(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.