The 60s Kitchen

There is hardly anything I love more than a mid-century kitchen.  And I am being enlightened by a program here in the UK explaining the drastic changes in food in Britain in the 60s.  It had never occured to me that while frozen foods were becoming quite popular in the US, having been introduced to the public by Charles Birdseye in 1929, it wasn't until the 60s that they could take hold in the UK as many people didn't have freezers.  Food was bought fresh, not frozen.  And if you've ever visited, you know the mighty Brit-fridge is not large.  But in the 60s, the refridgerator and it's partner the freezer certainly started to become a staple. And like America, super markets were coming into vogue, putting the green grocer out of business.  What the these new super markets offered was the new idea of self-service.  Prior to, house fraus made their way to the local market where the nice man behind the counter collected necessities as well as suggested what was fresh and wholesome.  Hmmm.  I'll have to see if I can find one of those places.  It would just be kind of interesting to shop that way for a change.

This program cooks a meal, relatively true to the 60s philosophy of high efficiency and high tech.  So, the ingredients tended to be canned, frozen, powdered...  And I had such a flashback of the foods we had when I was a kid.  Jello (gelatin and pudding) and all the things made with it, TV dinners, Kraft mac and cheese with the powdered cheese, canned vegetables, beef-a-roni.  I didn't know food could be any other way.  In the early 70s, we had all the space man foods.  Things like Tang and space bars.  Plastic became an acceptable flavor.  Kool-Aid was the drink of choice.  I don't ever remember drinking water.  Ever.  And all I remember my parents drinking was coffee.  Even with dinner.  And iced tea in the summer.

I remember the pantry being absolutely stuffed with canned goods.  And I always thought that they must taste better - why else would we have them?  There was always a cake mix around and Sunday mornings meant blueberry muffins or pancakes from a mix with tinned or dehydrated blueberries.  There was also a random dessert I remember in the 70s which involved 3 layers of jello or different opacity which, if you tilted on the side of the fridge wall as it thickened, would set with sideways layers.  And of course, my grandma (the one dressed like Santa) made this thing called a "sickly salad" which involved green jello, cottage cheese, pineapple (canned), and nuts.  It did in fact look a bit like sick.  But tasted delicious!


The end of the program featured a high tea 60s style with such dishes as sliced tongue with decorative radishes and a pink fluffy thing called Angel Delight, which was something like strawberry pudding which took the place of blanc mange, so they said.  Either way, the guests on the show reported that the Delight was sickly-sweet and nothing like what they remembered.  A sheppard's pie with instant mash and canned veg was followed by a bavarian chocloate cake with canned cherries.

I took a moment to look back at my Mom and her sisters, having fun in our kitchen, circa 1967.  Note the turquoise and stainless steel kitchen and my mom wearing a matching outfit.

Grandma Santa

Christmas brings memories of egg nog (something I really miss), shopping, presents, carols and the ever present struggle in my house growing up over when to open presents.  My Dad traditionally opened them on Christmas Eve while my Mom preferred Christmas morning.  There was usually a compromise involving opening one or two on the Eve and the rest in the morning.

But when we visited my paternal grandparents, everything happened on Christmas Eve, including a visit by Santa!  I remember playing with my cousins and being summoned to the door.  There was someone to see us!  It must be Santa!  And in through the door came...my grandmother dressed as Santa.  Clearly in the video you can see my pure admiration for Father, er Mother Christmas, in spite of the fact that she always brought apples and oranges, which held little interest for us kids.  But I do remember a few years later huddling with my cousins post visit with clues that it might not actually be who we thought.  The glasses looked awfully familiar.  And how did Santa get lipstick on his beard?  Is it really Santa?

Not too long after that, I was in the first grade when my classmates completely destroyed my Santa bubble.  They told me that he isn't real.  He's your parents.  I don't remember being disappointed.  I remember thinking that it made much more sense.  I never bought the idea that all the shopping mall Santas were his "helpers."  They seemed far too sweaty for one thing.  One evening, as I was getting tucked into bed, I asked my Mom if Santa was real, since my classmates said he wasn't,  and I explained that I really needed to know the truth.  I think she was more disappointed than I was.  She had just lost her youngest child's pure innocent belief in all things Santa, and that had to be a blow for a mother who loved all things Christmas.  I remember she paused, thinking of what to say.  And then she sat on the bed and told me how important it was to keep the fantasy going for all the other younger kids and the general spirit of Christmas.  I remember processing everything I had known about Santa that night.  All the half eaten cookies, the empty glasses of milk, the presents showing up under the tree and the one magic year that my favorite doll, Princess, showed up late Christmas afternoon in a travel case filled with doll clothes.  It was snowing that year, and I really believed that Santa had dropped it on the way in or out, rushing out to beat the snow. As is Southern tradition, I also assumed he had to hurry to the store to buy milk and bread, as that is what you do when it snows.  But in all likelihood, my parents simply forgot to add it under the tree.

The following years still brought visits by Grandma Santa, as I wasn't quite the youngest grandchild, but the question soon became not so much if it was Santa - we knew it wasn't.  But who was it?  It wasn't our parents.  And somehow, we couldn't quite figure out who was absent from the room whenever Santa was there.  But during a hide and seek game one summer, we stumbled upon the Santa costume hanging in her closet.  And then we knew.  The great mystery of our childhood had been solved.  

Oooooo! Explosions!

Oooooo!, a photo by daradactyl on Flickr.

I've waited almost a year for this! Guy Fawkes Day! November 5! In terms of fireworks, it is to the Brits what July 4 is to the Yanks. Anyone can buy them. In fact, they were 2 for 1 at the grocery store.

As in the states, people started "practicing" by setting off bottle rockets a week early. I asked my neighbor, the completely insane Josephine, crazy cat lady and collector of stuff from garbage bins. Jo told me that it's all about that guy who tried to blow up Parliament. And that on Bonfire Night, people make up a fake guy and set it on fire. It's a guy. Named Fox. That's been my favorite explanation so far.

In fact it did start as a remembrance of Guy Fawkes who did try to blow up Parliament a few hundred years ago. But he failed and was tried and executed. So, I suppose it's more of a "what would it have looked like if he did succeed." And so the fireworks.

I decided to join the ever fun Frui group to do a photo excursion to Primrose Hill, near Regents Park, overlooking the city. About 20 of us camped atop the hill and under the guidance of our trusty tutors, started shooting. Of course, I had to forget a very important piece of equipment, I always do. This time it was the tripod. At least it wasn't the memory card, which I ironically often forget. But it made the exercise really difficult to do long exposures with no stabilization. But there was coffee with brandy, red wine, and a lively pub afterward. So, a terrific time all in all.

Everyone kept saying, "where is the fireworks show?" And there was a certain lack of coordination to the explosions. They seemed to be random. Some were in the park, where the lighters-of-the-wicks were quickly escorted out by police, as it is illegal in that park. Some were off on the distant Thames. And everywhere in between. But they were generally n bursts of about 30 seconds. Not the 30 minutes I'm used to from the big US of A shows. And the locals seemed confused as well. Though not down. Every single roman candle brought huge cheers from the drunk crowd. And everyone giggled with delight over kids running with sparklers.

It also made me consider the over emphasis on safety in the US. I don't think it would occur to anyone there to set off a roman candle in a crowded park. But as far as I know, no one lost an eye. Or a couple of fingers. Unlike Guy Fawkes.

A brief cold snap after weeks of relatively warm weather has summoned the delicious colors of autumn from the local trees.  It seems to have happened overnight although I'm sure it's been weeks in the making.  The gathering leaves on the ground form a light padding that subdues the all too common footsteps from the likely tapping to a dull steady  thud.  and so with autumn comes the damp.  I first noticed as I stepped out this morning to grab some milk from the market across the street. I can't recall ever having a market that close.  Even as a child, the nearby neighborhood market, Todds, was a drive away. An entire quarter of a mile away.  And while I think of markets as having produce that was farmed during the Eisenhower years, this one, or rather these as there are two right next to each other, always surprise me with fresh cheeses and chorizo.  And yes, milk.

That first step out onto the walkway was litererd with damp leaves and mud, and that wonderful smell of falling leaves and decay.  Like Autumn is supposed to smell.

Having spent 8 years in Catholic school, I never really thought that much about ancient Rome.  I don't remember it really being covered or being pressed as important in school other than "they killed Jesus!"  But touring through ancient Rome, one is given a fascinating picture of a society that valued, among other things, family and the reverence for the dead.  The necropolis under St Peters was a look into the society of the dead.  Families would brig picnics to the mausoleums and pour wine and food through holes in the floor to their dead relatives in the afterlife.  Some mausoleums were for erly Christians, made clear by the symbols left on the engraved plaques commemorating the life of that person.  They were quick to praise.  One man's epitaph listed him as "joking with everyone and never quarreled.  He was a dear brother," the stone claimed.  Many were left by husbands to "chaste" wives, who were assumed to die in childbirth as the birth rate was high to combat the infant mortality rate which was about 75%.

The necropolis was discovered while trying to make the Popes' burial grotto bigger and more enjoyable for visitors.   The excavations took a place in the fourties and fifties.  This too was amusing as I remembered being in high school and having the younger girls freak out over the rumor that they had run out of burial space in the Vatican for Popes, so when John Paul died, that was the end of the world.   The nuns perpetuated that rumor, maybe they even believed it themselves.  But when he was shot, the younger girls were seen sobbing in the corridors, crying the end was near.

What struck me too was the idea that Jesus was a religious person in this era of gods and demi gods, of superstitions and luck; a Jew who was persecuted.  And the town that I knew as the center of the Roman Empire soon became the center of the church of a completely different religion.  Everything was then taken over buy the new church.  The Pantheon, which was at one point was the center of learning and community became a basilica.  Which we were reminded is what kept it in such great shape.  No one had the money or the interest in maintaining the secular building, but anything that became a church or otherwise struck the interest of a Pope or one of the powerful, wealthy families was saved from eventual ruin.

The Castle and the Colosseum are great examples of ruins subsequently adopted by the church.  The latter receiving giant cross as a memorial to all those early Christians persecuted there.  Although the audio guide tells us that it wasn't the the main show there.  It was more about gladiators and hunting.

Our necropolis tour ended with a peek into the grave of St Peter.  The bones found there, the guide tells us, were tested by Vatican scientists who verifies that they are of a man in his late 60s who a had worked hard during his life.  That seems to be enough to convince the Vatican that they are in fact those of St Peter.  And therefore, only the Pope can say mass in St Peters on that altar which stands over the grave. But the altar adjacent to it, which is not over St Peter,  has and thousands and thouxans of priests say mass.  

The Vatican was huge and beautiful but did sort of run under it's own rules.  It was as if there was a whole different state within the city of Rome.  Oh wait...

Remembering 9/11

Exactly 10 years on and I am in London watching BBC specials in which NY and London memorials are reading through the names of the lost.  And I realized that I never wrote down what I remember from that day.

It was my 6th wedding anniversary and Mr McGarry was in Nashville working on a shoot for a cable show.  The phone rang at about 6:40am LA time. I assumed it was Russ being funny and wishing me a happy annivesary early.  I ignored it.  It rang again.  Pulling myself out of bed, I answered the phone with growing irritation, but was surprised to hear the voice of my Mother-in-law, weeping.  "We're at war!  They're attacking us!"  She told me to turn on the tv.  I don't remember what I said, or even if I said anything.  My neighbor, Joel, was up and his tv was on.  I remember going across the hall to his place.  I remember watching the televised broadcasts, which were on all channels, but the timeline seems comfusing as the events were just happening.  They tended to show both live feed and rebroadcast which made it hard to figure out what was happening, not to mention that the events were so shoking in the first place.  Even now, I'm not sure what had happened by the time I tuned in, but I do believe that I was watching the towers fall as it happened. 

Not knowing what to do, I went to work.  But along the way, driving up La Brea, people in their cars turned and looked at other drivers with a sense of worry and empathy and connection, and that was the only time in LA I ever felt connected to other drivers while driving.  Along the way, I listened to NPR rebroadcasting Rudy Guliani as he walked around the towers before they fell.  I remember the emotion in his voice as he talked about seeing people jump.

I remember hearing that the plane had hit the ground in Pennsylvania.  And that there was a sense that maybe that was the last one, but no one could be sure.

Once at work, of course we all watched the tvs in the conference rooms.  We didn't get much work done.  And by 10:30, word got around that we should all just go home anyway.  Some of us, were continuing to hang around as we didn't' have much else to do.  But then we were told that we HAD to get out.  There was a threat to studios in LA and we were half a block from the Burbank airport.  We were a credible target.  And we were told to leave the building at once.

That night, I walked down my street to a small impromptu memorial.  The little group of us just sat on the curb with beer and candles talking about people we knew there in NY.  And we all asked why.

That was a Tuesday.  On the Sunday before, I had a show at ACME comedy theatre.  There was a small earthquake on my way to the theatre which really shook me up.  I asked to be able to go back home and check on things.  Everything was fine, but I had this strange feeling that something was horribly wrong.  The next day, I had been reading about the Taliban's treatment of women and I was looking up petitions urging Americans to take action.

It wasn't until Saturday when Russ was able to travel again.  I went to LAX and had to park really far away.  Trams carried passengers from the airport to the lots about a mile or so away where we were all waiting.  As buses released passengers, families reunited for the first time since the tragedy.

We knew the world had changed.  That was clear to me from the moment of that phone call.

Faversham Hops Festival

Since 1966, the Notting Hill Carnival has been the place to go for the August bank holiday.  And since the 1980s, the Hops Festival in Kent has been the place to go - if you happen to be in Kent.  While the Notting Hill Carnival was much bigger, the Hops Festival was much more of a festival.  I had heard that you should do the Carnival, just to say you did it, and then you never have to do it again.  Which implies that it isn't worth repeating.  Ad that made me wonder if it is worth doing in the first place.  

The Carnival, to me, was little more than several thousand people crowding onto the streets to drink and smoke and listen to music.  Which is fine except that there wasn't
 so much of a Carnival theme as it was just a giant pub theme.  The floats, when we were there at 2p on adult day, were just flat bead trucks with some speakers and a man, shirtless, singing along with the music.  There was nothing to buy but food, which included jerk chicken, roasted corn, sugar cane and coconut.  I was told later that they don't do vendors selling litems because stuff just gets stolen.    Ater a couple of hours of wandering through the neighborhoods, we felt like we had done all the carnival had to offer, and that was to drink.

By contrast, the Hops Fetival was a lively event.  There were plenty of things to buy, such as hats, fudge, beer of many loccal varieties, antiques, toys...the list is endless.  The shops were open and busy, compared to Notting Hill, whose shops were not only closed, but boarded up out of fear from the  recent riots.
  People were dressed in costumes or wore funny hats.  I was quite surprised to see a lack of that at the carnival, but guessing by the photos seen since, I was just there at the wrong time.  Maybe it's just too difficult to sustain a sense of fun over two days in Central London.

There were dance troupes who wandered about, performing regularly an old English folk dance that involved sticks being hit repeatedly then dancing in a circle.  The music which accompanied he dance was a charming piece that instantly made you think of Ye Olde English village.  There were also groups in similar folk costumes,but entirely in black.  These groups also had black painted faces, which coming from the American South has always been strictly verboden in my corner of the world.  But here, it had a Goth like feel, or perhaps reminiscing of the Schmutzli of German origin, the Dirty Man who accompanies Santa on St Nicks Day in German cultures.  I didn't get to see their dance, but I'm sure it was really cool.

I started to get the feeling of being in a village  when it celebrates the harvest.  There was tonnes of hops plants everywhere.  We got wreaths made to wear on our heads and on the dogs, which made us all smell even more like beer.  The hops were piled onto a wagon, which I imagined used to roll into the village and all the townspeople would cheer and dance.  Everyone was so happy and joyful, perhaps because it was sunny.  Perhaps it was he beer.  Or a combination of everything all put together.  
But there was a delightful sense of celebration that was contagious. Why was that missing from the Carnival?  Is it city life that is so oppressive?  Is there nothing to celebrate in the city? 

War and Honey

On a beautiful London summer day, a small group of us headed to the Imperial War Museum near Waterloo station.  It is housed in the previous location of Bethlehem Royal Hospital, a mental institution, which was truncated to Bethlem or Bedlam, which is where we get the word.  Out front we were greeted by a slice of the Berlin Wall which tells us to "Change Your Life."

Once inside, there were several huge war machines to greet us: Sherman tanks, a Churchill tank, a Spitfire, a flying bomb.  I really wanted to check out the Blitz experience.  I remember hearing something like 40% of London was damaged in the Blitz and I am constantly trying to learn more about what was bombed when.  In the Blitz Experience, a group of about 20 people huddle in a dark room while a voice over tells us that his name is George and he's the local guy in charge of herding people into the shelters.   We sit in the shelter while sounds of planes and bombs pour through the speakers.  The lights flash and the room shakes - a little.  The voice over expands to include voices of other neighbors "joining" us in the shelter.  One voice over encourages us to sing Roll Out the Barrels.  Then we are instructed to come out of the shelter and see what happened to the neighborhood.   A guide shines his flashlight on the appropriate diorama.  We see scenes of broken houses with broken windows.  Then the guide directs us to a different diorama which is in miniature.  St Paul in the background, a tiny version of London buildings turns orange and falls away.  And then we see a life size section of a house and then back to a miniature and so on.  We finally, and mercifully, end up at a makeshift tea spot which would have served tea to those helping with the clean up.  I skipped the Trench Experience as it was smelly.

Most of the museum was quite serious with lots of uniforms and real items from the time.  I started to get some sense of the Blitz from the newsreel footage they had, some even in color.  It was unreal to see how much of London was just broken.  And to associate that damage with still existing pock marks on surviving buildings.  It made the threat of occupation very real, something that we as Americans have never really lived with in the past 200 years, give or take.

There was an exhibit of rations.  Food rations as well as clothing rations were displayed.  There was also a selection of clothing that had been made during wartime and used very conservative cuts such as narrow lapels so as not to waste cloth.  You got only 26 rations per year and a ladies suit and blouse was 11.  It never occurred to me that cloth would be a rare commodity in wartime.  And it made me anxious.

But not as upset as the Holocaust section.  As much as we have seen, read, heard about the Holocaust, it never ceases to disturb.  The photos of the dead, those about to be executed, the descriptions from the guards...you can't help but question why we do this to each other.  And the whole of the War Museum became a bit unbearable.

My friends felt the same and we managed a stiff Bourbon drink before heading to the much happier Honey Festival.  There, we dove into a huge crowd and descended upon several vendors of liquid gold.  I spent some time talking to one of the vendors from Surrey about beekeeping.  Easy - she tells me.  And this is her second year and the bees are doing well.  I hear that London bees are actually fairing well despite the bee issues of their cousins.  And I brought home some Surrey honey as well as some from a South London area.  And they are delicious!

A sweet ending certainly.

London Riots

In the 24 hours I Have been back in London, I have seen more police than in the past year. They are everywhere. And I do feel a bit safer. It also gives an interesting sense of community. They chat with people and offer directions. And they seem relaxed. The stores generally seem tense. And again today I noticed that there are way fewer people out than normal. While eating at a local pub, we noticed a broken window. The waiter said, "Yeah, that's from the riots. There were a group of guys across the street. They saw us inside looking at them. We were afraid, so we went to the back. They ran over and broke the window. Doesn't make sense. I work for a living and these guys just run around being stupid."

Some stores had preventatively boarded up the glass. I walked down the antiques section of Islington. Usually there are several little vendors set up selling all sorts of things in a flea market type setting. About half were not there. Two Bobbies were in front of me, strolling. One of the vendors said, "Where are the hoods? What have you done with them? I haven't seen any since Wednesday last.". The Bobbie responded, "Locked up, we hope." The men all nodded and grinned. There was a slight air of success, that maybe it really was all over. The vendor looked relieved.

While walking down Upper St, I overhear conversations about police brutality and austerity cuts, the poor and the disenfranchised. I hear Frustration and anger. The shop keepers are nervous. I have never been rushed out of stores so fast as I have in the last two days. But mostly, mostly, people are out enjoying themselves as the English do. They persevere.

No White Socks, Please

You may match the safety tape on the sidewalk, or you can match your favorite football team.  You don't have to match your clothes, and the more colorful the better.  Just don't wear white socks.

Safety First is Second Nature

On a recent trip to view the new office building, the logo on the safety vests that were one-size-fits-most(truckers) read "Safety First is Second Nature."  Perhaps.  As I find that safety features are not always apparent in the UK, and I find that...reassuring.

Take for example my trip to Dover.  After climbing the Shakespeare's Cliff, stopping along the way to look out over the barricade, I got to the top and turned just in time to see that was no longer a barricade where, arguably, you would most need it.  And there was no sign warning you to mind the gap.  Speaking of gap, there is just a recording in the tube station.  If you happen to fall through, well, it's just Darwinism.

When crossing the street, you can walk when there isn't a car (or bus or bike.)  Oh, you can also walk when there is a walk sign, but no one actually waits for that like they do in California.  I got so accustomed to waiting, having received a $60 jaywalking ticket for crossing while the walk sign wasn't on, in spite of the fact there wasn't traffic, that it took me a good two months to truly believe I CAN cross here when I decide it's a good idea, not just when the light says so.  The trick is knowing when it is a good idea.

Richard III (or tricky Dick)

Possibly the most difficult ticket to get in London these days is Richard III, starring Kevin Spacey.  They've been sold out for ages, but as is the practice, you can show up a few hours ahead of the opening time and wait for return tickets.  It was a beautiful day in London, so after a quick trip to visit the ever-growing shrine in front of Amy Winehouse's home, I headed down to Waterloo to wait.  After an hour, I managed to score a seat with a partial view on the very top of the Lilian Bayliss Circle, or as I know them, the nose-bleeds.   Since the returns are handed out minutes before the show, I wasn't able to scoot into my seat until about 20 minutes into the performance, which meant the opening monologue was viewed as a giant shadow cast on the stage right wall.  And that was actually really effective.  Richard, appearing bigger than he is in a paper crown and party horn, withered hand and hunched back.  Ever the villain.

Now is the winter of our discontent made glorious summer by this son of Sam Mendes.  What started out as a very angry cross between Verbal Kent and Groucho Marx (both playing on the physical limitations of the hunchback) ended as a very well rendered character. One who had dreamed of a blue sky destiny,  and sought to make it so in spite of the trail of destruction let behind.

He woos, successfully he boasts, the new widow of his former adversary, whom he has just slain.  She agrees to marry him even as the corpse bleeds anew at the very presence of Richard.  (Which was visible and pretty cool.)  He one by one has all his brothers and his brother's children killed to ensure the throne belongs to him.  And in a masterful scene, prompts Buckingham, playing the scene as if a lively Southern Baptist preacher, to sway the crowd who responds, thanks to plants in the audience, with the appropriate boos, yays, and "Tell it, brother!"  The un-planted audience soon follows and the crowd cheers the idea of Richard becoming king over the young Prince Edward.  Richard is seen on a huge monitor with two accomplices playing monks.  We see him in prayer as he morns for his brothers' deaths.  He turns to the camera, reacting to Buckingham and the crowd with mock humility, saying he couldn't possibly be king.  It's not his place, after all.  He isn't kingly enough.  And this is where we love Spacey most.  For in spite of his mastery of the language and his spirited stage performance, it is the subtlety of his expressions, the tiny curl at the corner of his lip as the crowd begs him to take the throne, that fully demonstrate the mastery of his craft.  Soon, the upstage wall is pulled to reveal an even deeper stage, full of doors which are marked with an X as the new King's options become more limited, or those around him die, or are executed.  As the last moment of the 2 hours first half, we see Richard take the throne with clear defiance and pride.


In the second half, gone are the Groucho asides (I wasn't kidding about that - he is due to the hunchback bent over in a very Groucho way).  Now we see Richard as an increasingly neurotic, screaming character, killing off all his remaining relatives and friends out of sheer paranoia, until in the final battle, he doesn't even have a horse.  He even repeatedly stabs the head (which was in a box, but visible from the nose-bleeds) of one of his men with his cane in anger out of what he sees as treason and betrayal.  After a really solid dual with broadswords with Richmond, he is slain and hoisted up by his feet so that he hangs in the air as a shell of his tyrannical power.


And curtain call!  We see an extremely exhausted Spacey, thanking the crowd and his fellow actors, but just absolutely exhausted.

As I walked out, I heard people talking about how the American accents bothered them.  While there were several Americans in the cast, they did the usual effected speech.  The English patrons asked each other, "why bother?  Just pick one - full English or American."

I made my way to the stage door in an attempt to get some autographs and see Kevin Spacey.  I did meet a few of the actors, but after 45 minutes, the stage hand announced that Kevin had left through another exit.  And so, I took my leave.

The Jury

On a recent business trip to Paris, I discovered a most extraordinary thing about the cultural difference between "Anglo-Saxons," as they called us, and the French.

The purpose of the trip was to visit schools and give artistic feedback to their graduates.  And we did.  We also sat on a jury, which I imagined would be like a panel on a dais holding up numbers after each competitor showed his work.  Sort of like the Olympic judges at the gymnastics events.  But instead it was a room full of people with scarves.  They watched each piece then were introduced to the team.  And then a discussion began.  In French.

Pourquoi was asked a lot.  And the students looked mostly scared and sometimes horrified.

And I sort of knew what they were talking about but couldn't really speak enough to keep up.  So I listened.  And after, we had individual times with the students to speak English.  Funny, one of the administrators told me later that the French are very used to taking criticism, so they were amused by our constructive and positive advice.  "You Anglo-Saxons are so nice!"

That is the first time I have ever been called an Anglo-Saxon.

The pieces you take with you.

Peonies.  I love them.  But I never knew how much I loved them until recently.  Mom used to have one peony in the yard next to a tree.  It was lovely and I always anxiously awaited its popping through the Earth every spring.  Fragrant and pink and delicate, it was a touch of feminine in an otherwise rough and tumble sloping front yard.  At some point after I left home, through bad weather or a thoughtless grass-mower, it met it's floral maker, never to return to the Nashville sun.

They don't really grow in LA, and finding them in flower shops seemed remote.  Maybe I wasn't looking hard enough.  But that was before I knew I loved them.  Here in London (England really) they are quite popular and probably grow in gardens.  I wouldn't know since I don't have friends with floral gardens.  But having them on my table brings a bit of fragrant, pink and delicate to an otherwise rough and tumble daily grind.  The peony is something I think I'd like to have around.

Moving halfway across the world, I tried to keep my personal totems to a minimum since I would have to carry them through Heathrow and I really do prefer to travel light.  But there are those things that you like to have with you.  Those things that give you hope or happiness or something in between.  And those things always end up on that list of Things You Must Have on a Desert Island, often for me before essentials like food or water.

Having the benefit of perspective, I can see that the overabundance of stuff I have in LA obscures the fragrant, pink and delicate.  Maybe it's the symptom of being a hoarder, or at least the daughter of a hoarder.  But if we find comfort in abundance, how can we appreciate the comfort of the essential?

Of all the things I have in LA, the things I chose to bring with me to London are:

• my wind-up sushi that I had in my office for years
• photos of James and Mom and Dad
• one really good kitchen knife
• hats - lots of hats
• a sparkly pink pen
• my National Geographic map of England and Ireland, used on all my previous 6 trips to the UK

And whilst in London, I have chosen these items as the new essentials:

• a garden gnome
• a  really good pink kitchen knife
• a coffee mug with "England" and a picture of Shakespeare
• handmade throw pillows with naughty words
• peonies

I have a feeling more things will make it back to the US.  But those are the essentials.

(Some) Things the English don't understand about Americans

Not a comprehensive list.  But a list of things people have asked me about at one time or another.


"American Tights."  English women like their tights.  And why not?  It's really cold most of the time and the ladies in London do tend to wear dresses.  So, yes!  I fully support the tights revolution.  But they also tend to be black.  So much so, that I'm starting to feel Amish.  And while summer lends itself to colors other than black (such as navy - see below with pink sandals), no one goes for the "Suntan" shade of hosiery.  I remember being 7 years old and getting my very first pair of Suntan Hose.  It was a very grown-up thing for me.  And now of course, a dressy occasion often calls for pantyhose and we ladies often choose a shade that makes our pale little legs look a little more St Tropez.  And that just doesn't fly here.

Sarah Palin.  Margaret Thatcher called her "unimportant" but most Europeans loathe her.  I'm often asked if she will become the next president.

Vacation.  It is generally believed that Americans don't take vacations.  Which is quite funny considering how many Americans are clearly right here in London.  I think people believe these oddities to be "retired."

White Socks.  And while we're on the subject of footwear, I've heard that you can always spot an American by their white socks.  I have quickly pointed out that you can just as easily pick up Europeans on Venice Beach by their black socks...with speedos.  Touche.  If you go into a sock department here, you will find a treasure trove of patterns, a rainbow of colors and not a white sock in sight.  Even for men, there are socks with hearts and flowers and kittens.  But no white socks.  You have to go to an athletic store for that.  And even there, you will find a selection of black running socks.

I scream for Baby Gaga

Finding myself with a little time for lunch, I headed to Covent Garden to buy myself a Norf London shirt, which I always thought was hilarious.  I had a snack and then decided to stop into the gourmet ice cream place, The Icecreamists.  This is the store that debuted Baby Gaga ice cream a few months ago.  It's an ice cream made out of breast milk.  I know it sounds weird.  But the ladies who were making extra income donating milk seemed ok with it.  And it is pasteurized.  So I kinda psyched myself up to try it.  I knew it had been pulled before when someone called the health department and raised the fear that it could contain hepatitis.  I inquired today, and apparently, all is well and for Baby Gaga and they are allowed to sell once more.  But the girl behind the counter in a black patent leather sort of S&M cop type outfit (think Hot Dog on a Stick for a Goth bar) said they were out today.  Oh well.  I had to settle for custard and Chili Ginger.  It was really good.

While I was paying, an American family came in.  A very precocious young girl went right up to the counter and said to the girls, "Why are you dressed like policemen?"  The girls looked at each other as if to say, "Because we have to."  But they ignored her and finally the Mom proclaimed in the best Midwestern dialect I have heard in months, "This is too expensive.  Let's go."  The girls and I gave each other a "they just don't get it" look.  Probably for the best the Baby Gaga was out.

I left with my ice cream and enjoyed the rest of the day.  Right up until I sliced my finger while cutting shallots.  That's when it occurred to me that IF it didn't' stop bleeding, I wasn't really sure where to go.  I mean I'm not sure where the nearest emergency room is and if it's more than a block, how do people get there?  Would I call an ambulance for a finger cut?  That seems excessive.  Fortunately, the bleeding stopped and I went across the street to the nice Ukrainian convenience store across the street.  I remembered to ask for a "plaster."

I think I might go back one day and seek out the Baby Gaga.  But honestly, just a small taste. Just to say I did.  But not a whole cup.  Or two.

Real Tennis

Real Tennis, a photo by daradactyl on Flickr.

Round two of tennis lessons!  Saturday, I had the second lesson of Real Tennis (or Court Tennis in the US or Jeu de Paum in France) at Hampton Court on Henry VIII's royal tennis court (1528).  Legend says this is where Henry was when Anne Boleyn was executed.  That aside - it was really fun AND unairconditioned.  A sweaty experience to say the least.  And because it's high season at the very popular Hampton Court, there were a constant stream of tourists who would wander into the sidelines - (the windows you see on the right of the photo.  The people in the background were waiting to play next.)  A few times they tried to get onto the court, which is why they lock the doors to the court.  When you are learning a new sport and you're not really good at it, it's very disconcerting to have about a dozen people at a time staring and taking photos.  But I tried to put that out of my mind and just focus on the game, which I did play.  Last time, I just learned the basics but this time, we played two games.  And I must admit I'm sort of addicted.  It's a very strategic sport.  Here's a basic breakdown of the rules from Wiki:

The game has many other complexities. For instance, when the ball bounces twice on the floor at the service end, the serving player does not generally lose the point. Instead a "chase" is called where the ball made its second bounce and the server gets the chance, later in the game, to "play off" the chase from the receiving end; but to win the point being played off, his shot's second bounce must be further from the net (closer to the back wall) than the shot he originally failed to reach. A chase can also be called at the receiving ("hazard") end, but only on the half of that end nearest the net; this is called a "hazard" chase. Those areas of the court in which chases can be called are marked with lines running across the floor, parallel to the net, generally about 1-yard (0.91 m) apart – it is these lines by which the chases are measured. Additionally, a player can gain the advantage of serving only through skillful play (viz. "laying" a "chase", which ensures a change of end). 
Another twist to the game comes from the various window-like openings below the penthouse roofs that, in some cases, offer the player a chance to win the point instantly by hitting the ball into the opening (in other cases, these windows create a "chase").

OK - got it?  Yeah, me too.   Anytime I have been to the court, I arrive on the tail end of a game.  And always, there is someone keeping the score, presumably because it's too difficult to score and play at the same time.  And fortunately, the instructor scored the games we played.  He was a very nice guy who often commented that I sounded American.  I pointed out that in fact, I am.  I started to wonder if that was a problem, to be non-English.  It is a very patrician place, with an active club attached.  And by club, I mean a kitchen, dining room and office with tiny dressing rooms which are uni-sex.  That is, they are one at a time, so there is no gender separation.  The dining room and sitting room are well appointed with leather chairs, floral wall paper and photos of famous past players, including Pierre Echtbaster, with whom my first husband's father trained.  And that is how I know this game even exists.  Billy Haggard was some sort of regional champion from Aiken, South Carolina, where the courts didn't even allow women, last time I saw them.  When I was married, we had a signed photo of Pierre on the wall.  At the last lesson, the instructor, Nick, told me that Pierre was an undefeated champion for 50 years because A:World War II meant there were no games for quite a few years and B: he refused to meet his challengers.  


The sport does draw the quirky.


As I was leaving, the nice, older man who had been playing before me was returning with his young, Caribbean wife for her lesson.  He had an amazingly "posh" accent and I imagined him working as a judge which immediately made me picture him in a white, curly wig.  We waxed about the finesse required to play the game and the trouble with financially keeping courts open.  Too bad.  It's a really cool game that could potentially have a nice following if it ever jumped out of the circles of old, rich, white guys.

WTF? People bike in this town?

I finally did it!  I biked to work.  It only took 6 months really.

It's been on my mind for ages.  I see people biking and it looks fun, healthy, active...all those things that make you think of happy people in commercials.  So I finally bought a bike.  And then it sat in my living room for a few weeks while I stared at it.  It became a drying rack for laundry.

Last Sunday, I decided that was it!  I must ride this thing!  I planned out the best biking route and hopped on the bike.  The biking route to work is a network of twists and turns overly complicating the 2 mile trip.  So much so, that I required a map just to navigate when to turn.  I had to stop frequently to check the map and make sure I was heading the right way.  After a nice cruise down the bus-free street where I live, I turned right onto some more traffic free streets.  All is fine, I thought.  This is fun!!  And then past Tavistock Square, the site of the bus bombing in 2005.  I looked for a memorial in the square center but didn't see anything.  I headed into SoHo where traffic was much busier.  But I made it!  Then I headed towards home, stopping at Regents Park to go around the park several times just to be able to ride fast and free.  I say fast, but everyone was passing me.  I'm still slow.  I noticed a guard with an automatic weapon.  That really seemed out of place in the park.  I found out a little later that it was in from of the house where Obama was staying.  Ohhhhh!  That 'splains it.  I didn't even know he was in town.  Then I hit the canals and was home.  Great!  That wasn't so bad.

Tuesday was a little different.  Sunday traffic and Tuesday 8:45am traffic are very different beasts.  I was so terrified, I just kept staring at the cyclists in front of me, missing my left turn.  I'm not even really sure where I was, but I just kept following the cyclists.  There was a small voice saying over and over, "What do I do?  What do I do?" And that voice was mine.  At one point, I was at the corner of Southampton Row and Holborn.  But I was on the northwest corner and I need to go east, that is I'm on the far left and I need to go right.  Not being able to figure how to do that easily, I just picked up the bike and became a pedestrian for a bit.  Once oriented in the right direction, I waited for traffic to pass, looking at my phone and then looking confused as if I was waiting for someone or something.  I do have my pride after all.  Can't let on that I have no idea what I'm doing.  Finally, it looked like a good moment to jump back into the fray.  I peddled on down Holborn, onto Shaftesbury and arrived at work.  And I was still shaking.

Home wasn't so bad, except for the giant hill just before home, but then...I was home!  And I just kept think, "WTF!  Why do people do that?  Drive a thing that is like a vehicle except with no front or sides or back on a busy street next to 2 story tall vehicles with very big fronts and sides and backs?"

I was thinking of riding in this morning until the security guard informed me that I need to be sure to get a sticker.  And that I should get in before 9:15 because there are only 30 spots for 150 bikes and you aren't allowed to lock your bike to anything.  Any bike that is not properly stored or is without a sticker gets towed.  If you miss getting a spot you have to take your bike outside and lock it to something else - like a rubbish bin or something.  So much for the Ride to Work Scheme.  But soon I'll move to a new building with lots of parking spots, so I won't have that excuse.  I'll just have to dig deep and find that courage to ride through Central London traffic!

Barbershop Quartet (minus one)

Barbershop Quartet (minus one), a photo by daradactyl on Flickr.

On the corner, there is a barbershop. I pass it everyday. And everyday except Sunday, these guys are there, cutting hair. We always wave and say, "Good morning!"

It's great to start the day with smiling faces.

Ghost Hunter

Here I am on the train again, this time to Chester.  What started as a beautiful sunny day in London is quickly turning into a cloudy, gray afternoon.  One thing I've noticed since the last train trip to Shrewsbury is that the sheep have been sheared.  They look much thinner.

But back to Shrewsbury.  It really was a lovely Easter weekend, punctuated by one interesting event.

The Ghost Hunter.

I spent the first day of my trip checking out the castle and taking lots of pictures.  And as it started to get a bit dark, I headed back toward the Inn at the center of the old town.  Shrewsbury is really old and many of it's buildings are half-timbered, leaning out over the cobble-stoned street.  Yes, like a fairy tale.  One plaque announces itself to be "Ye ancient house in which King Henry the Seventh loged (sic) when he went to Bosworth Field Aug 1485."

About 5 miles outside of town is the site of Wroxeter.  Now ruins of the Roman baths, it was once a thriving town of 5000, mostly Roman Soldiers and their families.  The Roman Baths were a curious place.  I remember from earlier visits to Bath and other ruins, the Roman Baths were a place of socializing.  Sort of like the modern day gym.  People would "take exercise"  (take it where?) in a long field called the "nave" which was lined with tall columns on either side and long "aisles" next to those.  This was all part of a basilica.  The resemblance to a catherdral both in site and name was not lost on me.  After exercise, the sweaty Romans would proceed into the tepid room and from there into the hot baths followed by a cold plunge.  The steam room and sauna were also available.  I wondered if they had towel service back in those days as well as a juice bar staffed by buxom local girls.

Shrewsbury Town Square

By the way - it is common courtesy when getting ready to board a train (like an elevator) to let the passangers off first.  People of Crewe, where I'm changing trains, clearly didn't get that memo.

OK, back to Shrewsbury.  So, as the day was winding down, I headed back to The Old Post Office where I was staying.  Not a Post Office at all but an old coach station dating back to 1530.  On my way, I stopped to take photos at the town square.  Another 16th Century building with an open ground floor and offices above.  As I was snapping away, a man approached and said, "They sold corn here."  I must have looked puzzeled as he repeated himself.  "It was an agricultural place and they sold corn.  See?  This is where they would count the bushels sold for the day."  He pointed to a series of holes drilled into the wall.  Apparently, a peg was moved around to determine how many sold vs how many left.  I fully took in the sight of my new tour guide.  With his bad combover, squinty eyes hiding behind large framed glasses and the khaki-tan Members Only jacket, he reminded me of Stanley Tucci's character in The Lovely Bones.  And that was disturbing.  But maybe that's just how he looked.  A group of teens walked by the plaza and I heard one of them yell, "stranger danger!"  Hmmm.  Not a coincidence.  And I'm not the only one who thinks he's creepy.  So Stanley (I never did get his name) told me about the court that used to be on the upper floor, with its infamous hangin' judge.  Executed 60 people in one day!  Stanley looked at his watch.  He was supposed to meet his friends for a ghost tour.  Ooooo!  I love ghost tours!  Oddly, Stanley didn't do the normal thing of offering an invitation, as you do or at least a polite reason why there isn't an invitation.  And besides, I thought, it was still broad daylight.  They never have tours in the daytime.  Odd.  So Stanley wandered back to the Square to wait on his friends.  I headed to the hotel to look up area ghost tours.  Couldn't find anything that runs outside of October.  So I wandered back to the Square but tried to stay a bit hidden.  I just wanted to see if there was in fact a group gathering for a tour.  Maybe I could crash.  But I didn't see any group, or any one for that matter.

By now, it was 8pm and time to get dinner.  It was the night before Easter, so it was a quiet evening in town.  I went back to the Old Post Office to get a pub meal.  After ordering a nice curry, I sat with my Guinness.  And lo and behold - there was Stanley.  He saw me, despite my best efforts to not make eye contact, and came over to sit.  He also had a Guinness and decided that made us best friends.  His friends never showed up for their ghost tour.  He went on to tell me how much he enjoys doing the ghost thing and that he has a friend that joins him on certain paranormal excursions such as spending the night in a haunted house.  Now, I love ghost stories.  Many of my friends love ghost stories.  But something about this guy was just ringing the alarm bells.  Maybe he is just socially inept?  Perhaps he's a computer nerd who doesn't know how to talk to people.  Or he's a serial killer looking for his next target.  Not wanting to be over-dramatic, but since I was traveling alone, I decided it was safer to assume the latter.

I kept the subjects to him and his ghosts, not wanting to reveal any details about myself or the fact that I was staying right above the room where we were.  And by the way - how in the world did he end up at the same pub I was in?  There were scores of open pubs in that area, and this one was a bit tucked away.  Creeepy.

He told me that he's seen the ghosts of the Two Princes in the Tower.  They were looking out the window.  He also said the most haunted place he's ever been is Clerkenwell Prison.  My heart skipped a beat.  Once again, without my ever telling him anything about me, he happened to name a place that is only a mile from where I live in London.  Creeeepy.

"They have EIGHT ghosts!  EIGHT!   I've seen them."  His eyes were wide.  He went on to list some other places that are really haunted.  I was just starting to get more info on the Tower, as it is one of my personal favorites, when my curry arrived.  I thought given the tenacity of this guy, I'd have a hard time getting rid of him.  But he suddenly sprang up and started apologizing profusely.  I suddenly wanted him to stay and finish his ghost stories while I ate.  Then I thought maybe it really is for the best, given his resemblance to an on-screen pedophile-serial killer.  Or actually any pedophile-serial killer.  They all have that look, you know?  It's the Members Only jacket.  Anyway I decided I could just as easily look up ghost stories on Wikipedia and I was better off without his looming over me as I ate.

A bit later, a girl walked in from outside where she'd just had a cigarette.  Her group, sitting next to me, seemed concerned.  "Who was that guy?"  "Oh, just some weird guy who does ghost tours," she replied.  Ah.  He pulls this with all the girls.

I felt a little better for some reason.  Although he was still keeping an eye on me from a distance.  Probably waiting for an opportunity to engage in another conversation.  When he seemed out of sight, I slipped up the stairs to my room.  Just in case, I pushed the chair under the doorknob.  And later, stacked a table on top of it.  It was an old pub - who knows the integrity of the locks?  I felt safe enough until I had to go to the bathroom.  It was down the hall which meant I had to unstack and re-stack every time.  My plan didn't take that into account. 

I never saw Stanley again.  Unless he comes back to visit he favorite haunted places in London..!

Dancing with an Oompa Loompa

Untitled, a photo by daradactyl on Flickr.

As it happened, it was another gorgeous weekend in London. Sunny, warm...perfect weather. I don't even remember the London of December with its snow and rain and freezing temps.

I was lucky enough to spend an ample amount of time with my dear Disney friends, Mohit, Dawn, Scott and Clay. They've been doing presentations for Tangled in Germany and here in London. So, the first night, we met up in Chinatown for dinner. As we approached Gerard St, we could hear music blasting from a stereo. And then we saw them. About 20 Oompa Loompas. And they were dancing. As they do. Everyone stopped and pulled out their cameras. I mean how often do you get to see Oompa Loompas - dancing no less!

One spotted me and made a bee line. The photo depicts his purposeful walking in my direction. These people always find me. Partly because I make eye contact and partly because I want to be found. Once a ham, always a ham. Although I must admit I wasn't quite prepared to dance.

And so I found myself in the middle of a circle of Oompa Loompas, dancing. And they were all taller. Geez - I can't even out-measure an Oompa Loompa! I did manage to get a photo mid-dance. Note the lip-bite of concentration, the hands poised, almost going for the batusie. And then the song was over and that was the end. Good thing as I was hungry.

Once inside, we got the usual table upstairs. I've been to this place several times and never sat on the first floor. I think you have to be family to do that. We asked the waitress to take our photo and she warned us there was a £5 charge. We politely declined and I tried to hide the camera, least she try to snatch it, take a photo and demand her fee. Stoned faced, she motioned for the camera and said, "No. It's free." Wow. She's good. She should play poker. We had no idea she was kidding. Awkward!

Around that time, I noticed the Dancers had left and we were now listening to the soothing sounds of a saxophone baring out Careless Whisper. Thinking back, I'm not sure if he played anything but the sax solo.

London is starting to top LA in random, odd happenings. Maybe this stuff just follows me. Either way, it makes me happy.

Royal Wedding: Aftermath

As the street cleaners make their way around the Palace, the port-o-potties are packed up, and the Royal Gardeners try to extract whatever is left of the completely flattened plants around Buckingham, English chins are wagging, recounting the highlights and horrors of the day.

I happened to have a hair appointment at 11am  in Hammersmith (or Hammersmif as you sometimes hear.)  The salon was abuzz with Wedding chit-chat, punctuated by hair-dryers and scissor snips.  My stylist, Sam, loved the ceremony and thought it was a magical day.  The septuagenarian next to me reminded us that the couple is on the older side for royal weddings.  While Charles was older, Diana and Elizabeth were both 20 when they wed.

Everyone was puzzled about Princess Beatrice's hat.  Antlers?  Unicorn?  Reindeer?  What was that?  She and her sister Eugenie in the blue and purple puffy dress looked more appropriate as backup singers for Lady Gaga or Priscilla, Queen of the Desert.  I mean, I'm certainly one for an outrageous hat, but that crossed the line even for me.  Ah well.  What is a Royal occasion without scandal?

After the salon, I made my way over Hammersmif Bridge and onto the Thames Path where I grabbed lunch at the Blue Anchor, a local pub since 1722.  Sitting outside, I could hear the Australians next to me discuss what was up with that kiss?  Either of them.  They felt they were short and lacking in passion.  They had higher expectations.  But perhaps it wasn't so much lack of passion as it was discomfort with PDA, with extra P.

On the tube, passengers scanned an assortment of papers, all with the kiss on the cover.  Back in Islington, I stopped at the newsstand to purchase one of the commemorative editions.  A lady came up and, clearly bored already, noted that everything was about the wedding.  She gave a disgusted tut-tut as I reached across her to get a copy of the Daily Mail.  She was too well dressed for an anarchist, so let's just assume she was simply bored.  As the reports from the electricity grid confirm, that put her in a small percentage of the population.  There was a power surge after the ceremony, 4th largest of all time, indicating that people stopped watching TV and did something else - like boil a kettle.  I know that sounds cliche, but it is actually a planned event here in England.  After a major TV event, such as an important football game, there are always power surges that indicate people are taking a tea break and it is also used in the metrics of how many people were actually watching.  Take that, Nielsen Ratings!

The Royal Wedding

It was amazing.  Just being in the crowd and being in the middle of London was exciting. 

Kim and I took the tube to Charing Cross station and had no trouble getting there.  We walked over to Trafalgar Square where it was starting to get busy.  The bells at St Martins were peeling and would continue to do so right up until the ceremony started at 11a.  We took in the atmosphere and excitement and decided to walk closer to the route.  I had hoped to get a spot near the Banqueting House since I thought it would be a lesser landmark and possibly less crowded.  I was probably right since we had no way of getting there except to go all the way around the route and approach from the south.   Along the way, we would ask the nice security guards or the bobbies if there was a way to get over there.  No.  Turns out - they weren't from around here.  Just about everyone we talked to was imported security for the event.  We Americans knew the city better than they did.  So back to the Square we went.

Kim found a nice spot where we could see most of the jumbo-tron.  We settled in time for the big guests to arrive.  We yelled and waved our free flags courtesy of Hello! Magazine each time the Queen (Elizabeth or Elton) appeared.  The moment Kate appeared for the first time, carefully slipping her dress into the car, the whole crowd sighed.  She was perfect.  I suspect most people had something puffier - more Diana-like - in mind.  Since after all this wedding is meant to be the happy ending to the fairy-tale started 30 years ago, derailed by the horse woman and crashing to an end that night in Paris.  Everyone was thinking of Diana and how proud she'd be.  And happily, Kate wasn't a cookie cutter replacement for Diana.  She is her own person; the perfect Princess to take the Monarchy into the Modern Age, something Diana started, but wasn't able to finish.  She appeared poised, confident and aware of the shoes she is about to step into. 

As she walked down the aisle, there wasn't a dry eye on the square.  And there was an audible chuckle when Harry stole a cheeky, backwards glance.  When she arrived at the alter with William, still holding her father's hand, not linking arms as you so often see, there was a calm sense of joy.  These two really love each other.  They are comfortable with each other.  Oh yes, Diana would be proud!  Her son married for love and friendship.  And that made everything seem all is right with the world.

Toward the end of the ceremony, we headed over to a local pub for fish and chips and more HD viewing.  We passed people dressed in wedding dresses, outrageous hats, Union Jacks, painted faces.  The whole of England was just so....happy!  After Guinness and fish, we watched the kiss on the balcony.  And then they announced the fly-over of the RAF guys.  At that very moment, we heard the low roar of the planes as they passed us overhead just seconds before appearing on screen.  SkyTV missed the second kiss, having the cameras on the planes at the time.  So there was confusion as they played back footage of the second, longer, kiss.  And as they disappeared back into the Palace, we ventured out onto the streets of London.  There weren't that many cars around, as many streets were blocked.  It gave this sense of being able to just run around the town which was different and amazing.  You usually can't walk three steps without fear of being run over by a cab.

We decided to make our way to the Palace to see the aftermath but only after checking out the selection of cheesy souvenirs which included Special Kate and Will's Royal Os breakfast cereals and Kate and Wills condoms.  Once to the Palace, we wandered around as people started packing up their campsites and slowly drifting out.  We got to a crossing and suddenly, couldn't go any further.  We had been stopped.  We asked what was going on - no one knew for sure.  Suddenly everyone was calling their "phone a friend" at home to see what was happening on TV.  Funny how the people watching from far away sometimes have more information than those on-site.  We all learned that they were on the move.  But we didn't know who "they" were.  So we stayed at the ready.  And then they drove by.  I heard the crowds and set my camera to movie mode and held it as high as I could.  I am far too short to see anything in a crowd.  But on my little movie, you can clearly see the Aston Martin convertible they drove to Clarence House.  YAY!  I was that close to royalty.  Cool.  A few minutes later, Kim saw Harry leave.  Again, I have a photo of it, but I'm too short to see over a crowd.  We walked around a bit more and by now it was past 4pm.  A full day of royal watching.  And well worth it!

Home

I felt such a nice sense of relief getting back home to the hotel room from my day trip to Wroxeter Roman Ruins, Craven Arms and the Stokesay Castle.  And I think of the relief I will feel tomorrow when I get back home to my flat London.  And then how I will feel when I get back home to LA.  Wait....where is my home?  What exactly makes a home?  They say home is where you hang your toothbrush.  I remember that the most when I was on the precipice of becoming a Road Comic back in the 90s.  It was supposed to make you feel better about being on the road 350 days a year and never seeing your friends or family.  I think it just reminded you to take your toothbrush.

It's fascinating to see so many ancient homes.  Wroxeter was built for 5000 Roman troops stationed in the area to keep the pesky Welsh and Picts under control.  When the Romans left, some stayed behind with their new Welsh friends and families.  They made themselves a new home.  But not having access to the money for upkeep and repairs (the Romans now had domestic issues to pour their wealth into) it fell into disrepair in the 4th century.  Artists' illustrations show it going from a large, marble covered Emerald City to a shanty town of sepia-toned shacks and lean-tos.  Stones were pinched for more important Anglo-Saxon buildings elsewhere in the 7th century.

The Castle on the other hand was a residence from 1291 when the refurbishments on a defensive tower were complete until 1869 when John Allcott bought it because he knew it was important, even though he was building the impressive Stokesay Court just 3 miles away which also still stands and was featured as the lavish residence in the film, Atonement.  That's almost 600 years of being called home.  What a lucky house!  Not so many get to claim so many residence, so many people who walk through the threshold and proclaim, "Home at last!"  These days, while it is a beautiful place, it is home only to tourists during the day and bats and cats at night.  At least there is someone there to love it.

My audio guide, an actor's interpretation of the Victorian lady responsible for much of the castle's restoration, tells me that each owner treated the house quite well, down to the first major landowner in the area who bought it from a close relative of William the Conqueror in the 11th Century.  A later owner loved it so much that when the Parlimentarians tried to conquer it (because it looks like a castle/fortress - it must be conquered!) in the name of Oliver Cromwell, they just simply surrendered, lest the house be damaged.  So much for the tower, secret passages and crossbow slits.  But thanks to their yellow-bellied cowardice, it continued to be a lovely, happy residence for many, many years. 

What is amazing is that this castle has survived about 700 years and Dad's house, where we moved when I was 4, only made it 45 years. It now sits post-auction, alone save for the contents that my brother an I don't want.   Dad was never one for value-added on that house.  The previous one, he certainly added a little somethin-somethin when he painted a mural of a stream with restful trees on the dining room wall, a tradition my brother followed at the Rodney Dr house by painting an American flag on his one window-less bedroom wall.  I wonder what it would take to keep my childhood home going for 700 years....?

Just a thought, but there were an awful lot of carved, wooden topless ladies in the castle.  Is that the missing link?

Sugar

*NOTE: I am on a train to Shrewsbury, so exclamations will be peppered through this post.*

WOW!  The Rapeseed/canola plant is in full bloom turning the English hillsides a bright yellow.  It's sunny and vibrant, quite a departure from the gloomy winter of just a few weeks ago.

And on to the Sugar Story.  It was the day James came to visit in March.  He had gone to the flat while I was at work to unpack.  Once we both got back to the flat, I saw this canister labeled "sugar" on the kitchen counter.  James never adds sugar to tea or coffee, so I thought it was odd he would bring sugar with him.  I asked what it was.  He thought it was mine.  Which led us to look at each other incredulously - then whose is it?  I had a disturbed feeling as I realized that someone else had been in the flat.  But how could that be?   I checked the windows - closed and locked.  And anyway why would someone break in, take nothing and leave sugar?

I emailed the landlord the next day.  And by the afternoon, was barraged by emails and phone calls back littered with apologies.  Apparently, a repairman had been sent to repair the faulty buzzer system and though he was specifically told to only access the main panel in the hallway, he for whatever reason decided to let himself into my apartment.  Now, presumably, he would have wanted to check the buzzer.  Maybe he did.  It still doesn't work, so maybe he didn't.  But what he did do is make himself a cup of tea. 

*Arriving in Coventry as Stonehenge is playing on my headphones.  The end part with the mandolin solo is perfectly fitting for the landscape.*

So.  The Tea Loving Repairman has a tea making kit he takes with him which includes a container of milk, tea bags, a cup and a container of sugar.  He left his sugar behind.  The landlord was quite clear that he didn't use my cups or tea.  I am supposing he used my kettle however, otherwise it'd be a very cold cup of tea.  And the Brits aren't all that into Sun Tea.

*Arriving in Birmingham and changing trains.  My 12:09 to Shrewsbury has been changed to a 12:02.  Good thing I asked.  Made it on the train with only 1 minute to spare.  Birmingham.  Hmmmm.  Industrial.*

I still have the sugar container, which is actually a vitamin bottle with "sugar" written in sharpie.  I opened it and it smells like vitamins.  Not my first choice in flavors.  I wonder what that does for tea?  But I hope someday, the repairman will be back to complete the buzzer repair and reclaim his sugar bottle.  How on Earth is he getting on in the meantime?  Unsweet tea, I suppose.

Healing powers of tea.

I was stepping off the 38 at Angel, furious about an exchange from earlier in the day, and I saw him.  A kid, really, in a sleeping bag with his head down, leaning on a phone box.  I have to admit that with so many drunks, I don't really notice people sitting on the street.  But I looked this kid in the face.  He was crying. 

Walking past, I tried to put it all together.  Why was he crying?  Was he homeless?  Maybe he got kicked out of his home.  He looked clean - and so young - maybe 17 or 18.   What should I do?  I don't know how shelters work here.  I don't know where one is.  Maybe churches provide that function?  It was pretty warm out and he has his sleeping bag, so he won't freeze.  But it was gnawing at me.

So I walked back.  I dug a couple of pounds out of my purse and knelt down to place them into his hat.  I caught his eyes, which were red and swollen.  "Are you OK?"  He seemed surprised that I was speaking to him.  He looked back down and said, "Yeah...uh...yeah.  Thanks.  Cheers."  He hesitated.  I wanted him to be ok but also if he said otherwise, I really wasn't sure what to do.  He wasn't drunk or high.  He was just - devastated.  But the kind of devastation that people usually keep to themselves.  I walked away.

Again, it gnawed at me.  The kid was crying.  So I did what I like people to do for me when I'm crying.  I brought him a cup of tea.

Buying the tea was easy until I had to decide if it should have sugar or milk in it.  I like milk, but what if he's lactose intolerant or something?  I started to stray off into the what-if-he-sues-me territory, then admonished myself for being jaded by an overly litigious American society.  I decided plain tea was best.  As I approached, he was staring at the ground again with the sleeping bag pulled up to his chin.  The sight was heartbreaking.

"I brought some tea," I said.  He looked up and thanked me.  Again he seemed surprised.  "It's going to be OK," I said.  I really hoped I was right.  For a second, I think he believed me.

"I hope so."

"It will.  Be careful.  The tea is really hot."  He reached out an arm from underneath the blanket.  despite my warning, he started drinking right away.  Some people do better with hot-hot than others.  I thought to myself, "Oh great!  This kid is having a rotten time and I just helped him singe off the roof of his mouth."  He thanked me again.


I walked away, hoping after a good cry and a cup of tea, things would seem a lot clearer.  I really hope for this kid it's that easy.

I'm a Phosphorus

One of the perks of joining a posh, high end gym is all the free stuff you get such as free intro to pilates, a free massage and a free health assessment.  As it happens, many gyms in London (maybe England?) have medical centers inside or next door.  I guess the idea is that is you are a gym person, you are probably interested in health stuff and might like to have a doctor nearby.  They also take National Health Insurance which was surprising, since I had imagined that to be more institutional looking.  But at this particular place, they have a "menu" of treatments including everything from a pap smear to reiki.  It is, after all, an Orthodox and Complimentary Medical Center.  Er, Centre.

Never one to pass up a freebie, I arrived for my free health assessment on my lunch break.  I walked into the glass-walled center in the middle of the gym to find all three  assistants staring out into the gym at a man who had just passed out during his cardio.  One was on the phone to the ambulance trying to explain that while they ARE a medical center (centre) they really are in need of transport to an actual hospital and that they are not next to the gym, but inside the gym.  Meantime, a man in a white coat rushes back into the centRE then rushes back out with an armful of equipment such as a stethoscope and that blood pressure cuff thing.  We watch helplessly as the guy perks up, then passes out again.  A gym employee pops in to ask how long the ambulance will take.  I remember my bus ride of 2 miles taking an hour sometimes in traffic and shudder.  The poor guy can't seem to stay conscious.  I was just about to suggest that maybe I come back when someone isn't dying all over the gym floor when the man in the white coat pops into the waiting room and ushers me back into an exam room.  He tells me he is Dr Asher.  And the unconscious man will be OK.  Eventually.

And so the assessment begins with a battery of questions about family members. He looks at my toes under a black light.  He asks if I was afraid of thunderstorms as a child.  He measures and weighs and takes a tiny amount of blood.  He asks if I propped  a door open with a brick, would I first wrap it in pretty paper?  (I had to admit I was torn on that one - depends on the length of propping.  Beauty vs Practicality, you see.)  And more questions.  Finally my revelation that I had pneumonia seals it.  I am a phosphorus.  And then we ran out of time.  He offers to finish up next week, since we were cut short by the passing-out-guy.  He tells me that it will all be wrapped up in a report with recommendations for diet and exercise.  But not wrapped up in pretty paper, as he isn't so much a Phosphorus.


I don't know if all British Medical Practitioners ask cryptic questions - is it part of the NHI?  But I must say, I can't wait to find out what in the Union Jack is a Phosphorus!