Breaking through the London fog

It's not like I don't know London. I traveled to this fair city many a times with Phaidon. And though I mostly kept to the northeast corner of the city limits I still became acquainted with the little Londonisms, which, of course, continued in the day-to-day correspondents with my British counterparts.

If there was one thing I could say I took away from this preparatory education it was finding out about a little gem called Bank Holidays. During the long stretches after the Martin Luther Kind Jr. holiday until New York blissfully brought on its bloom it seemed as though our London office was hopping out of the office for a bank holiday once a week. In fact, in my minds eye, I'd say these little vaguely named days off seemed to come just at the moments when I needed them most.

Needless to say the Bank Holidays were not far from my mind when I nestled into a new, albeit temporary, life in London. Yes I am working for a news organisation that does not sleep and, true, I should (and do, I promise) take advantage of every working opportunity, but even still the sweet lingering flavor of these untouchable British minibreaks kept breaking on the tip of my tongue.

Coincidentally I'm reading the book "Over Here" a personal account of all things London by the former Ambassador to the UK Raymond Seitz. ALright, so it's a little outdated (Princess Di's death is his pivotal storyline) but it still rings true.

One recent tube ride home I found myself reading a chapter on the difference in holidays between the US and the UK, namely the existence of (gasp) bank holidays. Little did I expect the chapter to end with the realization that these breaks are awkwardly packed together during the spring and summer so you're left with a long, gray fall. Ta da!

Autumn in the United Kingdom will remain long and dreary, uninterrupted and unrelieved. But I suppose this barren season is made bearable by the Christmas light at the end of the tunnel

Ah, London. You dark and curious stranger, you.

Luckily I've found ways to cut through the autumnal fog:

With funny little canal boat ride sightings in Regents Park


Punkdom of Camden


Choice seating for a nibble


tchotchke!


espresso art in Camden


public art in Brick Lane


fox sightings in West Hampstead


high tea with visiting friend!


and balcony street views


I don't need no stinkin' bank holidays.

xoxoL

London adventures

So I'm oot and aboot, people. Wasting no time hititng the streets. Well, maybe wasting a little bit of time getting lost on the weekend re-routed tube. But that's all part of the plan.

A taste of some adventures taken last weekend.

Brick Lane.


Penile monument (somewhere between Brick Lane and London Bridge)


Chinatown


Mmmm meat bun lunch (so tasty I didn't realize I was eating the paper it once sat on)


Oooo dessert?


Ahhh American tourist trap - recreated Friends coffee shop (I swear I didn't mean to go here...but when in fake American London?)


Columbia Road flower market


Pretty purchases




xoxoL

*poof* a flat

I'm official! Officially a Londener. I have an address. The address comes with a flat. The flat comes with a room. The room comes with furniture and the whole bit comes with the added feature of flatMATES. Yes. Friends!

They are extremely lovely and doing very cool and fun things in the arts and this whole thing is just a dream come true. Of course it took some work to get here.

let me just travel down flat-search memory lane for a moment...

I was on a hunt. Well, first I was kindly taken in my a friend of my Dad's. They were so very lovely to take me in, this helpless American on their stoop. Little did they know they'd be adopted host family for nearly a month.

I searched on all sorts of cleverly named craigslist-equivalents for the right fit. I even checked some BBC classifieds.

The advert said something to the effect of Beautiful Maida Vale flat! Close to Nothing Hill! Quaint, 5 mins to the BBC.

We speak on the phone, me and ms Maida Vale. She sounds lovely and inviting. She gives me directions and we set a date. After wandering in and around tiny little london streets I finally come across Ms. Vale's street, which was locked behind a giant iron gate (welcoming). Behind the gate are a handful of tiny brick buildings (quaint). Ms. Vale said that she'd come out and meet me so I survey the squat buidlings. As the road slopes down I notice this young woman opening a window. I stop and she peeks her head out - she looks about 30s or so. cute, nice bangs. So I wave, she sees me gives me a good lip curl shakes her head and retreats into the darkness.

OK. Not Ms. Vale. three houses down, perched against some sort of garden decore (sans garden) is this tiny little woman with a shock of white hair. Upon seeing me she gives a little wave and I see where this is going.

Ms. Vale is one hot little septuagenarian who likes to pair pastels with her neutrals, so long as they're matched with a pair of comfortable loafers. She gave me a tour of the place. My room was on their first floor in the back just past their piano parlor. You just have to step carefully over the marshmallow-colored wall-to-wall carpet (take your shoes of if you can remember) and get a load of that single bed. Oh yes. There's also a kitchenette all to myself that comes with a counter and a microwave.

Though we had a lovely chat in their little-angel-inspired living room I had to say adieu.

Just because Vale didn't work out didn't mean that Cute Notting Hill flat!!! wouldn't.

So off I went.

I tried to put my guard up a little more. I clearly can't judge british people's ages over the phone. SO when me and Notting Hill chatted I tried to pick up some hints. She mentioned a man but called him 'her guy' so that seemed young. Right? or perhaps a fallback to some sort of 50s jargon that I wasn't familiar with.

So we chatted, set a date and got on with it. I got off the tube and was actually right smack dab in the middle of NH. This was already looking better. Shops and cute little eateries. It was a delight. I was already picturing my Saturday stroll, my coffee on my way to work.

So Ms. Notting Hill wasn't around so i was actually being shown the place by her guy. We texted before meeting, me and the guy. I thought this was a good sign.

But then he emerged from this tiny white-brick home - A slouched figure with a bright red basketball of a head that, curiously, had this collection of long gray hair attached to the bottom back side of it. At this point I couldn't help buut second guess my judgment of character or, at least, apartment ads.

It sort of looked like he'd put a child's fake beard on backward and called it a day. He was more criminal-sketch-drawing-come-to-life than new roomie. But, I thought, I've come all this way...

So I followed him in. Surely this had to be the scene of some sort of kidnapping. But criminal sketch was actually quite nice so long as I didn't look directly at him and the gaping shadowed hole were teeth once lived.

The house smelled of ciggies and cat urine. A plus for for any apartment hunter. The room for rent was up a few flights, through and past all sort of common rooms and such. The room was, actually, quite nice. Sun was cascading in and you would have a view of the this budding tree in their backyard.

Criminal sketch croaked "Oh, I hope you like cats." I smiled. "Strays" he said. "We pick 'em up" he said, as though the action had yet to come to a close. "They're generally afraid of anything on two feet so they tend to hid behind the bed."

I pointed to the single bed in the sunlight-room. 'this bed?' I asked. Yup. It was a statement, really. The cats came with the room. I could feel R sneezing across the Atlantic.

Criminal sketch and I parted ways with me promising that I'd call him as soon as I figured out my finances. OH. I nearly forgot to mention. Included in the rent I couldnt afford was dinner cooked by Criminal Sketch...every night.

But no matter. Because Ms. Vale and Criminal Sketch led me to my new sitch, which is just perfect - this perfect English building and this cute little flat. The roommates are normal young girls who chat and eat with friends and drink wine and hang out. One isn't familiar with 90210, but that can be changed. All in all it is fabs.

So today I moved from this blue door in south west London.


To this blue door in the north west London.


Ta Da!


And I couldn't be happier.

xoxoL

Just grab a tenner and your jumper and head to the tube!

London is definitely familiar.

The people speak the same language, thankfully, though with varying degrees of understandability.

As a city it has a nice mix of buildings, monuments, tourist attractions and homey instances of everyday life.

There's a free morning paper, Metro, just as there is in Chicago (The Red Eye) and New York (also Metro and one other I can't remember at the moment).

And of course the public transportation, which indeed works and gets you from A to B.

But just as London warms up to you it blows a few stray oddities to send you a kilter. Though it's the English language they use, it's Londonese they speak. There are all these words, words you'd know but are all topsy turvey here.

For example:
Jumper (sweater)
Pudding (dessert)
Uni (college)
Flat (apartment)
Trousers (pants)
Knickers (underwear)

There's also phrases. At work I'm surrounded by 50 or so Brits buzzing about, catching up on their weekend activities, chatting about projects or just trying to get their work done. When, for example, they ring (another word, meaning 'to call') someone up the first thing they say is "You alright?" as though the person on the other end is suffering from an unexpected tragedy or is caught under a rock, trapped in a closet or has fallen down a short flight of stairs. But of course everyone seems to get over said tragedy quickly and they move on to business.

It's our equivalent of "How you doing?" but the "You alright?" seems to imply that you're not, in fact, alright. That things are going quite badly and that this phone call is only aggravating said state of not alrightness.

I've been asked this a few times myself. Monday morning, with still the better part of 8 o'clock to get through and the girl behind me perks up "You alright?" and considering my transient life, luckless apartment search, frustrating internship, lack of funds, and withering job prospects in an increasingly dire economy I thought she knows! a friend! But turned around to a pleasant but indifferent face and quickly recovered 'good, good, and you?'

In turn I tried the next day to ask of the guy sitting to my right, "are you alright?" but I didn't say it with enough nonchalance or maybe my American accent suddenly made they're introductory phrase seem thick with concern. He looked at me quizzically, mid chew, and said, "pardon?" I recovered again with a "how was your, er, Monday night?"

There's also a funny thing about pronunciation. Obviously if you have a British accent there is no concern about muddling up words and halting conversation. But with this sticky American accent water cooler chats are a little more arduous. Names, also, fall into this category. My computer trainer's name is Bernard. Which I would want to pronounce ber-NARD with the ber running quickly into the nard. But, he introduced himself as BEHHR-nehd, with really very little room for a consonant for me to grab a hold of. The solution, of course, was to not call him anything at all. If I needed help I sort of appeared behind him or asked the Canadian to my right. In the meantime I practiced the sound of this familiar-yet-foreign name as it escaped my mouth - while in the bathroom, on my way out of the tube, during a run (bhr-ned....BUR-nad....brnd, etc. etc.). But when I finally said his name out loud, during class, it sounded riDICulous. All American and then this one British word invasion? I cut it off halfway through and so Bernard didn't respond. I've just reverted to the not calling him anything at all.

But I do love the accent. And it really does vary from person to person not to mention the whole lot of kiwis and Aussies thrown in their for good flavor. It's a roller coaster of linguistics and i can dig. My American one is terribly bland so I'm trying to spice it up with a Canadian 'eh' every now and again but, let's be honest, that's a weak little spice. Slowly but surely I'll work some words into my repertoire. I've ousted bathroom (they don't seem to like that). I can't jump on the Loo bandwagon just yet so I've settled for 'toilet' as in, do you know where the toilets are? Also flat. This seems easy enough. I'm not looking for an apartment, I'm looking for a flat with some lovely flatmates. The flatmates is a little put on but I'm sure if I try it out long enough it'll become second nature.

I ought to throw some photes in, eh? These are taken in walking distance to London flat #1 in south west London.

i have many more from my weekend adventures but those will come momentatiously.

Looking across the Thames


The Hammersmith Bridge (painted Harrods green)


East view down the Thames


Oh and whaduknow...Lola. muffin!


Stay alright, people.

xoxoL

The new (BBC) me

First day!

It went along swimmingly for those of you who are on the edge of your seats. My commute was WAY to short for the not-one-but-two papers I bought to read during the time.

I had checked and rechecked the route from my tube stop to TV station at the BBC. It didn't seem clear. I walk north and THEN cross? Low and behold you could see the MASSive buildings from the escalator that brought me safely to ground floor. I needn't worry.

How the hell do you order a coffee in London? I tried twice today and both times was received by curious looks. I thought it must be my American peeking through so I tried the order again with a faint british accent, which really just ends up being a long "Pleeeeeeeese" at the end. But still - all blank face. Then I'm inevitably forced into what I'm obviously trying to hide - "OH," says the girl "you mean an Americana." Yes, yes, fine fine. (bitch).

Today was actually not my first day. It's sort of a pre-first day. It's a computer training day that was delightfully easy. It's all just false promises though. I'm going to grow confident and casual before the big blow on Wednesday. When we went around an introduced ourselves (there were five others. I am, however, the only sucker not being paid) I said I would be working on the Specials Team. A woman dressed in head-to-toe navy asked, "what's the specials team." Good question, I thought. I suddenly found the hem of my shirt very interesting and the question was diverted to the teacher (BER-nahd) who literally gasped. "Oh," he said, "they're they piece-de-resistance (at which point I began unraveling my fallen hem)." He went on to tell Navy that 'we' put all the 'crazy' stuff on the site - interactive maps and graphics - "if you want something exciting done to our story and don't know how to do it, you send it to them."

The room spun around and starred at me, this suddenly brilliant computer wiz, and I smiled politely and gulped loudly.

BUT. That excitement will come and smack me in the face later. For now, it's still intro. And intro is, gloriously, easy. I was so PLEASED and shocked to find that I had been well-equipped to, say, write a news article (helloooo inverted pyramid), if that were my assignment. Or write a headline or a photo caption (add something, don't repeat). Then, the entire afternoon was spent on photoshop. We were given the keys to the online database of photos (fabulously endless celebrity sightings...and other things I'm sure). We were told to find certain photos and crop and set accordingly. Blah blah blah.

Then we were set free! Allowed to look up whatever we wanted. Sure, I tried to play it straight at first, Gordon Brown here, Becks and Posh there, maybe a little Eddie Izzard for my sauce, but when we were asked to put together a three-block photo set of any theme I went by my old standby - PUPPIES! Oh the database was FULL of them. you'd be surprised. My final photo looked, ohhhh, something like this:



And with this photo I was welcomed into the class anew. Navy pulled out here camera and showed me a pocket-sized puppy of 4 months in a hamper, on a bed, rolled in a towel. Once-stern progammer in the back flipped through a pug-tastic slideshow on his iphone, suddenly all smiles.

Ah, puppies. I unites us all, americanos and brits alike.

xoxoL

BK girl hits LDN town

London.

She arrived in a flurry of goodbyes, heavy bags, miscalculated drop offs, layovers, parched tongues and salty drivers. But she certainly did arrive.

It all started at 4 p.m. in New York City where I settled into a very tight, very yellow, economy class seat in a Lufthansa airplane. I had done all that my dad, the seasoned traveler, suggested: light dinner (sammy and a delicious brownie), some sleeping drugs 30 minutes before take off, herbal sleeping drugs 15 minutes before take off, setting my watch five hours ahead (to get myself in the mood) and a sleep mask. Now if only I could have gotten my body to believe that, yes, 4 in the afternoon was sleepytime.

But the drugs kicked in and before I knew it a very dark 5 a.m. in Frankfurt rolled around. In a haze I found the general location of my next flight, set to leave in 2+ hours (the NYC flight landed oh so kindly ahead of sched). Nothing is open at 5 a.m. in the Frankfurt airport. And I couldn't even get into the waiting area to settle into an awkward sleep-standing snooze. I sat on the edge of a very dirt chair and munched on a peanut butter something rather i brought from the states (sweet heavenly pb treat).

I think the flight was delayed in the air, or so I gathered from the upset passengers surrounding me. I really could have cared less as I was passed out, drooling a little in my second very tight (now very blue) seat.

I arrived to a wonderfully sunny, surprisingly warm London day. I popped out of the car that picked me up and into one of those beautiful, tall, white and brick london homes. It's so very picturesque, with a blue door perched just steps form the thames. I was welcomed into the home by a quick talking cute blond girl, the daughter of the family, who was packing for uni. i was bleary eyed and had to catch up to what she was saying, with the accent and all, but she was lovely and her bounce was addictive. As luck would have it she had invited her grandparents over for lunch so she could see them before leaving that afternoon. One hour and one shower later the most English pair walked through that blue door - all tweed and clenched teeth. My goodness they were edible and lovely. They're chitter chatter practically lulled me to sleep - that or the cold meats and cheese. I napped, woke for a walk, ate again and slept so hard I would have thought a few years had passed.

The weekend has been a mix of strolling and getting. I'm slowly becoming a real working londoner, equipped with my very own oyster card - my way to get here and there on the tube - and a mobile! With my very own phone number, which I'm never going to remember. What's the deal with the (0) in these london numbers anyway? Do I dial it? Just it change the number? Is it like our ubiquitous (1) that isn't even necessary anymore? These are the things that keep me up at night.

I made dinner for my lovely host fam tonight, which, despite the slight overload of olive oil, seemed to go over well. Though I'm looking for a place of my own, I've unloaded a few of my things into a closet and am settled, in a way, here. I'm ready, at least, for my first day of BBC tomorrow. SO glad to have a purpose. After two weeks of lounging with Lola and then three days of meandering 'round London I wasn't sure what I was up to. Then it dawned on me, ah yes, work. Thank goodness. I've laid out my clothes for tomorrow and am getting up much earlier than necessary, which just means I'll give my snooze button a work out. I've packed by bag and if it weren't for this unsightly pimple I think I'd was a real person with a job.

Must get my beauty sleep.

More soon (and photes).

xoxoL

Hangin' tough in Orange

Perhaps, like me, you find yourself back at home in a small town in southern Connecticut. You've just spent 12 very quick months in the windy city and now, just as suddenly, you are sleeping in your pink-flower-decorated childhood room (albeit with a bed upgrade). So you're 29 years old. So the new dog has usurped your position as beloved female child.

What to do, what to do.

Since I'm experienced in this realm, I'll pass on a few good-times-a-comin' suggestions to help you pass the time.

Earn your keep. Let's be honest. Times are tough. You can't just be hanging on that comfy couch in the basement with all that glorious cable and not expect to give a little. Am I right? Besides, I dunno about you but, my Dad is one day away from selling me off to our neighbors for some good ol' fashioned yard work. Anyhoo. Get in there. I'm not saying you need to paint the house or grout the bathroom. Maybe bike down to your grocery story and pick up a little somethin' somethin'. Or empty the dishwasher or cook some dinner and then make sure to brag about it for most the night.

let yourself go. Why not? What are you doing with yourself anyway? Tap into that teen angst with a jammies outfit that lasts all day. Develop a little adult-on-set acne. Sure, keep things spicy.

When all else fails....hit up a puppy glamor shoot

Lola the sea-dog-wonder


Pensive Lola


Lola and toys


Lola from afar


Lola and friend


Lola and the vest of humiliation


Lola sunbathing