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.