Instant message from D: “And so after one dumb Blair Witch movie, Hollywood decides on making a sequel. How pants is that?!”
Pants = lame
(Also, pants = underwear)
R has told me at least twice already that I am “a legend!” I wouldn’t go as far as saying that I’m a legend, but I would have to agree that I’m pretty awesome.
It’s great living in a new city where even the most mundane things can be different to what you know from home. There are so many new things for your senses to explore – the first sip of a cup of a coffeeshop latte, the strong gust of wind that seems to come out of nowhere on the subway platform, the placement of a doorknob in the middle of the door instead of the side, the crosswalk on the road that allows for the cars on both sides to stop so close to you that you think they’re going to crash into you, the free daily papers handed out in the street in both a morning edition and an evening edition (crossword puzzles abound), the way the tap water gets scalding hot in less than three seconds, and the way the Doppler effect seems stronger here when the police sirens go past. I find something new or different around each corner.
After visiting New York a few times and getting lost in the “hustle and bustle” of it all, I decided I didn’t want to live in a city that big, that noisy, that impersonal. But being in London for only a week and a half, I am genuinely surprised at how much I love this city. Getting off the Tube at Piccadilly Circus is insane; there’s no better word to describe it. You can’t walk from one corner of the intersection to another without touching someone at all times. It is a sea of people whose waves are ebbing and flowing as everyone makes their way to their destination. (And if you’re not careful, it’s possible to literally be trampled.) Yet even though it’s so easy to get lost and ignored in this madness, the city at least has character. This is not to say that New York doesn’t have character, as any fool knows that; it’s just to say the character here is more…endearing. The neighborhoods of this city are just that, neighborhoods. And the difference between these London and New York neighborhoods, it seems, is that the people of London make you feel at home. When you’re in New York, the natives make sure you know you’re just a visitor in their city. When you’re in London though, the locals are welcoming of everyone and make you feel as though you’ve lived here your whole life. Though it’s just as massive a city as New York, I feel safer in London. Maybe it’s the accents, maybe it’s the upholstered seats on the Tube, maybe it’s the fact that they have about 1% of the amount of guns New York has. Whatever it is, I like it. And now six months doesn’t seem like such a long time.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Spiking my husband’s drink with anti-freeze
No really. Some British woman did that. It’s okay though…he lived. He just has an extreme amount of brain damage.
And in other news. I have been informed that phosphates in laundry detergent and toothpaste are other substances that cause blacklight stains. (Thanks, Staples.) I’m in the clear!
9:30 AM on the dot. Fire alarm.
Overheard in the Tube: “If you eat 25 eggs, you’ll smell quite foul.” (I don’t think the woman saying this realized the pun.)
As D and I were waiting for my computer to reboot, he mentioned that someone is coming over tonight to take a look at his car he’s selling. He said it’s too big of a car for him and he doesn’t use it. I asked him what make it is, thinking it’s a truck or some kind of SUV. Nope. It’s a Passat. Because a Passat is just waaaaaaaay too big.
I really like the sound of everyone’s fancy work shoes click click clicking away on the linoleum floor of the Underground as they hustle their way to their trains at night.
I know Mr Steve Gibson has replied to all breaking rule #3. He has been punished for this and won’t be doing it again. That is all.
And in other news. I have been informed that phosphates in laundry detergent and toothpaste are other substances that cause blacklight stains. (Thanks, Staples.) I’m in the clear!
9:30 AM on the dot. Fire alarm.
Overheard in the Tube: “If you eat 25 eggs, you’ll smell quite foul.” (I don’t think the woman saying this realized the pun.)
As D and I were waiting for my computer to reboot, he mentioned that someone is coming over tonight to take a look at his car he’s selling. He said it’s too big of a car for him and he doesn’t use it. I asked him what make it is, thinking it’s a truck or some kind of SUV. Nope. It’s a Passat. Because a Passat is just waaaaaaaay too big.
I really like the sound of everyone’s fancy work shoes click click clicking away on the linoleum floor of the Underground as they hustle their way to their trains at night.
I know Mr Steve Gibson has replied to all breaking rule #3. He has been punished for this and won’t be doing it again. That is all.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Because I'm still reeling from it
If anyone wants to read up further on these "fake babies," the man who wrote this article felt every disgusted emotion I did while watching the show. Plus, he's funnier than I am.
http://entertainment.timesonline.co.uk/tol/arts_and_entertainment/tv_and_radio/article3122967.ece
Creepy old British ladies and their “babies”
I completely accept the fact that America has terrible television shows such as 1 vs. 100, The Hills, Wife Swap, and Step By Step. But England, you’d better sack up and admit that showing a program called My Fake Baby about women who buy dolls that look and feel just like infant babies is crossing a line. One man was being interviewed about his stance on his wife’s infatuation with the dolls while she was sitting right next to him. He made the mistake of referring to the dolls as, gasp, dolls and his wife corrected him, demanding he say “babies.” Another woman was asked how her husband feels about her obsession. She said, “He’ll just have to get used to it.” I’m DEFINITELY going to have nightmares tonight.
I think my mp3 player knows I’m in the UK because it’s playing a lot more Queen than it usually does.
The theater website K sent me is absolutely incredible. I already have tickets to go see three shows in the coming week. And for $4 a show, you can bet I’ll see any and every show that comes along.
As I maneuvered my way through a few tube stations at rush hour today, I realized what it feels like to be a commuter in a city of 8 bajillion. It’s EXACTLY like you’re doing double dutch and it’s your turn to jump in but you have to wait for that perfect moment amongst the hordes of people making sure you don’t step in anyone else’s way, step on someone’s feet, walk into a wall, walk into a turnstile, fall down the escalator, step onto the train while the door is closing, or go down the hallway that takes you to the Jubilee line when you really want to go to the Bakerloo line. I’m not very good at double dutch.
Bar bouncer: “What’s yer ight?”
Lisa: “What’s my WHAT?”
Bouncer: “What’s yer ight?”
Lisa: “Umm….”
Bouncer (makes a motion with his hand above his head): “Yer ight, yer ight!”
Lisa: “Oh, my height! I’m 5 feet.”
Bouncer: “Nope. You’re too short to come in.”
Lisa: “What? No way…”
Bouncer: “Hahahaha.”
(Silence)
Can someone confirm what substances make stains visible on your jeans under a blacklight? Is it really just bodily fluids and blood? Because if it is, I can never show my face in that bar again…and apparently, I really need to wash these jeans.
My new cell phone number for the duration of my time in London is 0750 2258 801. If you’re dialing from America, dial 011 44 750 etc. If you’re dialing from Sydney, well, I have no idea what to tell you, sorry. Also, feel free to text! (International rates should be the same as domestic.)
I think my mp3 player knows I’m in the UK because it’s playing a lot more Queen than it usually does.
The theater website K sent me is absolutely incredible. I already have tickets to go see three shows in the coming week. And for $4 a show, you can bet I’ll see any and every show that comes along.
As I maneuvered my way through a few tube stations at rush hour today, I realized what it feels like to be a commuter in a city of 8 bajillion. It’s EXACTLY like you’re doing double dutch and it’s your turn to jump in but you have to wait for that perfect moment amongst the hordes of people making sure you don’t step in anyone else’s way, step on someone’s feet, walk into a wall, walk into a turnstile, fall down the escalator, step onto the train while the door is closing, or go down the hallway that takes you to the Jubilee line when you really want to go to the Bakerloo line. I’m not very good at double dutch.
Bar bouncer: “What’s yer ight?”
Lisa: “What’s my WHAT?”
Bouncer: “What’s yer ight?”
Lisa: “Umm….”
Bouncer (makes a motion with his hand above his head): “Yer ight, yer ight!”
Lisa: “Oh, my height! I’m 5 feet.”
Bouncer: “Nope. You’re too short to come in.”
Lisa: “What? No way…”
Bouncer: “Hahahaha.”
(Silence)
Can someone confirm what substances make stains visible on your jeans under a blacklight? Is it really just bodily fluids and blood? Because if it is, I can never show my face in that bar again…and apparently, I really need to wash these jeans.
My new cell phone number for the duration of my time in London is 0750 2258 801. If you’re dialing from America, dial 011 44 750 etc. If you’re dialing from Sydney, well, I have no idea what to tell you, sorry. Also, feel free to text! (International rates should be the same as domestic.)
Monday, January 28, 2008
Getting good at taking the bus
Last Friday I was listening to the news as I was getting ready for work. A segment that you’d only find in Britain was showing - the garden bird survey. The newscaster, binoculars slung about his neck, was reporting on which birds have had a good year this year. They then cut to a camera called the Bird Cam that was perpetually focused on a birdfeeder. However, this being live television, no birds were actually on it. Keep in mind this is a prime tv time slot when millions of people are tuning in. Well, at least everyone will be in the know, aviarily speaking. (I just made that word up.)
Ta = thank you
So there I am sitting at my desk eating carrots, the regular kind not baby carrots, and I take this one bite that sounds as if I was standing at the Grand Canyon with a microphone at my mouth; the sound was so loud and echoed for so long that it felt like everyone stopped what they were doing to look around and wonder who the idiot was who was responsible for the disruption.
I have been getting lost every day. I don’t plan for this; it’s not like I’m deliberately seeking out strange neighborhoods and going up and down back alleys. For example, I went to find the other library branch at lunch on Friday and was lost for 30 minutes. I’m telling you, it REALLY doesn’t help matters when one street suddenly turns into another street just because there’s a traffic light.
G (on the phone): “Hey Mum, it’s me. Are we dancing tonight?”
What country is it again that produces really tall women who also wear hideous red shoes and carry hideous red purses in the shape of lips? Denmark? Sweden?
Saturday I went to the Portobello Market in Notting Hill (this is the market that Hugh walks through in the movie). It was, hands down, the best market I’ve ever been to. The stalls sold everything from old antiques (as opposed to new antiques) to fruits and vegetables to handmade bags to vintage clothing and pretty much everything in between. I never realized that I am obsessed with bags, but walking through that market made me realize that I’ll be coming home with at least three more bags than I came with. The market also secured my decision to stay in Notting Hill for the duration of my stay in London. It’s a wonderful little neighborhood with a friendly, cottage-y atmosphere. I’m definitely not doing it justice…the feeling you get when you walk down the narrow streets with a garden on one side and cozy flats on the other all flanked by coffee shops, bakeries, florists and bookshops is something you have to experience to fully understand what I mean by the trite description of “cottage-y.”
I ordered a falafel from a vegetarian stand at the market and, as the first meal I’ve bought in London, it was absolutely delicious. Just like the Falafel King in Downtown Crossing, the man gave me a falafel ball to eat while I waited. Heavenly…
So I’m walking to the Tube station in my neighborhood Friday night and I hear this siren going off. Given that I’m new here and I can’t really tell the difference between a police siren and a car alarm, I ignore it and keep walking. But then I see a group of about 10 teenage boys run out from McDonalds, most wearing some kind of scarf or handkerchief on their face. Everyone on the street, including me, is just staring at this asking themselves, “Is this really happening?” I’ve never witnessed a robbery before and I guess I liked to think that if there were something I could do to help stop it, I would; I wanted to be different than all those people in Chicago who just stood around and stared while I shouted for someone to help stop the guy that robbed ME. But in the end I decided that it would be quite stupid of me to take on a group of 10 in order to help McDonalds get back the $300 or so that they lost. I’m a bad person.
When I went to Sydney I was sad to learn that their culture isn’t really a “bagel culture.” Being Jewish, this took me a long time to get used to. I am happy to report that bagels are plentiful in London.
I learned the hard way that when you want a bus to stop and pick you up, you have to signal for it or else it’ll keep on driving right past you even though you’ve been waiting out in the cold for 15 minutes and it’ll be another 15 minutes before another one comes along.
In my mind, everything stops around 3 pm in London. No matter what you’re doing - walking the dog, eating green beans, creating a pivot table - when 3 o’clock rolls around, you drop everything to drink a cup of tea. Not only do you do this mid-afternoon, but you also start your day off with a cup and finish your dinner with another one. Of course, also in my mind unicorns gallop, I’m 5’6”, and I actually went to the Massachusetts All-State trumpet audition in 10th grade instead of feigning illness. But alas, much like these things, it’s just not true. It is just as much a coffee culture here as it is in America. Sure, there aren’t Starbucks literally right across the street from other Starbucks, but I’m thinking that’s just because they don’t yet realize that you can do that.
I passed by a pub called ‘Old English Gentlemen’ and there were, in fact, two old English gentlemen sitting at a table drinking beer. It was 1:15 pm. (Not that there’s anything wrong with that.)
The crutches people use here are the ones with the gray arm cuffs. I guess they just have a deeper respect for their armpits than we do. Personally, I’d be bummed about having to use those crutches; one of the perks of breaking your leg (okay, maybe the ONLY perk) is getting to use the fun wooden crutches that let you rest your body weight on them when you’re tired of hobbling.
Continuing on my museum kick, I went to the Tate Modern last week. I like art. I do. And while I can appreciate that there’s a deeper meaning behind a painting that is simply a canvas painted all black, I certainly don’t feel the need to spend more than 3 seconds looking at it. A rainbow isn’t suddenly going to appear out of the black nor am I going to have a life epiphany just because I’m staring at it. And because of that, I was only in the 5 storied-museum for about an hour and a half (25 minutes of which was spent figuring out which floor the stairs led to and which floor the escalator led to, and no, the answer is not the same). This is not to say it’s not a great modern art museum; to the contrary, it’s filled with pieces by Picasso, Miro, Rothko, Pollock, Bracques, and Hockney, to name a few. I guess I’ll just never be able to go to a modern art museum without the thought “I could do that” crossing my mind.
The current in the Thames must be about 80 miles per hour. Seriously. If you fell in, you’re pretty much a goner. That is one river I wouldn’t want to row on.
Seeing as how I’m so much closer to Europe than I was a week ago, I’ve decided that I’m going to travel as much as I can while I’m here. I mentioned to SR that I would love to go to Barcelona for a weekend. He was very excited for me and told me what a wonderful city it is to visit. But in telling me about his past travels there, he happened to mention that somebody in his party got robbed each time they went. I don’t think he realized until after he said this and I gaped back at him in disbelief that he had made me a little more than…concerned. Looks like I’ll just have to bring my gun with me when I go.
I dare anyone to shop for a plate on a London street and find one that DOESN’T have a picture of either Princess Diana or Prince William on it.
I asked S if the Tube went to the city airports, not just Heathrow, since I didn’t want to have to take a taxi. Having only known me for a week and thus not knowing my propensity to go to the extreme just to save a buck, she immediately interpreted this as an aversion and insult to taxi drivers. All of a sudden she got on the defensive, appeared hurt and asked, “What do you have against taking a taxi? My husband’s a taxi driver.” That’s when the backpeddling started and I had to explain how I’m one of the cheapest people she’ll ever meet (I said it in a less self-debasing way). But she’s absolutely right; taxi drivers here aren’t like taxi drivers in say, New York. (Here’s where I stereotype to make a point.)
Taxi drivers in New York: smell of body odor, don’t speak English, talk on Blue Tooth (so you think they’re talking to you but really they’re talking to someone else who happens to be awake at 2:30 in the morning), are sleazily dressed
Taxi drivers in London: polite, British, well-dressed, congenial, look like “a dad”
On the bus to another museum, I passed by this wall surrounding what looked to be yet another garden. Mounted on top of the wall were video cameras, barbed wire, and huge spikes. Putting two and two together, I realized this probably wasn’t just another park in England. (Since I’m ridiculously smart and my common sense skills are off the chart, this was actually the case – it was Buckingham Palace, or Buckinghuge Palace as Glenn likes to say.) But the funny part about this wall is that there were signs on it that read something about how it was a federal offense to trespass on the property citing the “Serious Organized Crime and Police Act of 2005,” which is very different than the “Not-So-Serious Organized Crime and Police Act of 2005” which hasn’t been enforced all that strongly.
Noodle Noodle sounded like a much better restaurant when I thought the sign said Noodle Doodle.
Happy belated Australia Day!
Ta = thank you
So there I am sitting at my desk eating carrots, the regular kind not baby carrots, and I take this one bite that sounds as if I was standing at the Grand Canyon with a microphone at my mouth; the sound was so loud and echoed for so long that it felt like everyone stopped what they were doing to look around and wonder who the idiot was who was responsible for the disruption.
I have been getting lost every day. I don’t plan for this; it’s not like I’m deliberately seeking out strange neighborhoods and going up and down back alleys. For example, I went to find the other library branch at lunch on Friday and was lost for 30 minutes. I’m telling you, it REALLY doesn’t help matters when one street suddenly turns into another street just because there’s a traffic light.
G (on the phone): “Hey Mum, it’s me. Are we dancing tonight?”
What country is it again that produces really tall women who also wear hideous red shoes and carry hideous red purses in the shape of lips? Denmark? Sweden?
Saturday I went to the Portobello Market in Notting Hill (this is the market that Hugh walks through in the movie). It was, hands down, the best market I’ve ever been to. The stalls sold everything from old antiques (as opposed to new antiques) to fruits and vegetables to handmade bags to vintage clothing and pretty much everything in between. I never realized that I am obsessed with bags, but walking through that market made me realize that I’ll be coming home with at least three more bags than I came with. The market also secured my decision to stay in Notting Hill for the duration of my stay in London. It’s a wonderful little neighborhood with a friendly, cottage-y atmosphere. I’m definitely not doing it justice…the feeling you get when you walk down the narrow streets with a garden on one side and cozy flats on the other all flanked by coffee shops, bakeries, florists and bookshops is something you have to experience to fully understand what I mean by the trite description of “cottage-y.”
I ordered a falafel from a vegetarian stand at the market and, as the first meal I’ve bought in London, it was absolutely delicious. Just like the Falafel King in Downtown Crossing, the man gave me a falafel ball to eat while I waited. Heavenly…
So I’m walking to the Tube station in my neighborhood Friday night and I hear this siren going off. Given that I’m new here and I can’t really tell the difference between a police siren and a car alarm, I ignore it and keep walking. But then I see a group of about 10 teenage boys run out from McDonalds, most wearing some kind of scarf or handkerchief on their face. Everyone on the street, including me, is just staring at this asking themselves, “Is this really happening?” I’ve never witnessed a robbery before and I guess I liked to think that if there were something I could do to help stop it, I would; I wanted to be different than all those people in Chicago who just stood around and stared while I shouted for someone to help stop the guy that robbed ME. But in the end I decided that it would be quite stupid of me to take on a group of 10 in order to help McDonalds get back the $300 or so that they lost. I’m a bad person.
When I went to Sydney I was sad to learn that their culture isn’t really a “bagel culture.” Being Jewish, this took me a long time to get used to. I am happy to report that bagels are plentiful in London.
I learned the hard way that when you want a bus to stop and pick you up, you have to signal for it or else it’ll keep on driving right past you even though you’ve been waiting out in the cold for 15 minutes and it’ll be another 15 minutes before another one comes along.
In my mind, everything stops around 3 pm in London. No matter what you’re doing - walking the dog, eating green beans, creating a pivot table - when 3 o’clock rolls around, you drop everything to drink a cup of tea. Not only do you do this mid-afternoon, but you also start your day off with a cup and finish your dinner with another one. Of course, also in my mind unicorns gallop, I’m 5’6”, and I actually went to the Massachusetts All-State trumpet audition in 10th grade instead of feigning illness. But alas, much like these things, it’s just not true. It is just as much a coffee culture here as it is in America. Sure, there aren’t Starbucks literally right across the street from other Starbucks, but I’m thinking that’s just because they don’t yet realize that you can do that.
I passed by a pub called ‘Old English Gentlemen’ and there were, in fact, two old English gentlemen sitting at a table drinking beer. It was 1:15 pm. (Not that there’s anything wrong with that.)
The crutches people use here are the ones with the gray arm cuffs. I guess they just have a deeper respect for their armpits than we do. Personally, I’d be bummed about having to use those crutches; one of the perks of breaking your leg (okay, maybe the ONLY perk) is getting to use the fun wooden crutches that let you rest your body weight on them when you’re tired of hobbling.
Continuing on my museum kick, I went to the Tate Modern last week. I like art. I do. And while I can appreciate that there’s a deeper meaning behind a painting that is simply a canvas painted all black, I certainly don’t feel the need to spend more than 3 seconds looking at it. A rainbow isn’t suddenly going to appear out of the black nor am I going to have a life epiphany just because I’m staring at it. And because of that, I was only in the 5 storied-museum for about an hour and a half (25 minutes of which was spent figuring out which floor the stairs led to and which floor the escalator led to, and no, the answer is not the same). This is not to say it’s not a great modern art museum; to the contrary, it’s filled with pieces by Picasso, Miro, Rothko, Pollock, Bracques, and Hockney, to name a few. I guess I’ll just never be able to go to a modern art museum without the thought “I could do that” crossing my mind.
The current in the Thames must be about 80 miles per hour. Seriously. If you fell in, you’re pretty much a goner. That is one river I wouldn’t want to row on.
Seeing as how I’m so much closer to Europe than I was a week ago, I’ve decided that I’m going to travel as much as I can while I’m here. I mentioned to SR that I would love to go to Barcelona for a weekend. He was very excited for me and told me what a wonderful city it is to visit. But in telling me about his past travels there, he happened to mention that somebody in his party got robbed each time they went. I don’t think he realized until after he said this and I gaped back at him in disbelief that he had made me a little more than…concerned. Looks like I’ll just have to bring my gun with me when I go.
I dare anyone to shop for a plate on a London street and find one that DOESN’T have a picture of either Princess Diana or Prince William on it.
I asked S if the Tube went to the city airports, not just Heathrow, since I didn’t want to have to take a taxi. Having only known me for a week and thus not knowing my propensity to go to the extreme just to save a buck, she immediately interpreted this as an aversion and insult to taxi drivers. All of a sudden she got on the defensive, appeared hurt and asked, “What do you have against taking a taxi? My husband’s a taxi driver.” That’s when the backpeddling started and I had to explain how I’m one of the cheapest people she’ll ever meet (I said it in a less self-debasing way). But she’s absolutely right; taxi drivers here aren’t like taxi drivers in say, New York. (Here’s where I stereotype to make a point.)
Taxi drivers in New York: smell of body odor, don’t speak English, talk on Blue Tooth (so you think they’re talking to you but really they’re talking to someone else who happens to be awake at 2:30 in the morning), are sleazily dressed
Taxi drivers in London: polite, British, well-dressed, congenial, look like “a dad”
On the bus to another museum, I passed by this wall surrounding what looked to be yet another garden. Mounted on top of the wall were video cameras, barbed wire, and huge spikes. Putting two and two together, I realized this probably wasn’t just another park in England. (Since I’m ridiculously smart and my common sense skills are off the chart, this was actually the case – it was Buckingham Palace, or Buckinghuge Palace as Glenn likes to say.) But the funny part about this wall is that there were signs on it that read something about how it was a federal offense to trespass on the property citing the “Serious Organized Crime and Police Act of 2005,” which is very different than the “Not-So-Serious Organized Crime and Police Act of 2005” which hasn’t been enforced all that strongly.
Noodle Noodle sounded like a much better restaurant when I thought the sign said Noodle Doodle.
Happy belated Australia Day!
Friday, January 25, 2008
I’d like to have my own personal Jamie Oliver
A conversation between S, my co-worker, and me taking place this afternoon in the office bathroom:
Lisa: “Hi S. What’s goin’ on?”
S: (Clearly not understanding the question and therefore replying with every possible answer except the appropriate one) “Awright. Yeah. Fine.”
No one has their own trash can at work. There are communal trash cans and recycling bins. This makes it quite stinky when I get lazy after eating my banana and wait a good 20 minutes before building up the effort to walk to one of the bins. I’m not sure how minimal trash receptacles is a good idea, but again, they’re British; I won’t question it, I’ll just mock it.
The vending machine at work is replenished every day. I think someone came about once a week in Boston to refill ours. I guess people just really like their junk food here.
Whenever G talks I immediately think of Ricky Gervais. And when that woman was sitting next to me today talking on the phone, I immediately thought of Elizabeth Hurley. I’m not sure what it says about me that the two stereotypical Brits I picture when I hear the English accent are David Brent and Vanessa Kensington, but oh well. At least I’m amused.
I was invited out for my first drinks at a pub today after work. (The National Portrait Gallery will just have to wait until next Thursday.) You will never guess what we all talked about at the bar…G's bacon! Except I learned that it’s not bacon, it’s frankfurters. I guess it’s just common knowledge that at 9:30 every morning, G heats up some frankfurters and stinks up the kitchen. I was so overjoyed that I wasn’t the only one privy to his morning snack. I’ll try to keep the talk about G's meat to a minimum now. I think I’ve gone well beyond the appropriate limit for this topic.
I met two K's at the bar tonight, one male, one female. Male K is going to send me a website link where I can find tickets to shows for 2 pounds. I am very excited about this. Female K is going to invite me out to drinks on Friday nights with her mates. I’m less excited about this.
For the first time in pretty much ever, when I ordered a diet coke and followed it up with an “I’m not a big drinker,” I was not met with hostility and rebuttals! It was fantastic! A bunch of different people offered to get me a drink and each one accepted the fact that I was okay sippin’ on my soda. I think I might live to see the end of 6 months!!! Now…where did I put that bottle of Jack?
Lisa: “Hi S. What’s goin’ on?”
S: (Clearly not understanding the question and therefore replying with every possible answer except the appropriate one) “Awright. Yeah. Fine.”
No one has their own trash can at work. There are communal trash cans and recycling bins. This makes it quite stinky when I get lazy after eating my banana and wait a good 20 minutes before building up the effort to walk to one of the bins. I’m not sure how minimal trash receptacles is a good idea, but again, they’re British; I won’t question it, I’ll just mock it.
The vending machine at work is replenished every day. I think someone came about once a week in Boston to refill ours. I guess people just really like their junk food here.
Whenever G talks I immediately think of Ricky Gervais. And when that woman was sitting next to me today talking on the phone, I immediately thought of Elizabeth Hurley. I’m not sure what it says about me that the two stereotypical Brits I picture when I hear the English accent are David Brent and Vanessa Kensington, but oh well. At least I’m amused.
I was invited out for my first drinks at a pub today after work. (The National Portrait Gallery will just have to wait until next Thursday.) You will never guess what we all talked about at the bar…G's bacon! Except I learned that it’s not bacon, it’s frankfurters. I guess it’s just common knowledge that at 9:30 every morning, G heats up some frankfurters and stinks up the kitchen. I was so overjoyed that I wasn’t the only one privy to his morning snack. I’ll try to keep the talk about G's meat to a minimum now. I think I’ve gone well beyond the appropriate limit for this topic.
I met two K's at the bar tonight, one male, one female. Male K is going to send me a website link where I can find tickets to shows for 2 pounds. I am very excited about this. Female K is going to invite me out to drinks on Friday nights with her mates. I’m less excited about this.
For the first time in pretty much ever, when I ordered a diet coke and followed it up with an “I’m not a big drinker,” I was not met with hostility and rebuttals! It was fantastic! A bunch of different people offered to get me a drink and each one accepted the fact that I was okay sippin’ on my soda. I think I might live to see the end of 6 months!!! Now…where did I put that bottle of Jack?
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Hump Day
The cost of groceries in downtown London is surprisingly affordable. I figured I’d pay at least $8 for a banana. It was nice to find that the bunch only cost me around $2. But may I suggest staying away from macaroni and cheese in a can. It’s about as good as it sounds.
No less than two emails were sent to the office today saying that there were after-New-Years cakes in the work area for all to enjoy. What is eerie is that a) even though they referred to two different desks with cakes on them, the emails were sent within 10 minutes of each other b) they both mention cakes specifically (even though the table I saw clearly had other non-cake items on it like grapes and cheese spreads) and c) a 2008 New Years dietary lapse was alluded to in both emails.
You wanna see something confusing and not at all user friendly? Take a gander at the London bus map.
Assumed is pronounced ‘ashoomed.’
When I hear this word I immediately stop listening to what is being said and think of shoes.
One thing I had forgotten about foreign subway walkway tunnels is the high concentration of bills that are posted on the walls. It’s just non-stop advertising down there – books, movies, banks, subway crime (ANTI-subway crime rather), musicals, Oyster cards (like T passes), etc. It’s definitely a good thing for people like me who are easily distracted. My favorite poster so far was the one of some new Joaquin Phoenix movie; someone (a female I presume) had kissed the glass over the poster right where Joaquin’s cheek was, leaving a perfect lipstick mark. Now THAT, my friends, is dedication to the OhMyGodJoaquinPhoenixIsJustSoDreamy cause. I’m not even sure I’d kiss a public poster of Pierce. And you know how much I adore him.
I think it’s an unwritten rule that if you are playing an instrument for money in the London Underground you are required to play a Beatles song. Except for that awesome guitar player who was singing the theme song to Scrubs. That made my day. (I’m no Superman.)
This week I was reminded how nice it is to take public transportation to work and have a set time each day for reading. Since I walk to work in Boston, I hadn’t had this privilege in quite some time. I actually kind of wish my commute were longer than it is. Kind of.
Tonight I went to the National Gallery. One wing was closed off and so it seemed a little small, but I still got to see some big names – Rembrandt, Da Vinci, Van Gogh, Manet, Monet, Gaugin, Seurat, Cezanne, Picasso, and Pisarro. The one Vermeer they had that I was excited about seeing was in the closed-off section. But the wing is only closed on Wednesdays (due to some beef they have with the government – the museum, not Vermeer) so I’ll just have to go back some other day to see it. There were a LOT of Jesus paintings. I kinda skimmed through those rooms. There’s only so many paintings of Jesus on a cross this little Jew can look at in an hour (this number is more than 0 and less than 2). Despite this, I had a great time walking around looking at the paintings, looking at people looking at the paintings, smiling at and making eye contact with the room guards who everyone else was oblivious to, listening to the saxophone quartet giving a concert, debating whether or not I should get that postcard of the Seurat painting, but most of all, leaning over the shoulders of the drawing class students trying to recreate paintings from the 18th century. I don’t know what it is about watching someone sketch that I find so comforting and stupor-inducing (stupor-inducing in the best possible way). I get that feeling when I watch someone sort papers or when someone gives me a back massage or when I had long hair and someone would brush/play with it. I get into a strange, somber zone where I could just be content there forever. I tried not to get too close to the students who were drawing because if I were them, I’d certainly be freaked out at this person just standing there staring. But I could have watched them until the museum closed. It was great. And a nice way to relax. Even if no one agrees with me.
No less than two emails were sent to the office today saying that there were after-New-Years cakes in the work area for all to enjoy. What is eerie is that a) even though they referred to two different desks with cakes on them, the emails were sent within 10 minutes of each other b) they both mention cakes specifically (even though the table I saw clearly had other non-cake items on it like grapes and cheese spreads) and c) a 2008 New Years dietary lapse was alluded to in both emails.
You wanna see something confusing and not at all user friendly? Take a gander at the London bus map.
Assumed is pronounced ‘ashoomed.’
When I hear this word I immediately stop listening to what is being said and think of shoes.
One thing I had forgotten about foreign subway walkway tunnels is the high concentration of bills that are posted on the walls. It’s just non-stop advertising down there – books, movies, banks, subway crime (ANTI-subway crime rather), musicals, Oyster cards (like T passes), etc. It’s definitely a good thing for people like me who are easily distracted. My favorite poster so far was the one of some new Joaquin Phoenix movie; someone (a female I presume) had kissed the glass over the poster right where Joaquin’s cheek was, leaving a perfect lipstick mark. Now THAT, my friends, is dedication to the OhMyGodJoaquinPhoenixIsJustSoDreamy cause. I’m not even sure I’d kiss a public poster of Pierce. And you know how much I adore him.
I think it’s an unwritten rule that if you are playing an instrument for money in the London Underground you are required to play a Beatles song. Except for that awesome guitar player who was singing the theme song to Scrubs. That made my day. (I’m no Superman.)
This week I was reminded how nice it is to take public transportation to work and have a set time each day for reading. Since I walk to work in Boston, I hadn’t had this privilege in quite some time. I actually kind of wish my commute were longer than it is. Kind of.
Tonight I went to the National Gallery. One wing was closed off and so it seemed a little small, but I still got to see some big names – Rembrandt, Da Vinci, Van Gogh, Manet, Monet, Gaugin, Seurat, Cezanne, Picasso, and Pisarro. The one Vermeer they had that I was excited about seeing was in the closed-off section. But the wing is only closed on Wednesdays (due to some beef they have with the government – the museum, not Vermeer) so I’ll just have to go back some other day to see it. There were a LOT of Jesus paintings. I kinda skimmed through those rooms. There’s only so many paintings of Jesus on a cross this little Jew can look at in an hour (this number is more than 0 and less than 2). Despite this, I had a great time walking around looking at the paintings, looking at people looking at the paintings, smiling at and making eye contact with the room guards who everyone else was oblivious to, listening to the saxophone quartet giving a concert, debating whether or not I should get that postcard of the Seurat painting, but most of all, leaning over the shoulders of the drawing class students trying to recreate paintings from the 18th century. I don’t know what it is about watching someone sketch that I find so comforting and stupor-inducing (stupor-inducing in the best possible way). I get that feeling when I watch someone sort papers or when someone gives me a back massage or when I had long hair and someone would brush/play with it. I get into a strange, somber zone where I could just be content there forever. I tried not to get too close to the students who were drawing because if I were them, I’d certainly be freaked out at this person just standing there staring. But I could have watched them until the museum closed. It was great. And a nice way to relax. Even if no one agrees with me.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Card carrying member
Damn that library was hard to find! It’s like they don’t want you to actually go to the library. I had my little printed-out map with me and it should have been right there off Beech Street. And yet, I somehow managed to walk around in circles for 10 minutes before I found the hidden entrance. But all is well because I now know where it is. And what’s more, they gave me a map that shows me where I had passed by another library branch that was about 20 minutes closer to work than the one I had just trekked to. I guess people don’t use libraries all that much in London; fine by me, more books for me to read (right, because I would ever run out). And while I would also take out dvd’s and cd’s, well, you have to pay to rent those and I’m saving up for heaps of sticky toffee pudding. (Plus, I think I’m going to sign up for London’s version of Netflix as soon as I figure out where I’m permanently staying in the city.)
Anyway, so yeah, the library. It was a decent size and had a great selection of books. The skinny, stereotypical man-librarian (or aide perhaps) was quite overeager to help me sign up for a library card (despite this, I couldn’t help but stare at his rotting-around-the-edges teeth). As I was surfing the net and jotting down all the Tube stops for my upcoming museum adventures, the man next to me kept humming/grunting. I let the first one go by because maybe he didn’t mean for it to be so loud. But when the second one happened and it was clearly just “something he does,” I gave him a little-more-than-subtle glance as if to say, “Really? You’re gonna just go to a public place and make that noise and not expect someone to look at you and make the face I’m making?” Needless to say, his face had no response to my face.
I’m at work no more than 5 minutes today and G saunters back to his desk with a plate full of bacon. THE MAN MADE BACON AT WORK! I don’t know whether to shake his hand or kick the greasy meat strips right out of his mouth. (I did neither.) I cannot wait to see what he brings tomorrow.
Oh, and another funny story about G is that I was talking to GB (boss/friend from Sydney) over instant messenger at one point today and I said, “G is getting up to go to the kitchen to get more water.” GB replies with, “Yeah, and he’ll come back with a packet of crisps.” I told GB that if he was right, I’d eat my shirt. 15 seconds later I send him a message saying “I’M EATING MY SHIRT!”
I don’t know whose idea it was, but every Tuesday at 9:30 am, the company building has a fire alarm test. You don’t actually have to leave and go outside; they just sound the (very loud) alarm to check to make sure it still works. What?! Every week? Good lord, why?!
When you get off the elevators at Angel Court, my building, you have to swipe your ID card and go through a set of doors to get to the work area. The handles on both sides of the door are identical. They look more like the pull ones than the push ones [ ]. I am not kidding you when I tell you that every time I have gone to open those doors, I have pushed or pulled the wrong way. I don’t know why I can’t just remember which way they go. And I’m pretty sure I’m the only person who has this problem because I sit right next to them and I never see anyone else struggle with it. It’s quite pathetic.
I love the double-decker buses. I rode them a lot this past weekend so that I could get a feel for the city a bit more. I always make sure to ride up top because a) it’s more fun b) it makes me feel taller and c) it’s a better view. I think it’s so cool that the buses aren’t double-deckers just to please tourists; they’re the actual city transportation buses. Obviously they’re there because the city is ridiculously crowded and instead of having two separate buses clogging up the streets, why not just put one on top of another? I think it’s definitely a strategy Boston should adopt. I’ll pitch it to Menino when I get home.
Oh, and I forgot to mention that I watched the Patriots game at Cheers in Piccadilly Circus. Yes, THAT Cheers. At one point I overheard the hoochie next to me say “Why is this bar named Cheers? Isn’t that in Boston?” Anyway, it was the only bar I could find that was showing the game and not a soccer match. To my horror, there were almost as many Charger fans present as Patriots fans…although I counted at least three Brady jerseys. My feet started to get tired during the third quarter since it was standing room only, and I had to leave when Brady threw the interception in the endzone. I figured I needed to go to sleep anyway (you know, what with my first day of work the next morning) and when I woke up they would have either won or lost and my being there wouldn’t have changed anything. Of course, after we won it would have been nice to see the look on that tool’s face at the bar who kept clapping obnoxiously every time the Chargers did something good.
Forecast: Clear and cool with a slight chance of a world recession.
Anyway, so yeah, the library. It was a decent size and had a great selection of books. The skinny, stereotypical man-librarian (or aide perhaps) was quite overeager to help me sign up for a library card (despite this, I couldn’t help but stare at his rotting-around-the-edges teeth). As I was surfing the net and jotting down all the Tube stops for my upcoming museum adventures, the man next to me kept humming/grunting. I let the first one go by because maybe he didn’t mean for it to be so loud. But when the second one happened and it was clearly just “something he does,” I gave him a little-more-than-subtle glance as if to say, “Really? You’re gonna just go to a public place and make that noise and not expect someone to look at you and make the face I’m making?” Needless to say, his face had no response to my face.
I’m at work no more than 5 minutes today and G saunters back to his desk with a plate full of bacon. THE MAN MADE BACON AT WORK! I don’t know whether to shake his hand or kick the greasy meat strips right out of his mouth. (I did neither.) I cannot wait to see what he brings tomorrow.
Oh, and another funny story about G is that I was talking to GB (boss/friend from Sydney) over instant messenger at one point today and I said, “G is getting up to go to the kitchen to get more water.” GB replies with, “Yeah, and he’ll come back with a packet of crisps.” I told GB that if he was right, I’d eat my shirt. 15 seconds later I send him a message saying “I’M EATING MY SHIRT!”
I don’t know whose idea it was, but every Tuesday at 9:30 am, the company building has a fire alarm test. You don’t actually have to leave and go outside; they just sound the (very loud) alarm to check to make sure it still works. What?! Every week? Good lord, why?!
When you get off the elevators at Angel Court, my building, you have to swipe your ID card and go through a set of doors to get to the work area. The handles on both sides of the door are identical. They look more like the pull ones than the push ones [ ]. I am not kidding you when I tell you that every time I have gone to open those doors, I have pushed or pulled the wrong way. I don’t know why I can’t just remember which way they go. And I’m pretty sure I’m the only person who has this problem because I sit right next to them and I never see anyone else struggle with it. It’s quite pathetic.
I love the double-decker buses. I rode them a lot this past weekend so that I could get a feel for the city a bit more. I always make sure to ride up top because a) it’s more fun b) it makes me feel taller and c) it’s a better view. I think it’s so cool that the buses aren’t double-deckers just to please tourists; they’re the actual city transportation buses. Obviously they’re there because the city is ridiculously crowded and instead of having two separate buses clogging up the streets, why not just put one on top of another? I think it’s definitely a strategy Boston should adopt. I’ll pitch it to Menino when I get home.
Oh, and I forgot to mention that I watched the Patriots game at Cheers in Piccadilly Circus. Yes, THAT Cheers. At one point I overheard the hoochie next to me say “Why is this bar named Cheers? Isn’t that in Boston?” Anyway, it was the only bar I could find that was showing the game and not a soccer match. To my horror, there were almost as many Charger fans present as Patriots fans…although I counted at least three Brady jerseys. My feet started to get tired during the third quarter since it was standing room only, and I had to leave when Brady threw the interception in the endzone. I figured I needed to go to sleep anyway (you know, what with my first day of work the next morning) and when I woke up they would have either won or lost and my being there wouldn’t have changed anything. Of course, after we won it would have been nice to see the look on that tool’s face at the bar who kept clapping obnoxiously every time the Chargers did something good.
Forecast: Clear and cool with a slight chance of a world recession.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
That’s SIR Fatty McGee to you
I sit across from a fat British man at work. Please don’t misunderstand me; I’m sure that G is a very nice person. But for some reason, he’s a very nice person who has body-sound-A.D.D. The man is always making some sort of noise. He wheezes, he hums, he eats, he slurps, he sighs, he talks to himself, and most of all, he talks to his computer. The man is always moving, too. Today he organized his desk about 4 times. He went to the kitchen for about 7 cups of coffee (or tea perhaps…actually it probably was tea since I’m in the official Land of Tea and Crumpets). He made a deliciously aromatic cinnamon thing around 11 in the morning. And around 4 o’clock he told a co-worker that he had already had ¾ of a gallon of water today and does beer count for that last ¼ he’s supposed to drink to put him at his 1 gallon goal for the day since beer is mostly water anyway? But what makes him ALMOST endearing instead of bordering on homicidally annoying is that he does it all with the most proper of accents. How can I possibly fling my stapler at his bald head when he says, “Yessuh, but isn’t beeruh mostly wahter anyway, isn’t that riught?” (That was possibly the worst alliteration of a British accent ever, but it was the best I could do.)
I also happen to sit next to T. Just so you can picture him, he kind of looks like Ralph Fiennes only with inconsistent facial stubble. T is one of two people who I met today who I thought had a great personality in addition to being Britishly nice and polite. Seeing as how he sits next to me and my only other option was to talk to G about what kind of pie he brought for lunch, I chatted it up with T for most of the day. About four hours after we started talking (not continuously), he mentions something about being from Australia. At this point I mentally punch myself in the face for having JUST spent three months in that country and not being able to recognize the accent once I step foot in another land. Seriously. What is WRONG with me?!?! I can tell if someone is from Philadelphia within 4 seconds of talking to them, but trying to tell an accent from one side of the world from another is like rocket science.
Anyway, T was talking about going to Sydney earlier this decade for the Olympics and he said “…it was fairly special.” How did the word ‘fairly’ become one of those lost in translation words even though it’s the same language? Clearly he meant it was a VERY special thing, but I could have, and given my level of intelligence in the past 3 days alone I’m surprised I didn’t, mistaken him for thinking it was just a ho-hum affair. I’m fairly short. I’m fairly paranoid about alphabetizing my cd collection. I’m fairly in love with Pierce Brosnan.
Okay here’s something that is completely unacceptable. The computer keyboards in this country are f-ed up. They had to go and mess up everything by putting a British Pound sign where the # sign is. That means the keyboard creators had to improvise with where they put that instead. And so you know what they did? They cut the Enter key in half. In HALF I tell you!! Not to mention they cut the Shift key in half to make room for a backslash key. My pinkie fingers will be so strong by the end of my stint here from reaching half an inch further than they normally do. This might seem like I’m being nitpicky, but it’s ruining my world. Oh!! And get this! They put the quotation marks where the @ key is! I have to SHIFT AND USE MY RING FINGER! I’ll bet whosever idea it was to drive on the other side of the road came up with these ideas. (Obviously he was very old when he came up with the keyboard ideas. But old people can have ideas too, albeit terrible ideas right up there with drinking prune juice and then trotting around in Depends.)
Weather report: Rained today. Cloudy tomorrow.
I also happen to sit next to T. Just so you can picture him, he kind of looks like Ralph Fiennes only with inconsistent facial stubble. T is one of two people who I met today who I thought had a great personality in addition to being Britishly nice and polite. Seeing as how he sits next to me and my only other option was to talk to G about what kind of pie he brought for lunch, I chatted it up with T for most of the day. About four hours after we started talking (not continuously), he mentions something about being from Australia. At this point I mentally punch myself in the face for having JUST spent three months in that country and not being able to recognize the accent once I step foot in another land. Seriously. What is WRONG with me?!?! I can tell if someone is from Philadelphia within 4 seconds of talking to them, but trying to tell an accent from one side of the world from another is like rocket science.
Anyway, T was talking about going to Sydney earlier this decade for the Olympics and he said “…it was fairly special.” How did the word ‘fairly’ become one of those lost in translation words even though it’s the same language? Clearly he meant it was a VERY special thing, but I could have, and given my level of intelligence in the past 3 days alone I’m surprised I didn’t, mistaken him for thinking it was just a ho-hum affair. I’m fairly short. I’m fairly paranoid about alphabetizing my cd collection. I’m fairly in love with Pierce Brosnan.
Okay here’s something that is completely unacceptable. The computer keyboards in this country are f-ed up. They had to go and mess up everything by putting a British Pound sign where the # sign is. That means the keyboard creators had to improvise with where they put that instead. And so you know what they did? They cut the Enter key in half. In HALF I tell you!! Not to mention they cut the Shift key in half to make room for a backslash key. My pinkie fingers will be so strong by the end of my stint here from reaching half an inch further than they normally do. This might seem like I’m being nitpicky, but it’s ruining my world. Oh!! And get this! They put the quotation marks where the @ key is! I have to SHIFT AND USE MY RING FINGER! I’ll bet whosever idea it was to drive on the other side of the road came up with these ideas. (Obviously he was very old when he came up with the keyboard ideas. But old people can have ideas too, albeit terrible ideas right up there with drinking prune juice and then trotting around in Depends.)
Weather report: Rained today. Cloudy tomorrow.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Baked beans the size of gumballs
Day 1 in London and I’ve already had two cups of Earl Grey tea. In my defense though, I DID try chamomile and honey on the plane, so I’m branching out.
I’m sure you’re all wondering if my $9000 British Airways plane ticket was worth it. Well, I watched the Bourne Supremacy and 90% of Death at a Funeral (I dozed off in the middle), ate some lox and cream cheese, half a mozzarella lettuce wrap, a goat’s cheese salad, and chocolate cake, took some chocolate and candy from the help-yourself-bar for later, and thought about taking the nice blanket but decided against it. I don’t really think all that adds up to the impressive price tag and it certainly wasn’t as nice, comfortable, or impressive as Qantas, but the business class lounge at Logan was pretty good. I took a copy of the Wall Street Journal (yay for Friday crossword puzzles), Hello! magazine, Time, and Spectator magazine. However, these things came at a different, more humbling, price – a British woman was following me as I made my way to the lounge and she not only watched me press the Up elevator button instead of (and then in addition to) the Down, but she then watched as I pushed both doors to the lounge thinking that it’s better to try pushing door #2 instead of attempting to pull after pushing door #1 doesn’t work. All in all, an embarrassing start to my journey. (Not to mention not being able to turn on the table lamp in the lounge, prompting a BA employee to come over and smirk at me as he simply TURNED the switch instead of pushing it in.)
Oh, and just so you don’t worry, our flight managed to land without tearing an engine (though that’s all the news can talk about).
This trip I was able to bring three pieces of luggage with me. I took full advantage of this but therefore had to suffer whilst literally dragging 100 pounds of stuff with me. One man was nice enough to offer to help me carry my bags to the train at Heathrow…I don’t know if it was the sweat dripping from my face, the heavy panting, or the limping caused by the 30 pound bag on my right thigh to prompt him to ask this, but regardless, I denied thinking that when the lady at the ticket booth said the platform was close by, she actually meant IT WAS CLOSE BY. (False statement #1 from a Brit.) Anyway, I get off the train at Paddington Station (which is probably a very nice train station but I didn’t notice because of said sweat in my eyes) and immediately ignore the notorious gap and put my foot right in the hole between the train and the platform. Luckily it wasn’t one of the bigger gaps and I only slightly fell. So there I am trudging along (it’s definitely as pathetic a scene as you’re imagining in your mind) and this train conductor person looks at me, smiles, raises his arms as though he was flexing, and says something that I can’t understand. I laugh and smile back because I assume he’s making a joke about my arms getting strong from carrying all those bags, but honestly? He could have been saying, “What do you think of my arms, little sweating lady? Do they look strong to you? I bench pressed a 200 pound man.” Ha! Of course he wouldn’t have said that…they use kilograms here, not pounds.
So I’m in a taxi. I love the taxis here. They are just so roomy. And the taxi driver is trying to find my Notting Hill apartment, located at 33-36 Princes Square. According to him, my address is about as confusing to find as they get in London. On the way, I saw one flat that was on Kensington Gardens Square and the house ATTACHED to it was on Princes Square. How does that possibly make sense? I’ll tell you. It doesn’t. That’s how. I’ve taken a picture for evidence.
I have no oven. I have two tiny burners and a microwave that I can use to cook the things in my starter kit they left me – 2 single serving boxes of Corn Flakes, a Cadbury chocolate bar, a single serving can of Pringles, two biscuits, a box of orange juice, a box of milk, one can of Coke, one can of Diet Coke, and a bottle of that same Scottish brand water I bought in Barbados (don’t trust Scottish water, it tastes funny).
I turned on the tv to have some background noise while I unpacked (the act of simply turning on the tv was also an adventure, but I’ll save myself the embarrassment) and after literally 2 seconds I could just tell that I’ve switched on Law and Order. No other woman would frantically be talking about her missing son like that without Mariska Hargitay in the room. I’m pretty sure you could go to the Galapagos Islands and they’d be showing Law and Order.
The fan in the bathroom is on a sensor and turns on when you enter the room. However, it takes about 6 seconds for it to kick in. This is just enough time for me to think that it was lifting the toilet lid that causes this to happen and thus, just enough time to get mildly offended by the bathroom’s intuition.
My apartment is about three blocks from Kensington Garden. Think of a typical English garden. Now picture it 500 times larger. That’s Kensington Garden. I went for a run there this morning since I don’t trust myself to walk on the streets here let alone run on them. It was only fitting that I saw a woman walking her English Setter; it’s not just a clever name. And a word of warning for those who are thinking about walking through this garden any time soon – the swans are as big as small horses. Seriously though. If one of those swans slapped me across the face with their freakishly large webbed feet, my head probably would have fallen off. Again, I’ve taken a picture for evidence.
I used to think it was pretty obnoxious of Hollywood to make Hugh Grant’s flat door bright blue in Notting Hill. What were the chances that the protagonist of the story just happened to live in a very recognizable apartment? Well, I am here to inform you that the chances are about 89%. I passed no less than 142 blue doors in Notting Hill today. Fine. That’s an exaggeration. But there are a lot of them. So, Hollywood? I apologize.
Message on the ATM: We are dealing with your transaction…
So sorry to have bothered you, Mr. Money Machine. I’m dealing with a crack addiction, an abusive husband, and an expensive shoe fetish, but heaven forbid you handle my one request for 100 pounds, buddy.
You should always remember to hold onto the railing as you climb the stairs to the upper level of a London bus just in case the bus starts to move while you’re climbing and you almost fall backwards down the stairs.
Greeting cards in a London bookstore:
Incontinence Hotline – Can you hold please?
The Gay Mafia – They’ll break the legs of your coffee table
Caption from a London newspaper: “Roger Federer was at his awesome best today as he crushed France’s Fabrice Santoro with the loss of just three games”
That’s it. From now on, I’m going to be my awesome best at everything.
There are a lot of people in this city. I mean, a LOT. I thought maybe it was because I was walking around on a weekend, but I’m pretty sure that this city is packed no matter what day it is. And I thought that all I would hear in England would be prim and proper British accents, but so far I’ve heard more non-English languages than English.
The Queen is on every piece of paper money. Selfish if you ask me.
There’s a pharmacy/drugstore chain in London called Boots The Chemist. Every time I pass by one of these stores a storyline runs through my head that goes something along the lines of this:
“Did you really just eat 18 cannoli after chugging a bottle of Cuervo? I don’t think that’s something a scientist should do,” Ronaldo said.
“Bleah!” boots the chemist, spewing all over the Bunsen burner.
“Gross,” retorts Ronaldo.
I’m sure you’re all wondering if my $9000 British Airways plane ticket was worth it. Well, I watched the Bourne Supremacy and 90% of Death at a Funeral (I dozed off in the middle), ate some lox and cream cheese, half a mozzarella lettuce wrap, a goat’s cheese salad, and chocolate cake, took some chocolate and candy from the help-yourself-bar for later, and thought about taking the nice blanket but decided against it. I don’t really think all that adds up to the impressive price tag and it certainly wasn’t as nice, comfortable, or impressive as Qantas, but the business class lounge at Logan was pretty good. I took a copy of the Wall Street Journal (yay for Friday crossword puzzles), Hello! magazine, Time, and Spectator magazine. However, these things came at a different, more humbling, price – a British woman was following me as I made my way to the lounge and she not only watched me press the Up elevator button instead of (and then in addition to) the Down, but she then watched as I pushed both doors to the lounge thinking that it’s better to try pushing door #2 instead of attempting to pull after pushing door #1 doesn’t work. All in all, an embarrassing start to my journey. (Not to mention not being able to turn on the table lamp in the lounge, prompting a BA employee to come over and smirk at me as he simply TURNED the switch instead of pushing it in.)
Oh, and just so you don’t worry, our flight managed to land without tearing an engine (though that’s all the news can talk about).
This trip I was able to bring three pieces of luggage with me. I took full advantage of this but therefore had to suffer whilst literally dragging 100 pounds of stuff with me. One man was nice enough to offer to help me carry my bags to the train at Heathrow…I don’t know if it was the sweat dripping from my face, the heavy panting, or the limping caused by the 30 pound bag on my right thigh to prompt him to ask this, but regardless, I denied thinking that when the lady at the ticket booth said the platform was close by, she actually meant IT WAS CLOSE BY. (False statement #1 from a Brit.) Anyway, I get off the train at Paddington Station (which is probably a very nice train station but I didn’t notice because of said sweat in my eyes) and immediately ignore the notorious gap and put my foot right in the hole between the train and the platform. Luckily it wasn’t one of the bigger gaps and I only slightly fell. So there I am trudging along (it’s definitely as pathetic a scene as you’re imagining in your mind) and this train conductor person looks at me, smiles, raises his arms as though he was flexing, and says something that I can’t understand. I laugh and smile back because I assume he’s making a joke about my arms getting strong from carrying all those bags, but honestly? He could have been saying, “What do you think of my arms, little sweating lady? Do they look strong to you? I bench pressed a 200 pound man.” Ha! Of course he wouldn’t have said that…they use kilograms here, not pounds.
So I’m in a taxi. I love the taxis here. They are just so roomy. And the taxi driver is trying to find my Notting Hill apartment, located at 33-36 Princes Square. According to him, my address is about as confusing to find as they get in London. On the way, I saw one flat that was on Kensington Gardens Square and the house ATTACHED to it was on Princes Square. How does that possibly make sense? I’ll tell you. It doesn’t. That’s how. I’ve taken a picture for evidence.
I have no oven. I have two tiny burners and a microwave that I can use to cook the things in my starter kit they left me – 2 single serving boxes of Corn Flakes, a Cadbury chocolate bar, a single serving can of Pringles, two biscuits, a box of orange juice, a box of milk, one can of Coke, one can of Diet Coke, and a bottle of that same Scottish brand water I bought in Barbados (don’t trust Scottish water, it tastes funny).
I turned on the tv to have some background noise while I unpacked (the act of simply turning on the tv was also an adventure, but I’ll save myself the embarrassment) and after literally 2 seconds I could just tell that I’ve switched on Law and Order. No other woman would frantically be talking about her missing son like that without Mariska Hargitay in the room. I’m pretty sure you could go to the Galapagos Islands and they’d be showing Law and Order.
The fan in the bathroom is on a sensor and turns on when you enter the room. However, it takes about 6 seconds for it to kick in. This is just enough time for me to think that it was lifting the toilet lid that causes this to happen and thus, just enough time to get mildly offended by the bathroom’s intuition.
My apartment is about three blocks from Kensington Garden. Think of a typical English garden. Now picture it 500 times larger. That’s Kensington Garden. I went for a run there this morning since I don’t trust myself to walk on the streets here let alone run on them. It was only fitting that I saw a woman walking her English Setter; it’s not just a clever name. And a word of warning for those who are thinking about walking through this garden any time soon – the swans are as big as small horses. Seriously though. If one of those swans slapped me across the face with their freakishly large webbed feet, my head probably would have fallen off. Again, I’ve taken a picture for evidence.
I used to think it was pretty obnoxious of Hollywood to make Hugh Grant’s flat door bright blue in Notting Hill. What were the chances that the protagonist of the story just happened to live in a very recognizable apartment? Well, I am here to inform you that the chances are about 89%. I passed no less than 142 blue doors in Notting Hill today. Fine. That’s an exaggeration. But there are a lot of them. So, Hollywood? I apologize.
Message on the ATM: We are dealing with your transaction…
So sorry to have bothered you, Mr. Money Machine. I’m dealing with a crack addiction, an abusive husband, and an expensive shoe fetish, but heaven forbid you handle my one request for 100 pounds, buddy.
You should always remember to hold onto the railing as you climb the stairs to the upper level of a London bus just in case the bus starts to move while you’re climbing and you almost fall backwards down the stairs.
Greeting cards in a London bookstore:
Incontinence Hotline – Can you hold please?
The Gay Mafia – They’ll break the legs of your coffee table
Caption from a London newspaper: “Roger Federer was at his awesome best today as he crushed France’s Fabrice Santoro with the loss of just three games”
That’s it. From now on, I’m going to be my awesome best at everything.
There are a lot of people in this city. I mean, a LOT. I thought maybe it was because I was walking around on a weekend, but I’m pretty sure that this city is packed no matter what day it is. And I thought that all I would hear in England would be prim and proper British accents, but so far I’ve heard more non-English languages than English.
The Queen is on every piece of paper money. Selfish if you ask me.
There’s a pharmacy/drugstore chain in London called Boots The Chemist. Every time I pass by one of these stores a storyline runs through my head that goes something along the lines of this:
“Did you really just eat 18 cannoli after chugging a bottle of Cuervo? I don’t think that’s something a scientist should do,” Ronaldo said.
“Bleah!” boots the chemist, spewing all over the Bunsen burner.
“Gross,” retorts Ronaldo.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
The First of Many
Well hello again. Or for the first time for those who didn't suffer through my Sydney ramblings.
I just want to give everyone a heads up - Friday, January 18, I will be moving to London for 6 months and YOUR lives will forever be different. For you, my friends and family, will be bombarded with near-daily, inane, silly, embarrassing, probably too long, and definitely inappropriate emails. They'll be sort of blog-ish, but it won't be a blog because a) I can't be bothered to do that, b) I don't really know how to start one and since I've become a cranky old lady who fears change and learning new things, I won't be researching how, and c) you all probably won't want to check a blog everyday whereas I know you'll check your email on a somewhat consistent basis.
As for the reason why I'm going to London, let's just suffice it to say that my company is sending me there to help work on the same project I've been working on in Boston/Sydney for the past year and a half or so. We have a new (albeit finicky) website that our clients can access on their own time to get their financial information and data and since it's in the beginning stages, it needs a lot of testing. I get to help test it. Or rather, I get to wander one of the world's greatest cities and then travel to the rest of Europe on my weekends in exchange for making a brief appearance at an office everyday.
Rules of my emails you should know and adhere to:
1) If you want out of the distribution list, just email me and I'll take you off the list. I will tell you that I'm not offended, but in reality I will assume you hate my guts.
2) The emails will not start until I arrive in London and have access to my email server (this took a good two weeks in London, so please, don't be sad/worried in the beginning).
3) This rule you must obey as if your life depended on it and, in fact, it does. DO NOT. DO NOT. DO NOT REPLY TO ALL. No one likes that. Don't be that guy.
So that's it. I hope you all will enjoy reading my updates as much as I enjoy sending them.
Your little world-traveler,
Lisa
P.S. No need to inform me - I already know that fanny means the same thing in the UK as it does in Sydney.
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