Picture Time!

That would be a lovely sunset seen from my school library window...mind you, that's probably at about 4:30 PM...
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That would be Buckingham Palace, Thanksgiving Day.
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"Grad school is hard," said Barbie.

Well, maybe that's a bit of an exaggeration, but the fact is that I'm snowed under with essays (as opposed to actual snow) at the moment so I'm being a somewhat unfaithful blogger.
Right now I'm sitting in the library at school with a few members of the "nerd herd" (MA students). It's close to 8 PM which means it's been dark for about six hours already. :) (Have I mentioned how early the sun sets here?)
Let's see...what can I update my faithful blog-readers (both of you) about?
Attended my first-ever UK office Christmas party with a friend and her boyfriend. Everything you hear about UK office Christmas parties is absolutely true. It was at a Greek restaurant so you know we got to break stuff. :) I leaned over and told my friend S* who is also Jewish, "Now ya see, that's the difference between our culture and theirs...there's no way my mother would ever let me smash perfectly good plates."
Recently got interviewed on BBC Radio, but that's a long story. :)
Saw Kevin Spacey and the Archbishop of Cantebury switch on the Christmas lights down the street from where I work. I tried to convince a co-worker to yell out, "Kaiser Sozey!" while Kevin was speaking, but he wouldn't. Chicken.
Have finally discovered the fantastic Indian food that everyone says is here but which had hitherto gone un-found by me. I was beginning to think it was just a myth, but oh, was I wrong. Speaking of which, you know what's kinda fun? Thinking up names of songs and twisting them with names of Indian dishes, i.e., "Korma Chameleon", "You Can't Curry Love", and well, you get the idea. OK, maybe that's more fun (not to mention more challenging) with a few glasses of wine. :)
OK, back to work for me.

Then again I don't have a clue about boxing day

so why should I expect England to do Thanksgiving right?
But the company was good. :) And all things considered I have much I'm grateful for
...even if there was no stuffing.

Thanksgiving: the Plan

In the absence of time to cook and several necessary ingredients for a Thanksgiving meal, a party of five of us have planned to go out tomorrow night for Thanksgiving. We're going to a restaurant near Buckingham Palace in London that is allegedly putting on a Thanksgivingesque feast for £19.50 a head.
It's important to note that since Thanksgiving isn't just about quality of food but quantity of food, it is of course a buffet.
Then will come the difficult task of finding a pub that's showing the Cowboys game.
Let the gluttony begin.
Will post and update after the event if I'm not still in a turkey-induced stupor.

No kidding

This email was actually circulated around the office where I work, though the names and places have been omitted:

If you left your socks (black) in room 3 please collect them before 12.00noon today when I will bin them. (Its not very pleasant entertaining guests in there with dirty socks sitting on the table!)

Wow.

p's and queues

So here's something that happens most mornings...

I get to the National Rail station, from where a train to central London leaves approximately every 15 minutes. I go to the counter to buy an off-peak travelcard (after 9:30 the price goes down by half and I take the 9:31 train). The teller informs me that the train that was supposed to come at 9:15 is late. I check the clock; it's about 9:25, which would ordinarily give me enough time to buy a ticket and get to the platform HOWEVER, since the 9:15 train still hasn't come, the teller can't sell me an off-peak train ticket, for fear that I might jump on the 9:15 train when it comes at like 9:25, thereby bilking London Transport out of six quid.

So all of us waiting for the 9:31 train and the coinciding cheaper fare, have to queue so that when the 9:15 train finally pulls in and out of the station at about 9:28 or so, we can all rush to the counter to get our off-peak tickets before the next train comes at 9:31.

Ah, efficiency.

Next up on Survivor: London...

now that she's finally obtained a bank account, Noe will attempt to get a National Insurance Number. Stay tuned....

Only slightly better than ripping out my arm hairs one by one

is the process of obtaining a bank account in the UK.

Fireworks Explanations

I finally had the whole fireworks/ bonfire weekend thing sufficiently explained to me last night; I mean, not sufficiently enough for me to understand why I was awoken by blasts and flashes at 4:45 AM the other morning...but sufficiently enough for all other practical intents and purposes. :) I'd go into the explanation here for all you Americans out there, but hey, I'm lazy and that's what google is for.

I was also able to explain in kind why I find the whole thing so fascinating. You see, in the U.S., we are lectured practically from birth that if you set your own fireworks off, you are guaranteed to lose an eye...or a limb, or some appendage. I can remember frequently being shown pictures or videos on the evening news of some poor disfigured kid "whose Fourth of July antics rapidly led to a night spent in the Emergency Room."

I guess those American scare tactics worked. Cuz one of the last things I would do is set off my own fireworks in the backyard of my own house while inibriated. But British people have been doing it for years, convinced that, as M* said at the pub last night, "If you're stupid enough to injure yourself setting off fireworks, then it was only a matter of time before you were in some sort of kitchen appliance accident anyway."

So all this to say, while I'm still at heart afraid of the inevitability of losing an eye that would surely follow my own attempts to ignite my own fireworks under the influence, in the spirit of the weekend, I'm happy to watch other people do it.

It had to happen sooner or later...

Those of you who know me know that I'm psychotically loyal to my hair person back in SF, the wonderful, fantastic, gifted artistic E" who's bravely taken me from blonde to red to brunette to blue to pink, to combinations thereof, etc.

Needless to say, one of the first thoughts that went through my shallow (but well coifed) head when I was considering moving to London was, "But what will I do without E*?" Seriously, when you mentally calculate how much a plane flight from SF to London would cost in addition to the hairstyle...well, you know yer an addict.

But today I could put it off no more. The roots were too hideous, the ends just too scruffy...plus I was PMSing. So I took a deep breath...and started googling. No place I found online gave me good vibes, but when I popped out to grab a cup of coffee I spied a small studio advertising a student discount. It looked clean and reasonably priced (for London) and the people working there had nice hair...so I tiptoed to the counter and made an appointment for after work.

I actually almost didn't go, the prospect of a new hair person being that repugnant to me. But all's well that ends well. I have new color, a new cut and feel like I've taken a big step.

Now, I know that some of you out there are probably thinking that with all the messed up things out there--hurricanes, wars, possible impending avian flu epidemics--that I'm super trivial for devoting this much cyberspace to my hair chronicles.

Yeah well, Mr. McCrankypants, maybe if you went and got your hair done you wouldn't be quite so darn gloomy.

funny flatmate

Below is the full text of an email from my flatmate, answering my inquiry regarding when our washing machine will get fixed:

[Per the landlord] the method for getting it fixed is to walk down the street until you see the washing machine repairs van, and then invite the driver to come and fix the one at 105.


Coming soon, the Bird Flu prevention method based on walking down the street hitting random birds with a cricket bat....

Confession

Have somehow managed to gain four pounds since moving here. Must be the sudden increase of all things potato-related in my diet. That and those dang HobNobs.

Anyway, am hoping that this public admission will compel me to reverse this fortune. Plus, doesn't typing burn calories?

Gotta go. Time for dinner.

Answer: Two and a half hours.

Question: How long did the 14-mile trip into work take this morning?

Welcome to London.

Moving on, I have to mention something I really appreciate about British conversational dialogue. I like how instead of asking, "How are you?" (which we Americans often ask without really wanting an answer) they simply say, "[You] all right?"* which requires a much simpler "yes" or "no" response. Good thinkin' there.

* The "you" is implied, not actually spoken. If I were to write it out like it sounds, it would read something like, "Yaright?"

I'll take "things I just don't understand about the UK*" for 500 please, Alex.

1. the "logic" behind a two pence coin
2. Marmite
3. the fascination with Big Brother
4. the absolute refusal to sell refrigerated eggs
5. the staunch anti-ice position
6. how people here drink instant coffee...and seem to enjoy it


*and probably never will

Comparisons

Today a co-worker...let's call him *Grover for now...posed a question to me, which went something along the lines of asking the differences between the tube and the subway in say, New York. I didn't have so great of an answer then, but after pondering a bit more, I've come to the conclusion that the major difference doesn't so much have to do with the differences in public transport as the people who use the public transport; i.e. if the New York City Dept of Transportation had to close down a whole train line, like London has had to shut down the Northern Line, New Yorkers would flippin' riot. They just wouldn't have it. They'd be like, "You gotta be freakin' kiddin' me! Yo, you shut down my train line and I'm gonna bust a cap in your..." You get the idea. Not Londoners. They just adapt.

So there ya go, Grover. Your answer lies somewhere between (heavy sigh) "All right I guess I'll have to take another route" and big riot cops with mace.

Oh and the seats are much comfier here.

OK who *are* these women?

London is chock-full of beyootiful women...stunning, fashion-forward, gorgeous women. And that's fine; I don't begrudge them their uber-attractiveness. Not at all. But what really gets me are the women who manage to look good even on the tube. I just don't get it; is there some trick I'm missing? I'm standing there, various parts of my body drenched in sweat since it's only like six degrees from dehydration down there, makeup long since vanished, feet aching from trudges up stairs, then down stairs, then up again...and invariably I look through a sea of exhausted sardines crammed in the carriage and I see her. She looks polished, put together and poised. I have various theories as to how these women manage this feat:
1. They aren't real women but some sort of Stepford fembot creatures.
2. In my rush to find the victoria Line, the Metropolitan Line, the Waterloo Line...I'm somehow missing the signs that say "Airbrushing Line ---->."
3. There must be some class you can take here called "Looking Good on the Tube 101."
Again, hear me out. I don't resent them. I don't. As a matter of fact, since so many people on the tube seem to be uh, err, hmmm "hygenically challenged" I'd much rather they exist than not exist. And it's not like I want to pick anyone up on the tube, mind you, or anything of that sort. No, my curiosity is purely scientific.
Really.

The M25 at the end of the rainbow...

Yay for the camera phone!
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Three interesting facts I picked up tonight:

1. The children on my block think the house I live in is haunted.
2. The reason there are no rubbish (trash) bins (cans) in the tube stations is a result of IRA bombings.
3. A pig in a blanket over here is *not* the same thing as it is in the States.

Chicken soup, please...

I officially have a cold. An unfortunate coincidence with my first day of work and Rosh Hashanah....oh well, kvetch kvetch kvetch...more later when I come out of my Vitamin C and LemSip stupor.

PS. If by some chance anyone out there does have some chicken soup laying around, I'll give you my address.

Yellow Dress and Chocolate Milk...

I don't remember too much about my first day of school, excpet the colors on the carpet of my kindergarten class and the fact that I wore a yellow dress with white checks, on which I managed to spill chocolate milk during lunch. Maybe that's why I spent my first day of MA orientation yesterday convinced that at some point I was gonna spill something on myself...

Addendum to Affirmation

Many thanks to jedwardkeyes for pointing out my gross omissions of Ian Curtis (tho technically he's from Manchester) and The Office (vis a vis ergo sum...how could I forget?) but I'm more upset that I forgot to include one of the truly great things about Great Britain:

11. Dude, McDonalds does banana milkshakes!!!

Affirmation

Someone* who shall remain nameless told me recently that my blog was starting to sound a bit anti-Brit (yes, this person is British). So, in a complete cowering to peer pressure, I'll now note some of the things I really like about London:

1. Hyde Park
2. The British Library (what this country hordes is unbeleivable)
3. The samosa from that guy on Brick Lane
4. Red and Happy magazines
5. That the NFI is showing the Dylan documentary and so is BBC Two
6. Muller Rice--that stuff is the business
7. The fact that people who have lived here for a long time can still get just as lost as me
8. All the open markets
9. Flowers everywhere
10. The cup of coffee I got from Corner Coffee on my walk this morning,the best 90p I've spent so far

There ya go, a ten-item salute.

Two (American) Football Tales

Me: Well, I'm in England with the most basic of cable packages (i.e. all home shopping, all the time). So the fact that football season has begun in the States is mildly heartbreaking. I miss the anticipation of beginning a Sunday or Monday night not knowing which team was going to win. I miss the coinciding cool snap in the air reminding me of Friday nights in high school. I miss the reckless gluttony that accompanies each game, the indigestion inducing array of chips, salsa, wings, beer, and chili without which no football game is complete. I miss the yelling at the screen, the ridiculing of the commentators, the quick rushes to the bathroom to pee between plays (ah, thank goodness for TiVo). I miss it all. You can take the girl outta Texas, I suppose...

So last Monday night marked the first games of the season and I'm in London, a city which gets far more excited about a game that sometimes actually ends with a 0-0 score, but for the most part, leaves the NFL out of the TV lineup, especially on my aforementioned poopy cable package. So I went out in search of a bar or pub that would pipe in the Cowboys game....didn't happen, as it turns out the Sky TV sports network only shows one game, which happened to be New York v. Arizona. Good enough, I thought. I had to go to great lengths, but I found it: the Sports Cafe, an establishment reminiscent of all the places I would have scorned at home: the ESPN Zone, Hooters, Planet Hollywood...we're talkin' a TV in every corner, underdressed waitresses and overpriced beer. And something else that my years in California made me forget about: smoking allowed.

I watched the whole game from start to finish. I listened to the incongruous voice of a British commentator giving his take after each quarter. I drank two Guinness and ate what passed for decent nachos. I wore my Dallas Cowboy jersey and yukked it up with other Americans in town who'd also found this gap in the time-sports continuum. It was great. Thank you, Britain. I left with a scratchy throat and seered lungs and a bit less money.

I would have been super-satisfied with this, one of my most memorable football experiences ever...but I just got an IM from my mom. My brother, Micah, it so happens, was in a lottery at work. Now, the kid says he never wins anything, right. Well, when it rains it pours or whatever the expression is, because Mr. Lucky just won two tickets to the Super Bowl. All expenses paid. Hotel, flight, car, probably free hot dogs, too (I hate hot dogs; it's just the principle of the thing).

Anyway, it kind of puts a bit of a damper on my story, eh? Just kidding, Micah. I'm really happy for you. Nope, not bitter at all.

Sigh...wonder which home shopping show is on next...

A special treat, pix of my pups...today is official "I Miss My Dogs Day."

Donut and Professor...if you don't think they are the most precious dogs in the world then there is something wrong with you.
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This is Professor, the smartest dog in the universe, reading to my friend V, who is housing both him and Donut in Portland while I'm away.
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Following are pix from BBC's Proms in the Park festival:

Beginning of the festival...everyone dry, happy and patriotic.
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Middle of the festival.... the first drops of rain have been felt and the preparations for the deluge are being made, including this very nice, resourceful green bag igloo.
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End of the festival, or "How we know we are in Britain."
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Something I find disconcerting...

The ominous use of the word "terminate" that has infiltrated my daily life via the hypnotic fembot voice informing all hapless passengers on the underground: "This train terminates at Seven Sisters" or, "Welcome to Kennington Station, where this train terminates."
I know, I'm a picky, paranoid American, but can't she just say "ends"?

It's nice to know that wherever you are in the world...

IKEA is there to infuriate you.

Things that took less time than getting a mobile phone:

1. Customs at Heathrow
2. Registering with the NHS
3. Finding a flat

Hampstead, near where my friend Sarah* lives.
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testing

check baby check baby 1,2,3