London.

~

Bitter Pill

2008-06-24T07:34:00.000-07:00

I haven’t felt much like writing. As most of you know, one of our pets died a few days ago. Spyro was old, and she had outlived her life expectancy by several years. She had become complacent in her old age, spending most of her time napping on the bottom shelf in the laundry room. The laundry room became her domain after the dog joined us, because I was always afraid that one day Gracie’s instincts would take over and we would come home to a missing rabbit and a houseful of fur. So, she was sequestered in the laundry room, coming out infrequently due to our hectic schedules and little down time. It wasn’t fair to Spyro, and that’s what I’m dealing with.

She was my responsibility and I failed. Again.

Before I left on my trip we had an outbreak of fleas in the house. They were everywhere. I gave the rest of the brood medicine, but Spyro’s vet is 20 miles away and I put off driving there to get the medicine because I had so many things to do before I left on my trip. I kept shoving it back to the bottom of the list of Things To Do...telling myself that it wasn’t a priority...telling myself that I could do it when I returned.

This trip was selfish in every way possible. I asked someone else to fund it and cornered friends and family to take care of the lives that were my responsibility. I dropped everything to come half-way around the world and shunned all of my duties as caretaker to spend an enormous amount of time in pursuit of idleness. I kept telling myself that it was perfectly reasonable to be totally selfish for a month...but after seeing what happens when I am selfish the taste has gone sour in my mouth. I have neglected the lives I promised to care for, ignored my duties that were no one else’s to take. I knew the danger..I knew she would die if I did not get rid of the fleas...I knew it couldn’t be put on hold until I got whatever this is out of my system. Life doesn’t wait for selfish pursuits.

Several years ago my beloved cat, CeCe, passed away in the frightening atmosphere of a cold cage in a filthy vet’s office. The vet was cheap, and therefor substandard...it was through their negligence that she died, probably scared and confused, not knowing where her family was or why they were doing this to her. In my selfishness I tried to keep her alive on my paltry living, so her death rests on my shoulders. I will never forgive myself for the decision I made with her, and I promised myself that I would never again let my selfishness be the reason for the death of a pet....

Yet, it’s happened again.

I cannot delude myself into believing that my decision to come here did not sign her death warrant. I saw the signs and I knew that an infestation of fleas on an elderly rabbit could be fatal. It happened a few days before I left, so I could have canceled my trip or changed the dates to accommodate driving to the vet and making sure she was healthy. I could have done something. She would have eventually died as all things do, but I could have respected her life and done all that was within my power to make her as comfortable as possible for her remaining days.

You can’t cheat Death...it will happen to every living creature in time. But it’s how you treat them in Life that makes the difference.

And I failed her in Life. I was selfish and delusional...and because of that I failed her...

...so what does that say about my character? That is the bitter pill I am forced to swallow.

~

Money Makes the World Go Round

2008-06-22T14:23:00.000-07:00

What still astonishes me is that people here are convinced that it is cheaper to live in America than it is to live in the UK. The basis of their logic, however, rests on the fact that making 8 pounds an hour here is equal to 16 dollars in America. No matter how hard I try, I cannot get them to understand that no one makes 16 dollars an hour in America selling clothes at The Gap or answering phones at a bank. It’s not that the people here are stupid, they really are quite clever here...but they just don’t seem to get it - or maybe they just don’t want to get it.

After being here for 4 weeks I can see that it’s actually cheaper to live in the UK. I’ve tried breaking it down into units...if you get 8 units an hour for working in London and pay 12 units for a pair of jeans, it is actually better than making 7 units an hour in America and paying 18 units for a pair of jeans. They still don’t get it. They think, “In America, those jeans only cost me 9 pounds...It’s cheaper!” They think rent is only $300 because that’s what the exchange rate shows them. They see that a car is $16,000 and think, “That’s only 8,000 pounds! A car here is 12,000 pounds! America is so cheap!”

I have tired of arguing with them. I just nod my head and say, “Yes, we are all rolling in the money over there. We have so much we don’t know what to do with it all.”

While they are smiling wistfully at their thoughts of how they will be rich and successful once they move to America, I deftly change the subject.

I really have enjoyed my time sitting and speaking with the locals, but I think I have reached a point where it is best if I nod politely at a newcomer and point to my laptop with an, “I’m sorry...I’m working” and pretend like I am doing spreadsheets. It’s just too exhausting. I can’t tell what someone’s motives might be, and since I am sitting at the pub (not drinking...that got old fast) under the place where I am staying (never shit where you sleep) I have come to the conclusion that my last few weeks will be spent in peaceful contemplation.

Which is probably for the best. I have met some lovely people, but I need some time to sit and smell the roses.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Random Fact - There is a pork dish here made from the offal of the pig called “faggot” - and the first time I saw it on a menu board in the street I nearly choked. “Faggots and peas (with homemade gravy) - 4.95"

~

Dystopia is Good For Ratings

2008-06-21T14:55:00.000-07:00

After four weeks here it has finally rained. This is the foggy London I’ve heard so much about. It’s not as gloomy as everyone makes it out to be, which makes me wonder what all the fuss has been about. Then again, I’ve only experienced one day of it. Maybe after years of this I’d start to think about possibly complaining. Barring that, it’s really fine.

Not much has happened lately, especially since I have been stuck in my room. I can make the dash to the Subway across the street to get my suggested daily fruit and veg, but I haven’t done much walking around. As a result, I have become obsessed with an English National Phenomenon.

Big Brother.

I have never watched the show in the States, so I don’t know how close the American version is (oddly enough, the show originated in Denmark) but it can’t be as psychologically taxing as the UK version. Seriously, Guantanamo Bay Prison is a cake walk compared to this show. These people are watched at all times by an assortment of sinister-looking cameras, and the feed is shown on Channel 4 all night as well as the internet. In addition, at any moment the voice of “Big Brother” can blast through the speakers with increasingly bizarre forms of torture the housemates must endure. If they succeed in completing the task Big Brother gives them, they are rewarded with things like cigarettes and alcohol or videos. If they do not succeed, however, then they lose a basic privilege of living...like rations of food for the week. Or soap. Or sleep.

They are not allowed the obvious, like mobile phones and computers, but they are also not allowed paper, pens or books. Their lives consist of waiting for the next directive from Big Brother.

This week was a Japanese theme. The tasks ranged from dressing like a Geisha for 7 days to “Endurance Karaoke,” in which they had to take turns singing “Total Eclipse of the Heart” by Bonnie Tyler over and over for 24 hours. They had to eat only Japanese food and some of them were tested by learning the Japanese language in one day. These tasks were approached with extreme seriousness and dedication.

The really interesting thing is how easily a group of people allow themselves to be led by an all-seeing omnipresent force. They must ask permission from Big Brother to do anything, (“May I go to the bathroom Big Brother, please?”) and they are only allowed to sleep at certain times (if anyone falls asleep during the day, an obnoxious alarm blares through the house until they wake up.) Everything they do and say is recorded by people who go over the material with a fine-tooth comb and report to Big Brother...who then questions their actions and words by commanding them to enter the “Diary Room” where Big Brother interrogates them on their behavior. They must defend themselves, and they do so with such conviction you would think their lives depended on it. And perhaps because of the constant demands, in their minds, it does.

It astonishes me that people will put themselves into such a position where their every movement is watched by millions of people...that they will allow themselves to be commanded like circus monkeys to perform ludicrous and meaningless tasks...that they put themselves through hell for a few fleeting moment of fame.

However, it astonishes me that I watch it. No, it astonishes (and shames) me that I like it.

~~~~~~~~~

Random fact - The show "Friends" is on at least 15 times a day.

~

On Golden Balls

2008-06-19T14:40:00.000-07:00

I’ve developed a fondness for the seedier side of British television. There is a natural filter when shows are sent overseas and we end up getting only the best the UK has to offer...but there is another side to British television that we never see...unless we are well ensconced in the Brit TV Black Market.

Quiz shows are all the rage here, from the tragically normal to the utter ludicrous. We’ve seen a taste of their shows in the form of (what I like to call) “Rehash and Glitter-Up.” We have an American version of “The Weakest Link” and “Deal or No Deal”...but nothing compares to seeing these shows in their original form. They are low-budget crowd-pleasers, and they are deliciously painful to watch. The focus is more on psychologically ruining people on national television and doing everything that is legal to make the contestants break down and cry. I’m telling you, Brits are closet masochists...the whole “uptight” thing is just a front so that other countries won’t be threatened by them.

The best Quiz show I’ve seen so far is a seemingly boring little number called “Goldenballs.” The premise is simple...four contestants pick four balls each from a pile. Obviously, these balls are painted gold. Thus, the name. They open up two of the balls to reveal a monetary amount and show it to the other contestants. Then, they open the remaining two balls, but keep the amounts to themselves. The trick is that the contestants can either lie or tell the truth regarding the amount of money hidden in their last two balls. Based on what everyone says, the contestants vote on who will be ousted from the group. Whoever is ousted from the group has to throw their monetary amounts away, and the remaining “Goldenball” amounts are carried over to the next round.

Seems boring, doesn’t it? Yes, it probably would be...if it wasn’t for the fact that the contestants spend 10 minutes each round accusing each other of lying. I’ve seen a sweet little old man scream death threats at a Primary School teacher and mother of two. That same sweet teacher screamed “You’re a filthy, rotten liar and you’re going to regret it if you shove me off, you prick!” at a bookish man in his forties who looked like he’s still saving himself for marriage. That was just the first round.

And you would think that everyone would just say they had outlandish amounts to stay in the game, right? Not so, because there is a final round that is based on the two remaining contestants trusting each other. This is where the simple game gets complicated. For the final round, the remaining contestants have two options to choose from...they can either decide to split the money or share the money. If both choose “Split,” the money they gained from the previous rounds is split down the middle and they both go home with half the money each. However, if one chooses “Steal” then that person, in essence, fucks over the other contestant and takes all the money. If they are both complete assholes and both choose “Steal” then no one gets anything...there is no reward for brute force. The reward is in psyching out your opponent. The rush comes from swearing on your life that you’ll share and then screwing that person over.

To recap, this is how the show goes - four contestants choose sixteen balls and either lie about the amount to stay in the game or tell the truth to build up trust. Two people are ousted after two rounds of shouting like six-year-olds and voting each other out of the game. Two people are left at the end and must then size up and/or pull the wool over the eyes of the other. The end result is invariably some nice, trusting soul who is happy to share a few thousand quid with a fellow human who is just trying to get out from under their pile of bills, only to be shafted at the end and sent home empty-handed and disillusioned.

It’s great fun to watch.

On another note, my life here has settled into a comfortably familiar pattern. I’ve found the best places to shop for pita bread and bottled water, and the best places to get take away that doesn’t turn my stomach into a battleground. I’m still searching for a good coffee, but I’m sure I’ll find one before the month is out.

I’ve reached the stage where I feel less like a foreigner and more like a local...which was the point of coming here for such a long time. I could have spent a glorious two weeks shopping on the High Street and taking tours of all the touristy things, but my time here would have been over in the blink of an eye - because it’s only now that I’m starting to really settle in and enjoy the experience. Some people travel for the Grand Sights, and even though I can’t fault them for that I can say that I would not have had as much fun as I have had traveling for the Small Sights. I’m inspired by the daily life here. The mixture of cultures and accents coupled with the smells of restaurants cooking Sunday Roast in 300-year-old buildings gives me a sense of perspective I’ve never had. People stand on the sidewalks to take in the crisp June air and nod polite greetings to the people passing by. Shoppers carry their bags from stores to home, from home to work, from work to pubs.... The way they walk, the way they greet each other, the music they listen to, the clothes they wear...it is all humbling in its newness. And I, for a short time, am a part of it.

I’m more than half-way through my visit, and I’m reminded of when I was sent to camp as a child. For the first few weeks there is a sense of loss and home-sickness, but as the weeks trudge on, the feelings of sadness and heartache are replaced with feelings of wonder and power. I have survived in a new environment. I have shed my fears. I have left my footprint in the concrete before walking away, and anyone who passes it will look down and know I have been there. They won’t know who, they won’t know what, and they won’t know why...but my footprint is here all the same - a Future connection to my Past...and as I look down and see the footprint of some Past Traveler, I am connected to him. I am part of the journey.

For the next two weeks, I am a part of the Small Sights, and there is no memory I’d rather look back on than that.

~~~~~~~~~~

Random fact - Never start a Londoner talking about Football...unless you have 3 hours to spare.

~

Of Dreams and Codienes....

2008-06-17T14:34:00.000-07:00

I saw my first celebrity last night.

I won’t say who it was because no one will know the name. The boy might know, but I’ll leave it a mystery for the rest of you.

I was sitting drinking coffee in the pub beneath my B&B (which I often do to make a change of pace from my room) and trade was slow. Perhaps if there had been more people or louder music, I might have missed my first London Celeb Sighting.

I was banging away on my laptop when I heard a familiar voice. I stopped in the middle of my sentence to scan the room, and there he was...sitting two tables away from me having a pint of some sort of muddy-colored lager with his wife. I was faced with another moral dilemma.

Do I pop over and ask for an autograph? (“It’s for my son...his name is Tiffany”) Do I walk by with my tepid coffee and “accidentally” spill some on his back? Or do I avert my eyes all evening and pretend I don’t see him?

Of course, I opted for averting my eyes whilst surreptitiously listening in on his conversation and stealing furtive glances out of the corner of my eye. That’ll teach him to be a celebrity in a public place.

Call me chicken, but the last thing I wanted was to look like an idiot. I can look like an idiot in front of you guys, but to look like an idiot in front of someone who’s on the telly? That would be such a blow to my fragile ego....

Last night I dreamt I was in the pub again, but this time there were several British celebrities filling the tables around me. I was forced to stand next to one of them as I was ordering at the bar, and I froze. I didn’t know what to do or say to avoid looking like a crazed stalker-fan, so I just froze. I couldn’t move at all. My tongue swelled inside my mouth and I found it impossible to talk. The more I ignored the celebrity beside me, the more his annoyed he became. The more annoyed he became, the more I ignored him. His frustration rose to a breaking point and he shouted, “Well?? Are you going to ask for something or not??!”

This is it, I thought. He’s practically forcing me to ask him for his autograph!

Then I looked up and realized he was talking about the extremely displeased-looking bartender standing in front of me.

Codeine gives you the weirdest dreams.

~~~~~~~~~~~

To be clear regarding my previous post...I had no problem taking the Codeine...it just started me on the role of "Cultural Morality" in relation to "Cultural Law."

The gun issue Xander brought up is an interesting point...in America everyone lives in heightened fear of "gun-toting kids" and "drive-by shootings." It's exactly the same for people here...but insert "knives" for "guns."

People here have the same concern about knifings as we have for shootings. They think their knife-related crimes are much worse than America's gun-related crimes...which leads me to believe that if there was a country that made guns AND knives illegal, their news headlines would read, "Stick-related Killings a Desperate Problem."

I am beginning to see that people are them same no matter where you go...it's the objects around them that makes the difference.

~~~~~~~~

Random Fact - The English don’t refrigerate their eggs. They sell them on shelves next to the breads.

~

The Term Paper - Read at Your Own Risk

2008-06-16T15:09:00.000-07:00

*WARNING* The following blog is boring and yawn-evoking...do not read before morning coffee. In fact, the easily distracted and/or impatiant should give this one a miss.

If I told you the amount of exercise I get every day over here, it would send you into shock. Most of you know how I feel about exercise, and walking upstairs to sit at my computer is about the only time my heart-rate goes above normal. It’s not that I shun exercise, it’s just there isn’t much call for it in my lifestyle. I walk 10 paces to my car...I sit at a job behind a desk...the shops are to far to make the trek by foot... Like most people in America, I am a creature of sitting. 1950's Suburbia fought long and hard for the Battle of a Leisurely Lifestyle, so who am I to render their cause meaningless?

But here - it’s all walking and trudging up and down steps carrying half a ton of bags filled with water bottles and laundry detergent. And it’s all walking two miles to grocery stores that sell more than one brand of over-priced peanut butter. And it’s all been hell on my body. I have aches in areas I didn’t know existed. It doesn’t stop me from walking, but it makes the going a little slower. So, on my way to do the weekly laundry today, I popped into the local pharmacy to buy the strongest concoction of chemical relief they could sell me.

There wasn’t much, but at least I recognized some of the drugs. Motrin. Tylenol. Bayer. That was about it. Except...there was a bluish-silvery package I had never seen before. Syndol. Hmmm...hadn’t I seen a commercial for that during Doctor Who the other night? Yes, I’m sure I had. Something about a “muscle relaxer” or “magical muscle fixer.” (It was late. I was tired.) “Why not,” I thought. “Worth a shot.” So, I bought a small packet and continued on to the laundrette.

It’s been a long time since I’ve had to drag my unmentionables (my “smalls”) to do a public wash, and even though I have made the journey twice since I’ve been here, I forget how long a wash actually takes. It’s not like I can pop back on the sofa between the wash and the rinse cycles...I have to sit on a pinchy wooden bench and wait. And I always forget to bring a book.

Today, however, I had a few minutes of reading material in the form of drug interaction warnings and labeled ingredients. I retrieved the package from my pocket and settled in for a good ten to fifteen minutes of reading. If I was very thorough and sounded out every ingredient phonetically in my head, I might even be able to stretch it to twenty.

I got three ingredients in and my mouth dropped open in shock.

In my own Seth McFarland way, I have reached the point to this blog. (Xander is probably the only person who will get that allusion.) This medicine, this over-the-counter medicine that cost 2.25, contains codeine. Codeine. I was stunned. Codeine is only available in prescription form in the US, and here it’s sold by apathetic 17-year-old kids over the counter.

All of this started me thinking about the morality dilemma of being in another country. It is illegal to take Codeine without a prescription in America...and legally I’m an American. But does that mean I have to follow the moral code of America while I’m here as well? If I was in America, it would be morally wrong for me to take Codeine without a prescription because it’s against the law. You should never break The Law. That’s what the moral majority says.

Can my ethics and morality can change simply because I change my location? Does that mean morals and ethics based on law? What is illegal in one place is not necessarily illegal in another place. If ethics and morals are based on law, then does that mean we base our moral codes and honor on the whims of politicians and judges? If so, what does that say about our morals and ethics?

For example, it is illegal to smoke marijuana in the US and there is little argument that the moral majority of Americans view smoking it as morally and ethically wrong. But if I was in Amsterdam, where smoking marijuana is legal, does that mean it is no longer morally wrong to smoke it? It would not be illegal, and I would not be breaking any laws. If I grew up in Amsterdam, I would grow up with the ethics that it was completely acceptable to use marijuana, and I would not feel any moral pangs by lighting up.

To take another example - during Prohibition in America’s 1930's it was considered distinctly “Un-American” and a moral sin to have so much as a sip of beer, and anyone who did so was considered an immoral heathen who was destroying the very fabric of American Life. That was soon replaced with the complete acceptance of alcohol, and the 1970's made drinking an art form. It was no longer morally unacceptable...but for a brief moment in time it was. The only difference between moral and immoral drinking was The Law.

There are so many examples - in America it is considered immoral and unethical to treat animals with cruelty, but in certain Asian countries beating a dog is a Man’s legal and moral right. At the turn of the century Heroin was sold by mail-order catalogue targeting tired housewives who needed “a lift” (Sears used to sell a reusable syringe in a stunning color-coordinated box). Mere decades ago large companies were dumping toxic matter into lakes and streams without raising moral or legal objections from anyone but the silly “tree-huggers”. Millions died in 1940's Germany because the government told its Country that it was the ethical thing to do.

So, does that mean it those people are free from moral and ethical conscience simply because The Law was on their side?

This has been, I’m sure, an argument batted around by Sociology students for generations...but this is the first time I’ve ever really noticed the difference. We take for granted the moral guidelines instilled in us by our parents, and if that morality changes then we change our morality and ethics. We change them without thought...we condemn individuals who acted on accepted moral guidelines of the past...we judge others based on the codes instilled in them by their upbringing and culture...we support wars because our government tells us it’s the moral and ethical thing to do....

Is it ethically or morally wrong for me to take this Codeine without a prescription?

Probably...but my back is killing me so I’m popping one as soon as I close this window.

~~~~~~~~

Random Fact - Asking for a fork with your take-away chips stops all conversation at the chippery.

~

Blogdate - Supplimental

2008-06-16T01:11:00.001-07:00

There's a new space being occupied on the Cyber Highway. It's very funny, and I command you all to go read it. It should be wonderful reading...I hear the writer comes from good stock.

http://random12yearold.blogspot.com/

Go. NOW!

~

The Highs and Lows of a Transatlantic Loo

2008-06-15T12:28:00.000-07:00

Devastating news.

Back story - I waited too long to book my room, so all the Guest House had available was a double for the first two weeks of my stay, which is $20 more per night. I crunched the numbers and eventually decided to book because I would only be paying $20 more per day for the first half of my trip. I could eat pita bread and bananas for 2 weeks...small price to pay for the trip of a lifetime, and I would eventually be able to move into the single and be able to have a reasonable daily budget.

Well, I just found out that the single is not en suite. That’s fancy talk for “no bathroom.”

I was stunned. When I called from America to book the room I asked several times if the room had a bath. “Yes,” she assured me. “All our rooms have a bath.”

She just neglected to tell me that the bath for that room was down the hall. In a converted closet. With a flimsy, unsound-proofed door.

And I didn’t bring a robe.

Today has been a roller coaster ride of conflicting options. I could change my ticket and go home early...I could try to book another hotel (my Googling found little possibilities)...I could brave the odds and run across the hall wrapped in a microscopic towel for 2 1/2 weeks...I could spend the extra $20 per day and continue to live on bread and cereal boxes I nick from the breakfast table.... None of the options were panning out. All of them left me feeling either disappointed and/or unsafe. Armed with my options, I went to the front desk to see if they could possibly book me into their sister hotel, which DOES have a single en suite.

The girl at the desk did not looked pleased to see me. I’m sure she had heard about my burst of incredulity in front of the maid this morning when I found out the terrible news. I told her that I had been assured of an en suite single when I booked and I started listing off my options aimed to deter the pain of having to poo within earshot of the other guests. I started to map the option of paying for the more expensive room and cutting my daily budget for her when she held out her hand for me to stop.

“Tell ya what I’ll do, love. The room’s available til the 26th. I’ll keep ya in yer room and I won’t chaage ya the diff’rence. Then ya can knock off down the Primark with the savings and buy yaself a robe for a fiver. You’ll only have to make the dash fer a week. That’ll do ya, love?”

Stay in my gorgeously massive room? Continue to poo in private? Not have to run down the hall half-naked in full view of the security cameras? It feels like a stay of execution, but I’ll take it. I can worry about the poo problem next week.

(Lesson for the day - Sometimes a Bad Thing is, in reality, a Very Good Thing. I can’t imagine what my stay would have been like if I’d been able to book the single straight away. Well, I can imagine...but then I stop.)

~~~~~~~~~~

Random fact - Pudding is also referred to as "afters." As in, "Whatcha wont fer afters? Biscuits or treacle pud?"

~

Lizzy's Day Out

2008-06-14T08:22:00.000-07:00

Today is the Queen’s Birthday. Not her real Birthday, mind you...just one of the many she gets each year. There is her Actual Birthday, her Official Birthday, and her Celebrated Birthday. There might be more, but I only did a quick Google.

I found out about this one (today is her Celebrated Birthday) when I turned the television on this morning to all channels covering the parade. Yes, she gets a parade. I guess it’s not that big a deal...she IS Queen. Being born into privilege is such an accomplishment, so I suppose it deserves the honor of a parade.

I thought it might be fun to go, so I started making tube routes and mapping the free area where peasants are allowed to watch from far away. Plenty of time, I thought. Coverage started at 10:30. Surely, I thought, it doesn’t start until much later.

That, however, was my flawed American mistake.

In America, coverage for something as huge as seeing the fallacious figurehead of our Nation’s power (in America’s case, the President [footnote 1] ) would mean competing newscasters filling no more than 10 hours of pre-event air time with as many compellingly insignificant sound bites as possible. “We have word...yes, it’s confirmed! We have an exclusive! The Queen will be wearing blue! Yes, blue! You heard it here first, ladies and gentlemen! We broke the story first! The Queen will be in blue! Now, here’s Fred with an in-depth look at everything that can be colored blue....”

But here...it was wham, bam, thank ye Queen mum. 30 minutes, start to finish. No mucking about for these Brits. There’s pints to be drunk.

Still, it was lovely to see. Such pomp and circumstance. And at least I was able to snap a few pictures of her Royal Highness.

Yes, I’m that much of a Geek. I took pictures of the telly.
.

[footnote 1 - I’m already on The List. Can’t make it any worse than I already have]

~~~~~~~~~~

Times today I’ve narrowly been missed by a car whilst crossing the street = 4

Hours there has been a traffic jam on my street so far = 8

Groups playing football in the park today = 11

~

Green Peace

2008-06-13T15:40:00.000-07:00

Oh...my...gawd.... I’m in heaven. I found a place that serves SALAD! My bowels are finally going to have a good night.

I’ve been eating lots of fruit, but the stands that litter the streets only sell vegetables that have to be prepared in some way. Gorgeous squash and snap beans and peas still in the pod - fresh right from the farms. However, since I don’t have anywhere to cook or scrape the lovely things I haven’t had a proper vegetable in a week. It was getting to the point where I was contemplating biting into a head of cabbage. I was desperate.

Then I found the falafel place.

I begged them for a salad that I spied on the bottom of their menu, but the young Armenian with shaved eyebrows shrugged his shoulders and said, “We don’t have one any more, My Darling.” (I love that...I’ll miss being called “My Darling” by everyone.) I was just about to walk away, feeling dejected and bloated, when he waved me back over. “I’ll do you one proper,” he winked.

And he did. It was gorgeous. I never thought a salad of condiments would taste so beautiful, but after a week of eating satay and noodle soups, it was the best thing I’ve eaten so far. A bucketful of lettuce and tomatoes and onions and cucumbers topped off with a tahini sauce - all for the price of 50p. Yum. I’m going there every day until they ban me.

In other news, I have a new friend. He’s small and brown and I’ve named him Leopold. Leopold the Mouse. I saw him scuttling across the floor last night, but unfortunately he made his escape before I could get my camera. I left him a bit of cracker by the door before I went back to bed. Even though he’s a rodent, it’s kind of nice to have an animal around. I miss my menagerie.

Well, I’m off to relax and let the salad do it’s magic. I know it seems silly to be so excited about a salad, but I felt chills. And since it was the most exciting thing that happened to me today, I felt it was appropriate to share.

Good eating, all!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Volume of a bottled Coke - 250ml

Stairs to my room - 52

Television show on every channel - Big Brother (they’re obsessed with it)

~

Make 'em Laugh, Make 'em Laugh, Make 'em Laugh....

2008-06-12T08:41:00.000-07:00

I’ve got bats in my belfry.

Seriously.

There is an old belfry above my room that was closed off long ago. I kept hearing scratches on my ceiling at night, but I thought that it was simply the local pigeon population taking shelter from the impending rains. I casually mentioned to Michael (the guy who seems to run everything in this place) that there were pigeons nesting in the secret room above me, but he laughed and said, “Oh, no. Them’s bats.”

Cool.

My accent is still hard for people to understand, especially if the person is foreign. I feel for them...they learn English in one accent and here comes this crazy American with her diphthongs in all the wrong places. I’ve often received the wrong order for food, and I’ve come to realize that it’s because they tire of having me repeat the same thing 20 times, so they just pick something close to what they think I’m saying. Yesterday I craved soup, so I found a noodle shop and went in for a bowl. I ordered vegetable noodle soup, but when I got home I had some kind of horrid concoction that I later worked out was fish ball. Fish ball. No, really. People eat that nasty here. It was like brine-flavored dough balls.

I always get take away because I still can’t understand the tipping system. I was told that people make 6 pounds an hour at restaurants and pubs so tipping isn’t necessary, but I always feel the American guilt of $2.12 per hour. It’s easier to just get take away when I can, and even then I’m always unsure if I should tip the take away as well. But the guilt is less pronounced.

The differences between American Life and English Life are very similar, but it’s the small things that catch me up. When I walk down the sidewalk I always yield to the right, which is what we do in America because that’s the natural flow of traffic on the street. Here it’s backwards, so I’m constantly running into people before I realize that it’s my mistake.

Another thing is the names for things. Breakfast is the same, but our Lunch is their “Dinner” and our Dinner is their “Tea.” It took me a while to figure that out, and I received some odd looks from the various Sitters (that’s what I’ve decided to call the people who just sit down and start talking to me) when I said, “I’m going to get some Dinner” at 7PM. Excuse me, I mean 19:00. Shirts are “jumpers” and sweaters are “vests.” Fries are “chips” and chips are “crisps.” Cookies are “biscuits” and the only crackers they have are called “cream crackers” - which have no cream in them. I checked. Oh...and a soda is a “squash.” How weird is that?

The street lights are different here as well. They not only blink when they are about to turn red, they blink when they are about to turn green. Very courteous.

They only have 5 channels on basic cable. You have to pay for a license if you own a television, and 5 channels is all you get. Actually, I’m not sure if it’s cable or not...it might be like our “national” channels. We have ABC, NBC, CBS, and FOX. They have BBC1, BBC2, BBC3, BBC4, and Dave. Yes, I said Dave. They have a channel here called Dave. I swear to god I’m not lying.

The best difference is the nightly News. The stories are read in a very posh and reserved manner (refreshingly devoid of sensationalism) ranging from city street problems to (gasp) a police officer who was accidentally shot in the foot during a training exercise somewhere in the North. But the big story this week was the MP vote on whether or not to extend the holding time for suspected terrorists from 12 days to 42 days. (Just for reference purposes, I’ll tell you that we have a 6 month holding period in the US.) It was a hot topic so every station carried the story, which was a lucky thing for me since it gave me my first insight into how laws are passed in the UK.

I’ve seen the Parliamentary process in films and television, and I always thought the yelling and carrying on in Parliament was over-dramatized for effect...a satirical look on those stodgy Brits. Oh, no. If anything, it was under-dramatized. There is such theatrics in British government - the monologues and the asides and the intrigue...and every statement is met by loud sounds of approval or dismay. It was like watching the controlled chaos at a football game. Or a Shakespearean play. Imagine that? Honestly, I couldn’t see how the hell they could keep the voting straight.

There are numerous rooms throughout Parliament, and to vote, the MPs (which I gather are like our Senate and/or Congress) vote by walking with whomever proposes the law. They literally walk. They step in line and peel off at varying moments which must make it hell for the unlucky person who has to tally the sheets. It was so confusing...MPs AGAINST the proposed law were running after the group FOR the law shouting obscenities and waving madly which makes me wonder if they were counted as supporters...but I’m sure they’ve been doing this a lot longer than I and know some trick of alerting the people counting the numbers as to which side they are on. It was highly confusing and deliciously entertaining. When the vote was read they acted like a WWF audience - everyone was shouting and pointing and hurling pens at each other. I thought they were going to tear the place apart. I was really excited now, thinking I was watching History in the making. “Parliament Torn Apart!” “MPs Gone Mad!” “British Government In Ruins!”

Then, suddenly, it was over. There was a disquieting calm and everyone started shaking hands and saying farewell. I was stunned. The MPs retrieved their pens and laughed jovially with the men they had thrown them at. Everyone strolled out looking as if they were all discussing the whether or not to meet for an After-Vote coffee.

Curtain up, curtain down.

But oh, what a show.

~~~~~~~

Temperature today - 67 F

Temperature tomorrow - 65 F

Times I wish I’d brought a heavier coat - 32

~

London's Finest

2008-06-10T05:24:00.000-07:00

Score. I got the front desk to give me a normal coffee cup. It isn’t the bowl o’ coffee I’m used to, but it does the job. Now I’m not running down the squeaky stairs every five minutes for two hours.

People really are as friendly as everyone told me they would be. People just sit and start conversations - whether I want them to or not. Most of the time it’s been wonderfully enlightening, but every once in a while it’s exhausting. The English do have the gift of the gab. There is a porch outside the hotel that backs to the park, and the view is perfect for sitting and reading (or people-watching). I like the slow pace I’m able to have here...there aren’t 10 million things that need doing and the most important thing I have to decide is which corner shop to buy my apples. I love watching the children in their uniforms skipping their way to school in the mornings...the old men with canes ambling through the park on their daily constitutional...fathers pushing their babies in strollers gently down the walkway.... When someone breaks in it can be jarring. I shouldn’t complain, though. I’ve met some very interesting people.

Marilyn is from a small town outside of Liverpool. She lives in a double room above a kebab shop on the High Street and has to work two jobs to survive. She moved to London three years ago to follow her boyfriend, who promptly dropped her a few weeks after she arrived. She doesn’t seem to hold a grudge, and she laughs when she talks about how silly the man she thought she would marry is. It’s a bitter laugh, though, and she follows it with talk about her uncertain future. She is working for the bills and the bars, all the while knowing that the prettiness of her youth is slowly draining away.

David’s happy exterior belies a tortured soul underneath. His wife kicked him out last month and won’t let him see his 5-month-old son by himself. He has a problem with the drink, he says. He knows it’s bad, but he can’t get the health care needed to go into a detox program. They say he doesn’t drink enough to warrant a stamp on the paperwork - not enough to ruin his life quickly, but enough to destroy it slowly. He’s in the pub as soon as it opens every day at noon, drinking his unemployment check away. But like a true alcoholic, he tells me that his drinking isn’t as bad as it used to be and that he’ll cut down...eventually. He turns the conversation to the homeless of London, and behind his eyes I see the fear and destiny that one day he will join their ranks.

Bernard (Beh-naahd) is the self-appointed concierge of Kilburn. Bernard knows everyone and every place. After an initial interrogation of who I am and why I am here, he spends his remaining pint relating bus routes (“noombehr sixteen booss’ll tehk ya raight inta Loondahn”) and safety measures (“Cahrfool oof teh knaifes. Pehple’ll cootcha soon as look atcha”). He stops in his litany only for the numerous people who stop for a moment to say, “You all right then?” which seems to be the accepted form of greeting to a fellow Londoner.

The common denominator in all the people I have met is their almost zealous desire to live in America. To them, America is the Promised Land, where jobs are numerous and rent is cheap. They talk of friends who visited years ago with only a hundred pounds in their pockets. They talk of equality and fairness in the Land of Opportunity, of businesses built from nothing and a government that takes care of its people. Their eyes mist over as they talk about how successful their lives would be if only they could get to America.

I haven’t had the heart to kill their dreams.

~~~~~~~~~

Worst take away - Yumchi Chinese in a Box

Price of the laundrette - 4 pounds 20 ( = $8.40)

Dogs in the park at this moment - 12

~

A Room With a View

2008-06-08T11:39:00.000-07:00

I wasn’t prepared for the jet lag. Is it supposed to last this long?

My daily dosage of caffeine is hard to come by, since the B&B only gives out tiny little espresso cups for coffee in the mornings. I’ve learned to down one cup while I’m standing there with my banana, but it’s still not enough. I’ve tried buying coffees from various shops around me, but it’s very confusing. Their “filtered coffee” is actually something that comes out of a steamer. A “regular” is what we usually filter, but it’s so frowned upon that not everyone brews it. And asking for black, no cream no sugar? They stare at me like I’m a madwoman. One guy actually said, “Are you serious?” Oh, those crazy Americans.

I’m a little glad that I was only able to get the double room at the B&B, because it’s gorgeous. It’s a corner room, and the view is stunning. There is a sweet little park behind me (I was asked a few minutes ago to go play football...everyone is so nice here, but it’s a little disconcerting) and the staff are amazing. The only complaint I have is the bathroom. It’s a closet that was built into the room, so there isn’t much space to wiggle. You have to set your aim before you turn around, because any mistakes in targeting will either send you crashing into the sink or against the wall. Which means I have to step into my room to “finish things up.” Considering there are huge windows on every wall with nothing but sheer drapes, it’s definitely a dangerous undertaking.

I’ll miss the room when I move to the single, because I’ve seen the singles and they are really, really small. But that’s ok...it’ll make me get out more.

Once my feet stop hurting.

~~~~~~~~~

Nicest Pub - North London Tavern.

Funniest man who came up to talk to me - The drunk Irish man at 9AM

Number of pubs that serve Sunday Roast - All of them.

~

Native Daughter

2008-06-06T14:00:00.000-07:00

It’s so freaking cold. It’s JUNE and it’s COLD. Wrap your brains around that one, Poppets.

This place is fantastic. I haven’t ventured out of my “borough” yet, mostly because I’m still perfecting how to look like I know what I’m doing. I haven’t overcome the shock every time I look in a car and think, “No one’s driving!!!” Crossing the street is a constant risk because I keep looking the wrong way. It’s all about not looking like an idiot, you know. Bonus, though, I’ll get free health care if I am run over.

And then there’s the money. I panic every time I get to a register because everyone is so quick here...I have to have the money ready or else I get “the sigh” from the person standing behind me. There are no bills for increments of one AND they have that deceptive 2 pound coin. I have to do my math in twos whilst still trying to double the cost for the dollar. I’m getting there, but it’ll be a while before I can look like a native. Besides, I have to get over my disappointment every time the cashier isn’t as pleased as I am when I make the right change.

I don’t know if this is a London thing, but everyone keeps staring at me. No, wishful thinkers, it’s not that they think I’m “hot” (Feather) because it’s everyone - men, women, teenagers, old ladies.... And it’s not just the simple “catching of the eye” as I pass, because people often do a double-take and turn around for another look. One guy in the passenger seat of a car turned and pointed at me today. Of course, I thought he was driving so I pointed back in case he was about to crash. Great fun.

Perhaps I look like someone famous. If anyone comes up to me for an autograph I plan to smile enigmatically and scribble something unintelligible. Of course, they might be staring because I look like a twat in my moth-eaten sweater and purple sunglasses or because I have a booger hanging from my nose. But I choose to believe that they think I’m so exotic that I must be famous. It’s my dream, dammit. I’ll believe what I want.

My plans for Friday with Louise have fallen through, only because the cleaning crew threw out the napkin with her number on it, but I can’t say I’m disappointed. I’m still knackered (so British, me) and I really wasn’t looking forward to the trudge to the next borough. Maybe once I get my sea legs I’ll be up for socializing, but right now all I want to do is get more than 5 hours sleep. I have to be up by 9 to get my free food and coffee, and I can’t fall asleep before 3AM. Watching those horrible game shows on late-night BBC probably isn’t helping, either. I spend the day walking around in a haze behind puffy eyes - thus, the purple sunglasses.

I’m glad I’m staying for so long. I’m getting to know the local shopkeepers (and the local pubtenders) which makes me feel oh, so English. This is a great area - we need to have one of these back home. Oh, right...we do. It’s called New York.

You know, I'm starting to wonder why those people left 200 years ago. I know there was some kind if misunderstanding or something, but I mean, really...some people are so picky.

Have a great day, you Yanks. I’m going to try and get some sleep.

~~~~~~~~

Number of corner shops with fresh fruits and veg on my block - 6

Best deal - 5-pack of pita, 25p

Nastiest cereal at breakfast - Alpen

~

The Life of a Gapper

2008-06-05T01:16:00.000-07:00

24 hours in, and so much to report already. It’s not exciting stuff by the standards of most, but I’m not here for the exciting. I’m here for the experience, man. The English have a thing called a “Gap Year,” which is the year between High School and University that people sometimes spend traveling around, generally being a bum. So, in a sense, this is my Gap Month. It's come a little late, but I try not to think about that.

The plane ride was scary but thankfully uneventful. The first leg was on a frightfully small plane, and every bump and twitter felt like a precursor to eminent doom. I had the very good fortune of sitting next to a Denise, who not only distracted me when things went bumpy and twittery, but also offered me the number of a business colleague in London in case I had an emergency. She also helped me with the things I had not been prepared for, like where to go after we debarked (those Airport security people are so unhelpful to noobs like me) and the customs paperwork that read like an Ikea instructions manual. No one barred me from boarding the next plane, so I gather I filled it out correctly.

The second plane was comfortingly larger, but I had no luck sitting next to someone as kind and quiet. A family of small children was squeezed into my row, but fortunately the stewardess (excuse me, Flight Attendant) allowed me to switch seats after I discovered that my headphone jack didn’t work. I was happy that she allowed me to move, but dismayed that she added, “It’s an old plane...sometimes things don’t work properly.”

I found a seat with no one sitting next to me, popped a Tylenol PM, and waited for mind-numbing sleep. Sleep never came, but by that point I was so out of it that I didn’t care. The food was horrendous (apparently an “Oriental Meal” is a flour tortilla with vegetables doused with some sort of strange sauce tasting mildly of Asian flavor) and a Twinkie. Do Twinkies originate in Asian cuisine? If so, I had no idea.

The wine, however, was free...so, I didn’t take up the Twinkie thing with their chef.

Taking the Tube to my hotel was less harrowing than I expected. When I leave, the Tube will be one of the things I miss. Mass transit is on par with the invention of the wheel. A few weeks ago, a new law was put into effect that prohibited drinking on public transport. In true English fashion, the residents responded by holding a mass protest of drinking and partying on the Tube. How brilliantly British.

Checking into my hotel wasn’t as easy, for apparently my US credit card doesn’t work over here. They have a new thing called Chip and Pin which I still don’t understand, but all I need to know is that it won’t work unless the card numbers are entered manually...it took 5 different people trying to check me in to discover that. I was told at one point to walk down to the local Bank and take out the cash to pay for the rest of my stay, but that was also the point in which the Tylenol PM decided to work, so walking anywhere was out of the question. I could hardly climb the 2 flights to my room, and wondered at one point if lying down on the stairs for a quick nap would be frowned upon or merely viewed as something endearingly quirky that people from The Continent would do. However, I eventually found the strength to lug my suitcase (I was so glad I had been able to figure out a Tetris system which allowed me to pack the smaller one and silently gave thanks to the Luggage Gods) to my room, and slipped into sweet oblivion in mid-fall onto the bed.

I wasn’t sure what day it was when I woke up, but I heard loud music with intermittent bursts of laughter, so I knew what time it was. It was Pub Time.

If I throw a stone out of my window, I can hit at least 5 pubs, so I found the cheapest one and went in for a drink. I sat at an empty table, but within minutes people had filled it. Apparently there is a community rule here, and any open seat is fair game. I’m very glad, because I met Louise. She’s a local, and we spent a lovely time chatting about the pros and cons of London Life.

One of the best things so far is that people have trouble understanding me. I speak, and there is an awkward pause and blank look on their face. I know that look, because I’ve worn it myself a few times. One thing I will have to learn is to speak slower and more clearly. I get a kick out of the looks only because I’ve never gotten one, but I’m sure the novelty will wear off soon enough.

Louise and her friends told me that they were going to a show on Friday, so we made plans and I stumbled the half-block back to the hotel where I tried in vain to defeat the Jet Lag Monster.

So ends my first day in the town I’ve always wanted to visit, and as exhausted as I am I’m having a wonderful time. Wish you all were here.

~~~~~~~~~~

First British accent heard - “Mind your backs, please.”

Funniest thing heard on the Tube- “Piccadilly Line with service ending in Cocksfoster’s“

First British meal eaten - Fish and Chips

First British desert eaten - Rolaids Extra Strength

**I spent a good portion of yesterday trying to upload pictures from my camera...all to no avail. If anyone knows something I don't (*cough*Rob*cough*) then I'd be jolly pleased to hear it**

~