A Cold Chrimbo

So, been a long time friends, but here I am once again! And, here we are at my favorite time of year in London - - Christmas! I am convinced that the only place better than London for this festive season is Germany (and that is just because they have a whole town devoted to solely Christmas!). One of the best things about Christmas in London is that there is no religious PC anything here – nope, no need to talk about Kwannukahmas Fairies, “winter wonderland” parties or, as I was once vociferously chastized by the post woman at my old law firm, “holiday” stamps (Sorry, I didn’t realize Christmas stamps were offensive!).




Nope, not here, you can talk all you want about Christmas, Chrimbo, X-mas etc. and while you may be foolish enough to think that it is because they don’t have Thanksgiving to unite them in food coma-ville, it is really about the national pastime – yep, you guessed it.



Drinking.



Champagne, mulled wine, port….it is just party party party from December 1 until January 2, at which point everyone seems to either abstain for a month in a self-flagellation-style detox or indulge even more in a “hair of the dog” reminiscent month-long hangover cure.



And, natch, no work is really done during this time – how can you when you are leaving work early for Christmas lunches or catch-up drinks with old colleagues or friends or your team Christmas drinks or your department black tie Christmas party etc. etc. And, then the ensuing hangover, when 11 am seems too early of a start, so why not just wait until lunch time and sneak in then as if you just popped out for a sandwich? Of course, by then it is almost time to cut out early for a post-work drink. So, tada, a full day completed!



Now, the downside of all this revelry is, of course, your health suffers. Your immune system is at an all-time low, your clothes no longer fit, you’re haggard and your skin looks sallow. Which, at first, is manageable as everyone else is constantly teetering on the edge of the intoxication/hungover precipice, so you just look like everyone else.



And, then it snows.



Now, don’t get me wrong, snow is beautiful. London, covered in snow, is absolutely magical. Which, is a good thing, as you will be stuck here. The whole country comes grinding to a halt – at least those that are putting in their solid 2 hours per day! (see above if you are confused)



For some reason, every winter, there is shock and awe at this frozeny-white stuff that floats down and coats everything in a glassy slippery airplane-skidding, train track-blocking and road impasse-ing stuff. Sand trucks? Snow ploughs? Now, why on earth would anyone need those? So, instead everything shuts down. Hmmm. Now that I think about it, perhaps it is all a big plot to join the Chrimbo work avoidance revelry? Just sayin’….



But, I digress.



So, now, you’re run down. And frozen. Guess what comes next? Yep, you guessed it. And it always starts the same way, tickly throat, aches and pains and then progresses to full on stuffy, congested, hacking, feverish blah. Well, feverish if you are lucky, that is. Because the beauty of free healthcare is that everyone has access. And, the downside of free healthcare is that EVERYONE has access. So, the system gets a tad bit overwhelmed. I didn’t realize this when I first moved here and I made the mistake of going to the doctor when I felt ill.



Turns out you need a sucking chest wound or a lung protruding from your mouth to get any drugs.



Oh, you’ll get your share of “tea and sympathy” (or actually, if you have an American accent, a little less on the sympathy. I actually had a doctor once say to me, “We don’t give out antibiotics here like you do in the States.” To which, I replied, “Oh you mean to sick people?” Because, while I must admit that this point is pretty fair – coming from a country where you can “shop” for the doctor who gives you the best service (which is code for a Z-pack!), in that particular case, I happened to fly the next day to the US, where I had to go to an emergency clinic to get those oh-so-elusive antibiotics for bronchitis, a sinus and throat infection.)



Other wonderful tips and techniques that friends have gotten from a fruitless trip to the doctor (or GP as we call them: General Practitioner, apparently, despite the more obvious Generally Parsimonious (with the good stuff!)) include “you just need to boil some onions and drink that” and my all-time favorite: “you just need a pocketful of patience!” Hmmm. In hindsight, a trip to the GP, where I am stuck sitting in the waiting room with other hacking and snuffling people, is more of a threat to my health than a step towards feeling better. So, I stopped going.



And, sure enough. I healed. No drugs, no onions, but lots of patience. And, five years and countless colds later, I now know the difference between a cold and an antibiotic-requiring infection. (I won’t gross you out with the differences, but suffice it to say it involves varying colors of mucus).  Of course, this difference escapes all men, British or otherwise, hence the new term “man-flu,” which we all know is just a cold.

And, while you might try to call it the flu (man, or otherwise) it is still just a cold.  And, again, while you can feel pretty badly with a cold, you still aren’t getting any drugs. Note that it also doesn’t help to be able to name these drugs. For, while it is second nature to Americans to rattle off brand names and generics thanks to our overabundance of lobbying and advertising from the pharma companies, asking your doctor at the public hospital for codeine, demorol, darvocet, Percocet, or any other –cet is pretty much gonna guarantee you ain’t getting any of it. (how was I to know that that particular hospital was where all the drug addicts go at night?? Lucky me, all I got was some Tylenol. For a broken foot. I would have been better off staying at the pub. And, yes, the injury was drinking related. Did you really have to ask?)



So, here I sit in the week leading up to Christmas, nursing a hangover, watching the snow fall and predicting airport closures and being London bound, all the while coughing and sniffling my way through my third box of Kleenex and second bottle of fake nyquil.



On second thought, time to break out the bourbon laced egg nog! Tis the Season, afterall!

The Perfect Festival

So, one of the great things about summer in England is the flurry of music festivals, championed by the grand-daddy of all, Glastonbury.  For those of you not in the know, Glastonbury (or Glasto as it is referred to by the hipsters) is the modern day answer to Woodstock.  Three days in a field with multiple stages and bands, copious foreign substances being consumed, tents, campfires and 24 hour partying.  Now, maybe that sounds like a fantastic experience to some of you.  And, I am good friends with quite a few people who would agree.  But, here’s what I think of when someone mentions Glasto:  mud, noise, wet, no sleep, crappy food and disgusting bathroom situations.  For THREE days.  

As y’all will know, I like to think of myself as bit of a dichotomy – someone who can rough it, all the while ensuring that I have great shoes and perfect hair and make-up  (occasion –specific, natch!  I would never, say, wear stilettos and false eyelashes in the jungle.  Oh. Wait.  Except for that trip to Belize.  And, maybe that New Year’s where I had sparkly gold wedges on the sailboat wasn’t so smart.  Or the floaty strappy dress that kept flying up with every gust of wind, exposing my own lower decks. Hmmm. Maybe, not so much.)  But, I digress. 

In any event, perhaps it is best to say, I DO make an effort to be a little flexible when it comes to 5 star accommodation, however misguided I may be!  But, as y’all will recall from my travel rules, I do at least have some sense of self-awareness on this level.  And, trust me, NO ONE would be having fun if I were to attempt Glasto—even in a motor home/camper van thingamajiggy that some of my friends recommend.  (Because, friends, I remember my grandparents’ swanky motor home (which, true to the McFetridge gene, had self-dispensing vodka and rum pumps next to the wet bar and fancy gold-plated bathroom fixtures) and even with all that, SOMEONE had to empty the septic tank/toilet-y thing.  And, even if it ain’t me, it would still have to be someone I know.  And, some things just aren’t meant to be shared.  With anyone, but most of all, with anyone you know.) 

But, true to my Austin roots, I am a huge fan of live music.  And, the idea of multiple stages and beer for a few days is a brilliant one; so, luckily for me, Austin has the answer.  The PERFECT festival – three days filled with great music and NO camping.   So, every night, you can retire to your 5 star accommodation, where you can take a nice hot shower and order room service.  Which, I did, natch. (But, give me some credit – I did NOT stay at the Four Seasons as a couple of my dear friends do every year.  Nope, I opted for the slightly down-market Omni, so I was kind of roughing it, right?)

And, this is not the only benefit at Austin City Limits Festival.  No, friends, you also get brilliant sunshine, perfect tanning weather!  (Except, of course, for that year that is was 115 degrees Fahrenheit.  And, we were supposed to be hit by Hurricane Rita.  But, instead got a massive dust storm that rendered visibility to about 1 foot (hence completely obscuring Cold Play’s headline performance.  Which meant it was a bit like hearing them in some alterno club with a mood-enhancing fog (read: dirt) machine).  Oh, and left us all coughing up grit for the next three days.  

And, then of course, there was my favorite year where it pissed it down on day 2, turning what had been lovely verdant lush green grass (meticulously tended and nurtured to prevent a repeat of the TB-reminiscent hacking from the prior mentioned dust bowl-a-thon of the prior year) into a mud-bath.  So, basically, we’re back at Glasto:  wet, muddy chemically enhanced hipsters diving and sliding in the rivers of mud.   And, there is no getting dry or clean.  So, pretty much you just gotta drink more to get through it.  (and, of course, stock up on extortionately expensive wet weather gear the next morning to get through the last day of the festival.)

Which, of course, was dry and sunny.

And, let’s not forget, the stench of the mud, which we all learned later was a result of the use of Dillo Dirt.  Remember that lovely verdant lush green grass?  Yep, seems it came about as a result of a little bit of human waste.  And, all those chemically enhanced hipsters?  Diving and sliding in that same septic tank/toilet-y stuff I worked so hard to avoid.  (And, don't even ask.  OF COURSE, I was not doing any diving or sliding of my own.  Refer back to the paragraph about shoes and eyelashes in case you are at all confused as to why.)

And my other favorite thing about ACL?  The food – because, all of the concessions are Austin restaurant classics.  No crappy campfire hotdog or gross festival nacho/turkey leg/undercooked burgers here!  Nope.  We’re talking Salt Lick BBQ, Pluckers Fried Pickles, Guero’s tacos!  Mmmm.  Half the reason I go to Austin is for the food, so this is pretty killing two turkey legs with one stone.    (See how funny I am!?)

And, let me tell ya, this year was LETTER perfect – flawless weather.  And, my fab friend Mindy managed to swing some VIP/Backstage wrist bands for us for one of the main stages.  Which, meant, FREE beer and food (yes, I realize I am no longer in college and am, in fact, a middle-aged corporate lawyer, but I still love the idea of free beer!  Um, so much so, in fact, that I imbibed a bit too much one night and kinda lost everyone, ending up on the shuttle home, sans friends, wallets, phone, keys, ID)

Of course, as bad off as I was, at least I didn’t leave 12 voicemail messages on someone’s phone without realizing that I actually HAD the phone.  (which, incidentally has the Texas Fight ring tone on it.  So, not so much, with the “I didn’t hear it ring…..”)  But, I digress.

So, this VIP thing – pretty sweet!  Because, not only do you have free beer, but you have a very clean, air-conditioned bathroom.  So, all the hand sanitizer, handi-wipe tissue preparatory materials I had purchased were all for nothing.  (Clearly, I was OK with that.) Oh, and a big giant screen showing other bands performing when no one was on our stage.  Which, meant that I kinda never left.  Just sat with my free beer, in plain sight of my clean air-conditioned bathroom, watching great shows on the big screen before retiring to my 5 star accommodation with room service and a hot shower.

Sounds like the perfect festival, right?

Or, actually… 

Crap.  Kinda like I paid $200 to sit in my living room. 

Good thing I already bought next year’s ticket.

Student Life

Lately, I have been getting in touch with my former student self.  Well, actually, given that I took night classes after undergrad, then went back to grad school for 4 years, took the New York bar exam and have since taken (read: registered for.  Not so much with the follow-through on these) numerous courses in Spanish and French, not sure I really ever lost the student in me. 

I certainly never lost the “Oh crap, I’m down to last $40 and you just know that is going towards beer” budget. (although, let’s be honest.  It now goes towards a juicy, cold-climate pinot noir) And, sadly, I have Dominos on speed dial and still feel the need to spend entire days moving from my bed to my couch and then back to my bed.  So, maybe I am just getting more in touch with the high school side of my former student self. 

Or, at least, that is the last time I babysat.  And, rode a bike.  (except that time in Napa Valley on a vacay extension to a work trip, when I had the brilliant idea that my work colleagues and I would leisurely meander through the grapevines, quaffing wines and sampling gourmet cheese and crackers.  Yeah?  The reality?  My poor friend Payam trying to carry back the 5 bottles of wine we’d decided to buy (in the interest of avoiding drunk cycling) while navigating the single blacktop scorching two lane highway that ALL cars are forced to traverse to go from winery to winery (hence the no-go on the drunk cycling).  And, my other lovely friend (who shall remain nameless!) who decided she had had enough and flagged down our other friends in an SUV to give her a lift home.  So much for the leisure, meandering, quaffing etc.

But, I bought a bike last spring, fully intending to cycle to and from work.  The money I would save!  The time and fitness I would regain!

Then, the reality of the limbs I would lose, sobered me up. 

So, I never did actually get on the bike.  Well, once.   When I had to get it home from the shop.  (really, they should deliver those things! I mean, trying to balance my shopping bags filled with my fancy lock, helmet, new cycle clothes, etc and ride the damn thing.  It’s a wonder I ever got on it again.)

But, then the tires went flat from lack of use.  So, I took that as a sign.  But, lately, I have been re-inspired.  Several of my friends cycle to work.  And, London sponsors a day where they close the main roads and let the cyclists take over.  This seemed like as good a time as any to get back out on the open road.   Luckily for me, I have two good friends who guided me to and from the closed roads and there were only a few scary moments.  Probably the worst of which was when some freaky dude asked me to go for a drink as I was trying to avoid being hit by a bus.

So, I was sure I was ready to cycle to work the following Monday.  But, as luck would have it, I actually was being a student again.  Because I am a big nerd, I have decided to become admitted to practice law in England as well as New York, so I have been taking the required exams and the last of them (unless I failed it, which, given that it was legal accounting and ethics (could there be more of an oxymoron??) is very possible) was that very week.  Which, turns out, was a good thing.  Because that Monday there was a tube strike.  Now, I know that I would have been all prepared with my shiny newly inflated tires, helmet, clothes etc and eager to hit the road.  But, so were about 300 extra busses, taxis and scary novice cyclists.  So, maybe not the safest.

And, by the way – how civilized is this?  All the tube strikes in the UK are planned.  Meaning when they start AND when they stop.  It’s a very polite, (insert chipper Britishy accent) “Oh, yes, we are so so sorry to disrupt your commute, perhaps if you could just stay home, or take one of the remaining non-affected lines or an additional bus for the next 24 hours when normal service will resume? Cheers!”

I remember when I was living in NYC and the subway AND busses went on strike.  Those people were like, “deal with it.”  And, you know what dealing with it meant?  Yep, extortion.  It was something like $10 per person per block from taxi drivers. And, it was snowing.  Yeah, and there was no stopping planned until demands were met.  Or, the head of the union was arrested, which is, in fact, what happened. (Sometimes you gotta love New Yorkers!)

In any event, I did not commute that week as I was busy studying – and babysitting!   Yes, friends, someone I know entrusted me with their precious cargo.  (Well, me and my childcare social worker friend with a masters’ degree.)    And, babysitting nowaways is cool.  No such thing as a $20 and the number for Dominos (which, you may recall I already had)…oh no!  When you babysit for a chef, you get homemade pizza with fresh basil and buffalo mozzarella.  And, made from scratch brownies.  And, two bottles of prosecco to wash it all down!  No complaints here. 

And, the beauty of being a 37 year old babysitter?  When the child does something that requires the experience and knowledge of an actual mom, I got a whole arsenal at my ready.  No more do I need to call MY mom and ask whether a hiccupping baby can lie on her back!  Nope, all my best girl friends are armed and at the ready even if I am not. (btw, thanks Libs!)

So, after an exciting week of babysitting and cycling (oops, I mean studying!) I did finally take the exam.  Which, was odd, as it was in the bar for the private boxes at Emirates Stadium (home to the Arsenal football club).  While, I am not sure if the clinking of the glasses will be of a benefit or hindrance to me, I did get some pics and will surely get some mileage out of those!)

And, a few days later, I decided to brave the cycling commute!  Decked out in my high-vis (that is code for fluorescent, I know I look like an a**hole, hopefully so much so that big trucks and busses will see me) vest, helmet and flashing lights I hit the road.  And the commute in was pretty good. Went to the gym, showered, locked up the bike, went to work.  Felt like a champ.  Until it was time for the ride home. 

And, it was raining.  And, rush hour.  And, getting dark.  So, I got a little flustered.  And, lost.  And, ended up on the Old Street Roundabout.   (for those non-British of you, a roundabout is a centrifuge-like death circle of speeding and honking cars, busses and giant trucks built to avoid intersections – why?  WHO knows.  But, in any event,  NOT where you want to be on a  bike.) So, I did the only sane thing and got off the bike and walked it round through the cross walks.  Crisis averted.

Until it really started to bucket down.   And, my glasses fogged up.  And, then I got a flat tire.

Which, as fate would have it, happened right near my favorite juicy, cold-climate pinot noir store. 

And, lucky me, I still have $40 in my account.

Travel Nice in the Sandbox

Recently I had the pleasure of going on a weekend trip to Dublin with some friends.  And, I thought I would have a lot of stories to tell.  But, turns out, my stories are all about travel MIS-adventures.  And, this trip was pretty perfect.  Good friends, lots of laughs, awesome dinners, fab cocktails and great shopping.  So, it got me to thinking, why was this trip so great when I've had others (even to Dublin) that were just so-so?  And, I came to the conclusion that it is all in your travel companions.  You can be sitting on your own private island in the Maldives with a man at your beck and call, bringing you fruity umbrella-d cocktails, but if you end up with an incompatible travel-mate, you may as well be sitting in your backyard in the baby pool with a Natty light.

So here for any of you interested in traveling with me are the rules that made this last trip so great and so many others, not so much!

1. Don’t pack more than you can carry.

I gotta give credit to my dad for this one.  And, when you think about it, as the only man in a family of 3 women (can you say packmule?), this rule was a necessity.  And as my mother is from the old school where women don’t carry anything but a tiny makeup bag and the tickets, my sister and I quickly learned that we were on our own in schlepping business.

Now, as an adult, you would think I would be a pro.  But, somehow, not. 

Because, while I had grown up an Army brat, moving every 3 years, traveling with my family by train all over Europe and boats and planes all over Asia, somehow I failed to pick up the packing gene.  I may have mentioned one family trip where my mother (foolish woman!) allowed me to pack my own suitcase only to discover when we got to our destination that I had brought an entire suitcase full of stuffed animals.  (Ah, but see the laugh was on her, because I then got a new wardrobe out of it!   This McFetridge isn’t so stupid after all, eh?)

In any event, when I decided to go off into the wilds of Costa Rica (OK, not so much with the “wilds” there), I knew I needed to only bring what I could carry in my recently purchased shiny new trekking back pack.  Now, because I was a novice at traveling on my own, I paid a ridiculous amount of money to go on a sponsored volunteer trip.  (Yes, I realize now how utterly indulgent and ridiculous that sounds.  I mean, do you have to pay to join the Peace Corps?  No.  Enough said.)

But, in my delusional state, I imagined we would be digging wells and treating malaria patients, sweat pouring from my brow while I brought civilization to this poor underprivileged nation.  (OK, again with the ridiculous.  Trust me to “volunteer” in a tropical paradise and think I am actually doing good for anything other than my tan.)

In any event, I only packed the absolute necessities.  Like a shovel.  Water purification kit, tourniquet, snake bite kit, sleep sack, bug hut etc.  And, before you ask, no, I wasn’t actually camping.  (although, oddly, there seemed to be a slew of toilet seat-less toilets.  I still can’t figure out if there was some sort of a discount if you bypassed the seat option.)

And, yes, there was clean, running water, hospitals and real buildings with roofs and all!  And, shockingly, no need for a shovel.

Here is what I did not bring: nice shoes, make-up or jewelry.  Now this will come as a surprise to all y’all who know me. And, this was an important lesson.  Because after two weeks of “volunteering” (read: holiday-ing) and suffering with toilet seat-less toilets and other non-5 star amenities, I decided I needed, guess what?  Yep, a 5 Star hotel.  So, I checked into the best hotel in the capital, took a hot bubble bath and then decided to treat myself to a fancy dinner and bottle of wine in the restaurant.  But, not having brought any shoes other than flip flops, no jewelry other than a sport watch and no make-up at all, I felt dowdy and underdressed.  Two things I hate.

So, by the end of my three months, I no longer had a shovel, water purification kit, tourniquet or snake bite kit.  But, that was alright, because they made room for my new collection of silver jewelry, cute shoes, lip gloss and mascara.

In any event, I was able to carry it all.  Of course, I had to load-shed some not so important stuff in order to do it. (like the bags of sour patch kids and starburst I had my friends bring me. And, add a new monogrammed Lands End bag that said friends also brought me along with some new Victoria Secret pajamas and make-up)  But, nevertheless, I was able to lug it all by my lonesome. 

So, to any would-be travel companions, take heed: you don’t need 5 pairs of shoes for a weekend or three changes of clothes for every day.  But, if you really think you do, then make sure you can carry it all, because you’re on your own.  Oh, and be particularly aware of this rule if there are multiple busses, trains, planes, boats, or metro/tube trips involved.  Because all those mean stairs and, if you're traveling with me, probably, at least once, sprinting to catch one of the above! 

Rule 2: It ain’t gonna be like home.

That is why it is called “traveling.”  See?  You go somewhere different and you experience new things and you learn from it: either that you got it better at home or maybe home should/could change.  In any event, if you’re English, no, they can’t make tea.  And, not everyone serves omelette and chips or has Sky sports.  And, if you’re American, no, there is no Hilton, Starbucks or McDonalds on every corner.

And both of y’all -- sometimes you aren’t allowed to flush the toilet paper and not everyone speaks English.  (shocking, I know!)

Some of us think that this is kind of the beauty of it.    So, please, if you only eat free range organic iguana slaughtered by the light of the full moon and blessed by a shaman, pack a supply because you ain’t gonna get it anywhere else.  And, here’s a heads up: in Spain, it’s all pork. In Germany and Hungary, it’s all meat.  None of it is halal or kosher or organic or free range.  You can’t get fresh vegetables or fruit if you’re camping in the Serengeti.  There is no carb-free, wheat-free or sugar-free anything ANYWHERE.   Sometimes, all you get is instant coffee.  Deal with it.

Because you know what you do get?  The Al Hambra, Budapest by night, the remnants of the Berlin Wall, seeing a cheetah hunt a gazelle and walking among Greek ruins from thousands of years in the past. 

Not much of a trade-off in my book.

Rule 3: Roll with the punches.

People are always shocked that this is one of my rules.  Now, I know I can be a little demanding.   And, I have even been referred to as “fussy” on occasion.  But, I like to think that I drop all that once I hit an airport.  Because, you know what?  Shit happens when you travel.  Bags get lost, flights get cancelled, hotel brochures are misleading etc.  If you really get all worked about that stuff, traveling ain’t for you. 

Probably the best example of this was when I went on a trip with MBA class to Europe – now they all flew from Dallas, but I had decided I needed to go to Austin for a concert so I flew from Austin.  And, we had donated tickets from a major airline, so we had a bit of a circuitous route….to the tune of: Dallas to Chicago, Chicago to London (6 hour layover in London) and London to Stockholm.  So, tack on my Austin connection and you just know those bags ain’t gonna make it. 

And, sure enough, they did not.  For 2 days. 

Now, lucky me, the airline gives you an amenities kit.  Which is great if all you want to do is brush your teeth (once) and sit in your new cotton granny panties.   Um, surprisingly, as it was my first time in Stockholm, that wasn’t on my shortlist.  So, I just got on with it.  Wore the same clothes for a few days cycled through the new panties and the sink-washed originals and, thankfully, had had the foresight to pack a few toiletries in my carry-on and a spare pair of underwear.  (wow – that rhymes, catchy!)

All my classmates were shocked at this new laid back Kristin.  But, what are you gonna do?  Sit around and complain that it ain’t like home (see Rule 2) or enjoy the time you have and the mileage you're gonna get out of those stories?  (Case in point right here!)

Rule 4: Be OK being on your own.

If you decide to travel with other people, which most of us do, realize that we don’t all want to do the same things.  And, guess what?  That is just dandy.  Because, nothing is more annoying that passive aggressive types who don’t want to do what you do, but will just because they can’t stand being on their own.  I know I might be unusual in that I like being alone.  I like shopping alone and I am always happy to read a book or listen to music. 

So, if you want to get up at the crack of dawn and walk 20 miles in a downpour to see a church, fabulous!  But, please, don’t expect me to come along as I am perfectly OK not seeing another church, building, museum blah blah blah.  I am perfectly happy to sleep in, go for a run, do a little shopping and have my own little wander. 

I know that makes me a bad tourist in some eyes, but I can live with that.  And, if you really do like company on your hours of trekking across a new city seeing all there is to see, make sure you have someone else in the group to share that with.

And, don’t worry, I’ll meet you later for cocktails and you can tell me all about it.  And, show me the pictures.  So, really, it’s like I went, too, so, turns out, I didn’t need to go after all.

Rule 5: Remember, we are ALL on vacation.

Unfortunately, most people I know don’t get to bum around Europe on yachts or ski slopes or lounge in spas in Bali or Thailand for a living.  (But, if any of you do and you need a travel companion, I so will ignore any of my rules if you’ll take me with you.)

But, for the rest of us, we all have a finite amount of time and cash with which to enjoy ourselves.  And, if we’re on a trip together, then, you know what, it is because we like each other enough to choose to share that time and money together.  So, I promise not to make my drama yours.  (OK, that is a bit of a lie. Being a drama queen, I really LOVE when things go wrong (see Rule 3 if you are confused about why), so I will make you share my drama, but hopefully, with laughter.  No one likes a complainer.  Unless they are funny about it.  And you all know how funny I think I am!) 

So, maybe I should just say, don’t make your drama mine. (Unless of course, you’re funny, too. Which you probably are if you’re friends with me.)  But, if you’re not (i.e someone else brought you along on the trip), then don’t whine to me about losing your favorite lip gloss, having your wallet stolen because you set it down in a crowded bar, paying too much for a taxi or meal or not having anything to eat (Again, see Rule 2).  I’ve done all those things and I survived.  And, so can you.  And you know what? 

If you can laugh at it, so can everyone else. 

Maybe even in a blog.

Oh How Great it is to be Single

Being single in London has been a whole new experience.  I’ve been single (i.e. never married) for a long damn time and in a lot of places – New York, Austin, Dallas, Melbourne, Barcelona.  But, none are like London.  When I first got here, I read that book, “Watching the English” – everyone does, it’s sort of a welcome to England guide.  Teaches you how to talk about the weather, love getting in lines (Or queues as they are called here), appreciate action-less sports (i.e. cricket, curling,) etc.  And, as excited as I was to find my sexily accented Colin Firth-like future boyfriend, I was so eagerly anticipating the dating chapter that I skipped right to it.  And, then I thought I’d missed it, so I flipped back a couple of pages.  Nope.  It was right there – basically, summed up in one whole sentence. 

English men get drunk and fall on the nearest girl.

Hmm.  Now, for this Texas girl who is used to the dating rules in Texas, this was confusing and not that enticing.  Because, it takes years to master the Texas Dating Rules and I just assumed those would hold me in good stead world-wide.  Yeah, not so much.  And, my English friends are all shocked to hear how it works for us:

1. Girl meets boy.  Boy asks girl out for date.

2. Date 1: always on a Wednesday or a Thursday (he hasn’t become weekend-worthy at this point and you certainly don’t want to waste a night when you could be out meeting someone else!)  This date is his chance to impress you, so it will inevitably be a fancy restaurant.  This was always a problem for me, because I can’t overlook bad table manners, so there were always a few casualties from this night. And, don't even ask.  Of course, he pays.

3. If you made it past Date 1, then there was Date 2.  This was the girl’s chance to show that she was not high maintenance. (this is, obviously, a lie.  We ARE talking about Texas girls here)  The way we perpetrate this fiction is by going to a cheap and cheerful Mexican or BBQ restaurant where we show we are down to earth and easygoing because we can eat with our hands.  (Natch, our beautifully manicured hands, but, hands, nonetheless.)

4. Now, if you make it to Date 3, which can be quite tricky for a guy, because there are any number of things that will elimi-date you, (for me, it was not opening my car door, wearing an 80’s style crocheted belt, suggesting that Date 2 was getting Chinese take-out and hanging at my house (please, I am not stupid.  This is clearly a ploy to fast forward to Date 3, also known as the Make-Out date), sporting any kind of jewelry other than a watch, bad table manners (as mentioned before) not discreetly paying the check while I considerately escaped to the ladies room so as to avoid that awkward “I’m going to pretend that I don’t see your shocked face when you see how much my grey goose cosmos and lobster tail/filet mignon surf n’turf cost on the bill” moment etc.  You get the point.  It is a veritable mine field for those poor guys.  But, when you’re dating 5 different guys, you can afford to be picky.), but I digress.  So, anyway, if you make it to Date 3, the gloves come off.  Well, sort of.  This is the Make-out Date, after all.

5. This cycle continues until you decide to have “The Talk.”  You know, the one where you decide that you aren’t going to see anyone else?  Now, smart girls know that this should happen before any sex.  Otherwise, there might not even be any talk.  Because the downside of all these dating rules is that the whole point – the whole structure and reason behind this dance -- is to make the man work for it.  To make him think that after all this effort and navigating all the elimi-date obstacles, lies the promised land.  And, any poor girl who doesn’t make him work for it, is clearly not a “Take her home to momma girl.”  Now, before you think that this is a bit harsh, remember that you are both dating 5 people at once.  So, it might be a bit fair to assume that if you’re shagging one, you’re shagging all.  And, again, not so unfair to assume that isn’t exactly what you want in a wife.  (Because, remember all dating in Texas is designed to lead to that strapless white dress, Pachelbel’s Canon in D, First Corinthians 13 extravaganza)

So, you can see that this Texas dating is carefully orchestrated, complicated affair.

Imagine my surprise when I learned that dating in England consists of women getting plastered and letting the nearest equally plastered guy fall on them. 

I won’t lie.  I can see some fun in that. 

And, when my English friends took me to the Swan (also known amongst my Texas girls as the Kissing Bar) in Stockwell, I loved it.   Who doesn’t love a bar where everyone is happy and hammered, where they play songs like “9 to 5” and “Sweet Home Alabama” in between all the latest hits, where drinks are 3-4 quid each and shots are had a plenty, where you can wear a sparkly feathered cowboy hat with a blinking shamrock on the front and where everyone who is there is just looking to make-out on the dance floor.

Now, the down side of all this, is, of course, that none of these people are people you would ever want to actually date.  Or, even see in the cold sober light of day.  (I kid you not, I actually found myself dancing once with a guy once who had braces.  Now, he claimed to be a dentist.  Call me crazy, but I’m gonna go with, um. no.) 

But, if you’re not looking for the strapless white dress, Pachelbel’s Canon in D, First Corinthians 13 extravaganza, then who really cares? 

But, sadly, I have now moved to the other side of town and the Swan is a bit far.  Not to mention that those 6 am finishes (ah, yes, another benefit of the Swan is that it is open til 5 am!  Wait. Benefit? Hmmm, maybe not so much.) mean you are a wreck the next (Wait? Oh. Make that THAT) day.  And, now that I have given up smoking and am trying to eat well and run more, this sadly, does not hold the same allure.

So, now that I no longer have the Swan as my “dating” strategy, I realized that I needed a new one.  It sure didn’t entail meeting someone at work.  Because, in case you weren’t aware, I am a lawyer.  In an IT company.  So, pretty much the people I meet?  Can you say Geeks R Us?  So, yeah, not so much with the work dating.  And, while friends (mostly married and smug) relentlessly tell you how on-line dating is such a great idea, I just couldn’t get my head around it.  (And, by the way, married smug people, you are all full of it, you would so NOT be on-line if you were single.  It is like saying, “Oh if I were obese, I would go on a diet.”  Because, if you were obsese?  You’d have your head in a gallon Ben n’ Jerry’s, too.  Don’t be sanctimonious.  It makes us not like you.)

But, anyway, the on-line thing.  Yeah, see, I am a big believer in fate, destiny, serendipity etc.  And, shopping for a boyfriend on-line feels very contrived and false. But, then I realized I don’t actually want a boyfriend.  (I mean c’mon, if I did, would I really be at the Swan?? Have I mentioned that I’m not stupid?) 

I have a pretty great life – I love my flat and my friends, I live in an amazing city:  I can jet off to Dublin or Paris one weekend, go see a new play or exhibit the next, go for a run in the park or go to a great new restaurant or cocktail bar the next.  I make enough money to buy what I like and travel where I want and I enjoy my job most of the time.  So, really, there isn’t much missing.  And, I’m not interested in settling for anything less than phenomenal.  I don’t need a man to entertain me, to make me feel beautiful or to give me a sense of self-worth. 

BUT.  There is definitely one thing you do need a man for.  And, that my friends, is why I decided that maybe the on-line thing would be worth trying out.   (Again.  Refer back to the last blog to see why the last foray failed.  Although, to be fair, I only gave it 7 hours before I threw in the towel on that one!)

So, last week, I decided to put up a profile.  And, before I had even finished, I had about 50 men looking at it, winking and emailing and blah blah blah.  Sounds good, right?  Except.  Here are a couple of their on-line nome de plumes – “taxicabman56,” “chunkymonkey,”  “Smallman,” “AreUthe14Me?” etc.  Can you say LOSER?  Yes, my friends, on-line dating is like being at the Swan.  Only sober.    (refer to the previous paragraph if you are confused at all about why that ain’t great.)

It’s only been 4 days, so I will give it a few more, but I am not optimistic here.  Even if I am not looking for anything serious, I still don’t want a short, fat, desperate, taxi driver. 

Or, someone in Egypt, China, Syria, over 50 or unemployed.  Although, I guess you gotta give ‘em points for trying and punching above their weight.     And, I’ve certainly come to the conclusion that there are a lot of lonely and unattractive people out there.

Which, come to think of it, makes me like my life even more.   So, maybe I’ll go for a run before I meet my friends later today for a museum visit and dinner. 

And, you never know, a trip to the Swan might not be such a bad idea after all.

Diet PhD

I once described myself as never having married but of having an on/off relationship with 20 lbs for the last 15 years. Well now I thought that was pretty funny, but, turns out, maybe not such a great idea to list that on my “bio” on an online dating website? (Clearly, my foray into online dating was short-lived and fruitless!)

But, hey, I believe in honesty (I mean c’mon everyone has a little bit of crazy, some just hide it better!); I believe it getting it all out there. Sort of a reverse bait and switch. Which, come to think of it, may explain my single status? Hmmm.

In any event, being from Texas I am an expert on food and diets. For those of you not familiar with the extremes of weight obsession in Texas, a little background may be helpful: you see, Dallas is the Barbie doll capital of the world and Houston is the weeble wobble capital of the world. I figure if you live somewhere in between on I-45 you got a fightin’ chance at normalcy (which for Texas means you’re an aerobics instructor with platinum status in the Dairy Queen frequent flyer program!)

So, having lived in both cities, I consider myself a veritable PhD in diets and my resume is extensive: Jenny Craig, Weightwatchers, Nutrisystem, Atkins, South Beach, even, Richard Simmons Deal-a-Meal (remember him? Sweatin’ to the Oldies, shiny plastic cards you can deal out like a round of poker. Yeah, except I kept looking for the full house, also known as brownie, beer and ice cream cards, but, uh, yeah, not so much.)

At one point or another, I’ve given up fat, sugar, meat, carbs, solid food (but, thankfully this is before that ridiculous baby food diet came along!), tomatoes, wheat and dairy. Not all at the same time, of course. (although that might have fixed the 20 lbs issue, or, actually, maybe the whole living issue?) I’ve done fat free (which we all know is really code for flavor-free), low-fat, fibre pills, diet pills, slimming tea and, once when I was in college, in a delusional attempt at group exercise, even took a weightlifting and running class. Unfortunately, I figured out how to take a shortcut on the run and used to hide out in the stadium bleachers smoking a couple of cigarettes while the rest of the class “caught up to me.” (Yeah, despite the whole 70’s diet philosophy of smoke more to eat less, turns out that doesn’t work so well either.)

But, since I have come to England, the dieting and I have parted ways. Diets aren’t really that popular here. And, as I wrote about earlier, exercise not so much either. But, then again, no one is really that fat here. At least, not Texas fat. (And, if you wanna see what that looks like, head down to a Walmart in any Houston suburb and park yourself by the Blue Bell ice cream freezer – you’ll think the cows are coming to get their milk back).

As a matter of fact, they have this show where they bring an overweight person and a skinny person together for a week of switching diets and “feeding treatment” and, guess what? Part of that treatment involves a video message wake-up call from some poor American slob who is so fat they can’t get out of bed. So, either no one gets that fat here or they just love our accents. (Yeah, you can probably guess which it is.)

But, I finally did discover a new “diet” that showed promise – a detox subscribed to by Elle Macpherson and Hugh Grant. Seemed a bit extreme to me: no alcohol, sugar, carbs, dairy, caffeine or processed food for two weeks, which basically just described my 5 basic food groups. You are probably asking yourself right now whether I have now discovered the air and water diet (Um, yeah, I thought the same thing) but, no, I actually “got” to eat protein, green vegetables and healthy fats (avocado/nuts) and green tea. Oh, and one cup of coffee per day. All organic. But, let’s not forget, I am a career professional here. Easy stuff!

Well, not so much. The first 3 days were sheer torture. I actually licked my coffee spoon after I finished my one cup of coffee. And, I am pretty sure I used broccoli as an excuse one night to have butter and salt. At one point, I began hallucinating about my pink highlighter – it just looked so much like sugary sweet goodness that is double bubble bubble gum, I couldn't help myself!

And, just when I thought I couldn’t take it anymore, I had a really nice reinforcement; or, rather lack thereof. I had twisted in my seat to talk to the really nice proper British guy in my new office when I felt and heard a ripping sound. And, me being me, of course, I said (yes, in my out-loud voice) “Uh, I think I just ripped my pants.” To which my officemate turned beet red and looked away. Which, is when I realized that I should have clarified that I meant AMERICAN pants. (Even as friendly as we Texans are, we certainly would not find it normal to discuss our underwear with someone we’ve known only two days.)

So, I persevered. And, finally, I was able to shake off the caffeine/sugar DTs. And, surprisingly, organic food is not only easy to come by in England, but is really good. And, I really did feel 1000 times better. (and, by the end of the first week, had dropped 5 lbs!) So, result! But, then….came the real challenge. You can probably guess it – yep, alcohol. Because while no one in Britain thinks it’s odd to say you are only having organic food or aren’t eating sugar or drinking caffeine, no one can fathom why you would possibly entertain the idea of a booze-free life.

But, I was determined.

And, then I faltered.

I don’t know what it is about bad parties and me, but the two times in the last year when I decided to branch out and explore a new adventure, I have ended up in extremely painful social situations sans the one saving grace guaranteed to get you through. Now the ironic thing is that these two events could not be more polar opposite. The first was an exotic romance party (which is really code for sex toy party) in Garland, Texas. Ever seen King of the Hill? Yep, that’s Garland. Enough said.

And, this party (and I use that word liberally) was on the side of a highway hosted by what I am sure were some meth addicts. AND, contrary to my expectations of lovely glasses of white wine and giggling girly bonding time, turns out it was more me passing giant floppy phallic devices to the guy sitting next to me while trying to avoid touching things or spilling things, all in spite of our hostess’s offer to try things out in the bathroom. I kid you not.

And, booze? Not a Natty light in sight. Yes, folks, I had to listen to and observe a woman describe how to plant the suction cup dildo on the coffee table for an “afternoon delight” stone cold sober in a room of male strangers. Needless to say, we jetted as soon as possible and hit the first bar we came to.

So, really, in hindsight, this other party wasn’t so bad. They did have alcohol at least. Of course, I was supposed to be booze-free during this detox. But, as we’re in the taxi heading to this 40th birthday party for my friend’s architect friend, she informs me that not only are we heading to the suburbs, but the architect has kids. Now, I am not against kids, but when I have in my head that I am going to a fancy party with professionals all my age and I realize that I am, in fact, going to what does turn out to be a bad “wedding” in the suburbs, replete with kids doing backbends on the dance floor, running around with balloons, and playing chase amongst the buffet of white bread and bologna triangles and platters of deep fried chicken wings, I am a tad disappointed. Not an architect in sight. All parents of the kids' school friends. Sooooo not my scene.

But, luckily, there is an open bar! So I sidle up amongst the suburban moms who are having their one big night out this year, poured into shiny brightly colored sateen dressed with swollen stocking covered feet squeezed into strappy one inch high sandals, and patiently wait my turn for my double vodka. Too patiently, it turns out, as the bar tab finishes right before I can order.

So, guess what? We jetted as soon as possible and headed to the first bar we could. Just in time to miss the Macarena. Damn. Or, not.

So, as I did a little retox on the detox, I decided I needed to venture once more into that unchartered territory of group exercise. Now, I know I have consistently run for the last few years, and I have done my number of 5k fun runs. But a small group of really fit people in a contained room scares the bejeesus out of me. I have this irrational fear that I will be the uncoordinated person in the back of the room falling of the step or unable to twist into a pretzel and the teacher will single me out as the “What Not to Do” chick. But, I ventured forth. And, one yoga session and one step class later, turns out it wasn’t such an irrational fear. Yay me! (I think you get the picture)

But, I am nothing if not determined! And since discovering organic wine and, apparently, a complete lack of dignity when it comes to public sporty type stuff, I think this may actually be the answer.

And, those 20 lbs? Well, so far, we’re on a trial separation. (And, yes, it is great to be “single!”)

Here comes the Bride

Who doesn’t love a wedding? Lots of champagne, smiles, drunken toasts, everyone gets gussied up (by the way, it turns out my British friends think that is a funny phrase. Really? You, of the people who brought us rhyming cockney slang?? Who call a telephone a whistle and bone? Really? Really?) And, as a 37 year old single woman, I’ve been to a lot of weddings. All over the world, in fact: Sri Lanka, Australia, Mexico, Belize and now, England. (yes, yes, yes, I can hear you now Paula, CountryDropper...) But, the fact is, I travel, so I meet a lot of people. And, I don’t require a plus one, so I’m a great bargain on the drinks/gift cost benefit analysis. And, I am pretty much guaranteed to whoop it up on the dance floor with someone’s parents so I’m inclusive and friendly. What could be better in terms of a wedding guest?

Now, one would think that British weddings wouldn’t vary too much from the weddings I’ve attended in the US, but that’s not so much the case.

And for the record, even weddings in the US have pretty big differences depending on where they are held. Turns out East Coast weddings have a requisite price tag for attendance; no one really wants a gravy boat from their registry so much as a reimbursement for their per-head outlay for food, drink and 80s DJ music. I tend to think of it as a party with a massive cover charge.

And, then there’s the Texas weddings – I’ve basically been to the same wedding about half dozen times. And, if you’re from Texas, you know it, too...white strapless gown with delicate and minimal beading, bridesmaids in black A-line dresses, walking down the aisle to Pachelbel’s Canon in D, reading from I Corinthians 13.

(Love is patient, love is kind…blah blah. (and, I know I am single, but based on what my friends tell me, this is a LIE. Love is trying to keep from committing murder on a daily basis. Perhaps, this is why I am not married? I have little patience. Or, self-control. Which was clearly in evidence this past weekend, when, following the boozy wedding reception, I made my taxi driver take me to a gas station where I bought a ciabbata(?), potato chips and a big bag of peanut M’n’Ms. English countryside is beautiful and all, but sorely lacking in all-night Mexican food drive thru’s))

But, I digress.

The perfect Texas wedding also includes a recessional accompanied by Trumpet Voluntary, cake cutting, bouquet tossing and the first dance, all with hundreds of cameras trained on the blushing bride and eager groom to capture that oh-so intimate look of love between the two. And, people really do want gifts off the gift list at a Texas wedding. I mean there is a whole book about what your silverware pattern says about you (for the record, Chantilly, my mother’s pattern apparently says “keep me safe, locked in a felt box next to the vodka. Then, proceed to ignore the silverware and drink the vodka.” (as that is what both my mother and grandmother had and do.) I suspect this may be my pattern of choice as well.))

But, in any event, I was looking forward to my English wedding, not the least of which was because it was going to be in a castle. And, not just any castle, but Leeds Castle (which, ironically, is not in Leeds. I suspect that is meant to confuse the Americans and keep them away...particularly, as the castle was most recently owned by, horror of horrors! an American woman) But, luckily I had my English friends (who ARE from Leeds) drive me down to the lovely Kent countryside to attend the wedding.

A tradition that I love about British weddings is the hat and fascinator option. Now, this is a sadly lost art of feminine adornment that went the way of corsets, petticoats and white gloves (ah, to be able to wear white gloves again and never have to worry about a manicure!) But, for some reason, it has endured in this fair isle for horse racing, polo and weddings. A woman can literally stick a bow and a feather on her head and she is a picture of grace. Needless to say, I was beside myself with the option and decided to treat myself to an appointment with my hair dresser to have some sort of keratin de-frizzing straightening blowdry.

I forgot to read the fine print, though, which required no hair washing for three days and no adornment of any sort that might “bend” the hair permanently. This wouldn’t be so bad except that the straightening that I got left with me with this poker straight fine and limp WAG wannabe do (for my American friends, google WAG. It will become as painfully clear as Victoria Beckam’s clavicle). So, all in all, not a good look. But, naturally, I paid a ridiculous sum of money for it, so I am determined to keep it straight, dry and unadorned for three days. An uphill challenge, turns out, as this is the hottest weekend of the year. And, we are driving to the wedding in a car with no air conditioning. And no back windows. And we’re stuck in a traffic jam getting out of central London, so no breeze. Just a baking, melting torrid stillness. Needless to say, it isn’t long before my hair is drenched at the scalp and sticking to my back and face in chunks. Did I mention that I have a very efficient self-cooling mechanism? This is, of course, code for the fact that I sweat. A lot.


Now, the fine print also said that if I were to get my hair wet, then I was to dry it immediately and run a straightener through it. So, while I did, indeed, do that on days 2 and 3 (much to friends’ delight when I whipped it out in the kitchen and straightened away while drinking a rose and watching my friend Leslie prepare a delicious paella), I did not have the foresight to bring one to the wedding. Luckily, my fellow-wedding go-er did have one, so I made use of hers.

Now I won’t bore you with all the details of my hair drama, which had me holding my head upside down over the air conditioning unit in the hotel room after “steaming” my dress in a failed attempt to render it wrinkle-free in the bathroom of the hotel. Which, incidentally meant my poor fellow wedding go-er also had to observe my naked and profusely sweating self wrench my upper torso into a particularly snug strapless bra when I couldn’t bear to go into the bathroom cum sauna/steamer that I had created in said failed attempt. But, in any event, I promised that once I had a drink in my hand, I would cease to b*tch about my hair. Never saw a mini bar open so fast! (and, not to brag, but I have now discovered an as yet unknown skill of opening a beer bottle off the bathroom sink in the absence of a bottle opener. Yep, all class, me.)

So, wrinkled, frazzled and damp, I headed out to the wedding. Or, actually, not. Because there is another tradition in Britain when it comes to weddings that allows certain guests to be invited only to the “party.” See, there’s a wedding, a wedding breakfast (which isn’t breakfast at all, it’s actually a sit down dinner, but why get lost in semantics?) and speeches and toasts and drinks and then the “party.” Now, after a long day of festivities, you would think that no one would be up for a party – actually, come to think of it, I think that is the whole point. We’re like the substitutes, the pine-riders who breathe new life into the festivities and replace the worn out A gamers. But, this only works when you unleash the subs on a bar to help them get up to speed with the rest of the players who’ve been battling the booze all day. Doesn’t work so much when you get there at the appointed time and the wedding (the real wedding that is, you know, the one that you weren’t invited to?) is running an hour and a half late. And, the bartenders haven’t yet set up. Then you’re just kind of cooling your heels (Or, again, not so much as it turns out. Old castles also lack the ole AC).

But, at least it was a stunning backdrop and I got to wander around the castle, being careful to avoid stumbling into the wedding inadvertently. (I have a history of stumbling into/onto things inadvertently. Like the red carpet at a premiere in New York. You would think that the fact that James Gandolfini was in front of me and Jeff Blum was behind me would have tipped me off to the fact that the cordoned off escalator was not, in fact, the way to the ladies' room.)

Needless to say, we did finally harass the bartenders enough to start giving us double vodkas. And hundred quid each later, we had caught up to and were lapping the A gamers. So much so, that my fellow non-wedding go-ers stayed until the sun came up having a piano sing-a-long in the castle with the other non-wedding go-ers. I, myself, retired at a reasonable time. (I won’t lie and say that the AC in the hotel had nothing to do with that decision.) (Or the lure of a ciabbatta, potato chips and M’n’Ms from the local gas station!))

So, while the whole concept of non-wedding goers is strange to me, it also means we’re non-gift givers as well. So, at least I don’t have to worry about the appropriate cover charge for my plate or which gravy boat to give. And, I didn’t have to hear Pachelbel, Trumpets or any Corinthians either. Just a little Salt ‘n’ Pepa. And, who doesn’t love a little Push It in stilettos?

Turns out some wedding traditions are the same world over.

Home?

I have now lived in London for 4 ½ years and people are always asking me when I will go home. I used to use my dad’s line and say whenever I was told I had to pick up my toys go in. Unfortunately, no one seems to find that satisfactory at all. I reckon people over on this side of the pond are gauging my commitment to their country and people back in the US of A are wondering when I am going to come to my senses and get back to God’s Country.

But, really, to an army brat who went to 12 different schools, what is home anyway? Growing up, it was where everyone has to get out of the pool during the summer at 5 pm to face the parade ground where the flag was being lowered. Or falling asleep to the sound of mortar fire coming from the range on the other side of post. Or a stairwell apartment in a foreign country filled with the same beige-y bland Quartermaster furniture that filled all of your friends’ homes as well.

When I was a little kid, I used to keep a US flag up in my room (and, big ole dork that I am, would say the Pledge of Allegiance to it every day when I went to an English school in Indonesia) So, I guess home was the good ole Red, White and Blue.

And since I have chosen to live in London, everyone seems obsessed with when I will “go home.”

But, I gotta tell ya, I went back to Texas a few weeks ago – to “home.” And, as I was busy eating my way through every Tex-Mex, steak and fried food restaurant ( a friend once told me that he went to Texas and was overwhelmed with his food choice – so long as he wanted everything smothered, covered, dipped or fried! (And, yes, Houston is, like, the fattest city ever, I know.) But, I digrease. (See, I think I am funny!)), I enjoyed being “home. “ Nice friendly people, sunshine, wide open spaces....but, then I went to a formal event with my parents and, while, I must caveat this with the fact that it WAS in Texas (one of the most conservative places in the world. I mean, they don’t call it the buckle of the Bible belt for nothing!) and it was a military ball, I was still shocked at some of the things I heard coming out of people’s mouths! I had one woman go on and on about immigration reforms and how we needed to build a big ole fence. Maybe I should have reminded her that as I live in London, that kinda makes me an immigrant?

But, instead, I just stopped and said in my best Texas drawl, “Honey, I gotta stop you right there and let you know I am a Democrat.” To which she replied? “Oh, that’s OK, we’ll take your kind too.” Yes, friends, I am now a “kind.” I guess so long as I am not that immigrant kind. Oh wait.


And, then there was the woman who asked me if I was afraid to live in London and ride the tube with all those Muslims. I kid you not. I was flabbergasted! But, in her defense, people in the UK ask me all the time if I am afraid to be in Texas with all those concealed weapons. I actually had a Scottish doctor once ask me if it was true that in order to own land in Texas you had to own a gun. Um, what does he think there is some sort of reverse airport screening process at the mortgage office? “Sorry, folks, if you’re not packing heat, you need to go find yourself some place to rent cause you sure as hell ain’t gonna be able to buy. We don’t want your kind here!”

And, as far as Americans’ ignorance of geography – I admit it ain’t so great. But, we’re not alone in that. I was on a plane to Corfu the other day and I met a sweet 18 year old who positively squealed with delight when she heard my accent as she had never met a real “live” American before. And, bless her, she actually said, “WOW, I am going to Corfu, where are you going!?” Um, hello, we’re on the same plane.

And, yes, she was English. So, turns out, there’s different flavors of Stupid everywhere.


But, after this trip back to Texas and just when I think, yep, I may actually be the first person to apply for a British passport who says “fancy a cup of tea, y’all?”, I faced the ultimate dilemma last week (in Corfu. Which, for the record, is in GREECE.) (Yes, I know, I can hear y’all know....Countrydropper.....))but, anyway, my dilemma– both the US and England were playing a world cup match at the same time. All the people in my villa were hellbent on watching England play (being English, you kinda would! Or actually, after the Germany match, maybe not so much?)


So, I got in my car and drove to a little taverna in this tiny Greek town and asked them to put on the US match. And, I was the only person watching it in a room filled with English supporters (who, I might add had two giant screens and the sound pumped in while I had this rinky dink 27-incher bolted to the ceiling that I had to squint to see). And, while I kept my eye on the England match, it was the USA that had me screaming in delight at the 92 minute goal. And, this weekend, I am hosting some friends at a 4th of July cookout, complete with burgers, hotdogs, fireworks, potato chips and watermelon. (And, before you even ask, no, we sure as hell won’t be drinking Bud Light or some other watery American beer.)


So, maybe home is still the Red, White and Blue?

But, then again, so is the Union Jack.

Barcelona Geriatric

So, it has recently come to my attention that I am getting old.

Well, OK, not OLD old. But older. I think it had been dawning on me gradually, but hit me like a ton of metamucil and ben-gay when shopping at this cute little boutique in Spain (OK, it was just Zara but it WAS the flagship Zara) (Hmmm. Country dropper? Who, moi?) Anyway, I found a few cute items and was modeling them for my friend Jayne. And, God bless her, (or as they say in England, God bless her little cotton socks. Which, I really don’t get. Something to do with being a kid??) she very gently pointed out that I was a professional 37 year old woman and was the tank I had on really appropriate? OK, yes, it was bedazzled with the phrase “What are you looking at?” And, yes, it was emblazoned across exactly what anyone would be looking at (particularly, if you are blessed in that particular area. And I am not talking about cotton socks) so, sadly, I hung my head in shame and put it back.

But, this got me to thinking about getting old. And, ironically, I was in Barcelona (and, again, with the country dropping!), a place I had spent 4 months studying in graduate school 7 years earlier. I can’t actually believe that much time has actually passed. And, then I started to think about what I was doing when I was in Barcelona. And, it wasn’t Parc Guell. Or the Sagrada Familia. Or the Bus Tour. Or, even (gasp!) Barceloneta and the beach. (To be fair, it WAS pretty freakin’ cold most of the time I was there) And, I can’t even say that I was studying, because most of you know how that whole bonds class thing worked out for me. Or, rather, didn’t.

Sooooo, you ask, what was I doing? Hmmm….well, it will probably come as no surprise that it involved Jack Daniels, Gauloises lights, Carneval, discotecas, falling off bar stools, breaking stiletto heels on cobblestones, piercing my belly button in the Canary Islands…..I could go on, but really, why? You get the point. Spring break for 4 months.

So, I was excited about my weekend trip to Barcelona and I had visions of re-living my 4 months of partying. But, sadly, that was not to be. We did start off with a bang; we had 4 am wakeup on Saturday morning so a few of my compadres stayed at my flat on Friday night, which meant (natch!) that we went to the pub and had a few bottles of wine. Which, meant (natch!) that we got about three hours sleep. But, we’re hanging! So far so good! We got a nap on the plane, checked into our hotel and had a mini-snooze before heading out to sit in the sun and have what proceeded to be the worst meal I have ever had.

(Note to self: if you see a bunch of drunk Brits on a bachelor/stag party chugging goblets of beer and picking up a bunch of drunk Brits on a bachelorette/hen party and chugging goblets of wine coolerish thingys, run the other way. And, if the menu has pictures of the food, to boot? Don’t stop til you pass go. Or, at the very least, McDonalds. At least then you've abandoned the futile attempt at feigning an interest in local cuisine while looking for the thing that most resembles the food back home)

So, several jugs of sangria and bowls of Chef Boyardee later we wandered down to the beach where we had multiple rounds of mojitos watching the sunset. Sheer bliss. Of course, we didn’t really eat the Chef Boyardee so we’re all a bit tipsy. This becomes abundantly clear when we decided it was time to head home and shower for a night out.

Now, I am clumsy on a good day. Add a few rounds of mojitos and sangrias and, while, I may be completely coherent and articulate, I lose any sense of balance and grace I may possess --as evidenced by the cantaloupe sized bruise on my left inner leg where I slammed it into the marble bathtub getting into the shower. But, hey, I am numb to the pain so I carry on! We continue boozing it up in the hotel, and shocker of all(!!), actually MISS dinner in Barcelona. Yep, you heard me right. The country where dinner is from 9 to 11 pm. We blew right past that in a cloud of gin, rum and vodka…Luckily, we found some pizza place to take pity on us and sobered up a tiny bit. Just in time for the bravest souls to hit my favorite club from when I lived in Barcelona before. Well, actually, my favorite had closed down. (Maybe I should have taken this as a hint?)

Some of you may remember that the cocktails in Spain are generous, to say the least. And, cover at a club involves a free drink (which is really like 3 drinks) – such a bargain! And, never one to pass up a bargain, (ok, that’s a lie. We all know I actually order from the right side of the menu. But, I digress.) I finish my “drink” and my friends’ drinks, as they are all clearly much more aware of their limitations than I. But, a few boogies later, we decide we’ve had enough and head home….where I sleep with my head in the toilet and wake up with a throbbing black and purple reminder of my shower from the previous night.

Suffice it to say, I did not go for the run in Parc Guell I had promised myself I would do. But, I did, in fact, go to Parc Guell. And, I went to Sagrada Familia. And, I went on the bus tour. And Montjuic and Barceloneta. No more discos. No more Jack Daniels. Certainly no piercings, broken stilettos, or cigarettes. Just some very gown up martinis at the W Bar overlooking Barcelona. Which, turns out, is a little bit more the speed of a 37 year old professional woman. And, no, I was not wearing anything bedazzled or emblazoned.

And, if I wasn’t already sure of my newly discovered “maturity,” the two days on the couch I required when returning back to London certainly drove home the point that I am not a kid anymore.

Bless my little cotton socks.

British Sunshine

So here I am sitting in my garden, enjoying the sunshine and the warmth, the smell of freshly cut grass, the bees buzzing around my newly landscaped garden. Yes, we call it a garden here. Never mind that it is just a slab of cement with a broken down miniature weber charcoal grill (Remember those? They could grill a burger and a half after an hour of “building up” the coals. Handy.) –but, if there is access to sunshine (ah, wait, this is England, who am I kidding? Access to rain.), then it is a garden. Clearly, it is soo much more about the potential to grow something than the actually growth!

It has been a picture perfect few days, weather wise. And all of Britain has been gearing up for the “hottest” weekend of the year. Evidently, it is going to soar up to 80 degrees tomorrow! And, yes, all my lovely Texan friends, that is really just Spring, but here it is a veritable heat wave. As I write, all of my neighbors are busy in their gardens planting, furrowing (is that a verb?) or whatever it is you do. I have a beautiful garden, naturally. And, naturally, I, myself, have nothing to to do with it! I have hired a wonderful little guy (OK, he is actually about 6’2 so not so little) to do all this for me.

One of the best lessons my mother ever taught me was that a lady should know how to do everything.

And, then find a man to do it for you. This goes for changing tires, fixing appliances, yard work, assembling furniture etc. Your basic handy man. Most women call this a husband. I call it James. And, luckily for James, he calls it a job. I used to bribe my gay boyfriends with promises of home cooked meals. Sort of a 50s marriage a la 2000. But, eventually, I decided that money was a better currency than fried chicken. Less labor intensive and can be done on demand. And, we all know how good I am at “demanding! But, I digress…

This beautiful weather streak started on Wednesday of this week (today being Saturday) and when I left work on Thursday, I was desperate to enjoy it. For those of you who had to read that short story in grade school about the little girl who moved to Venus from Earth, where it rained every day for 7 years and then had one hour of sunshine, you will be able to appreciate what it is like in London when the sun is out. (OK, and not it matters, but that little Earth girl got locked in the closet at school for the hour and missed the sunshine) Anyway, here in England, it is reckless abandon, joyous mayhem, revelry and inebriation. Yes, I said inebriation. And not drunkenness of emotion and happiness. Pretty much beer and cider. Because when the sun comes out, the British drink. (Natch, they drink ALL the time – but, it is more obvious and public when they are standing in the street soaking up the vitamin D)

I was really trying to think hard of a way to enjoy the upper 70s’ sunshine when I left the office on Thursday and I was stumped. Were this Austin, we would be out on the Town Lake hike and bike trail, jogging or cycling. Or at Pease Park, playing frisbee golf, or water skiing or swimming at Lake Travis or just playing tennis or golf ANYWHERE. See the common thread in all of these? Physical activity.

But, sign, not an option in England. And, this got me to thinking…and I realized the British are some non-physical, sedentary immobile people. Now don’t get me wrong, I LOVE living here. And y’all know I LOVE my drink. But, seriously, let’s think about it. How many British sporting teams, athletes or Olympians can you count off the top of your head? (And, no, a team in the Premiership football league doesn’t count – most of them just move here from Africa or Southern Europe. NOT British.) I can think of one – David Beckham. And, he got kicked out. First to Spain and then LA.

Now, the British love to talk about how fat the Americans are. But, people, this is the country that brought us the fried mars bar. And, all my friends love going to the US. To eat. Because our food is good. Not that I don’t love a little fried bland bread/potato/candy bar. Afterall, SOMETHING has to soak up the booze!) But, think about it. For every fried cheesy treat Texas or South Carolina can bring you, California has some wheatgrass alfalfa concoction to balance it out. The healthiest thing in London? Umm. Struggling here. Soup? Water? Yep. There ya go. Not even a light beer in sight.

But, let’s get back to this sport thing. When you think of athletics in the US, I think (natch!) of football. Where each team has a huge numbers of players. And, what do the fans do? Well, if you’re a cute bouncy girl, you become a cheerleader or join the drill/dance team. If you’re uncoordinated and dorky, you join the marching band. And, if you’re at UT and a rich preppy uncoordinated guy, you stand around and fire a cannon or shovel longhorn sh*t decked out in full chaps, bandana and cowboy hat. But, hey, you’re all moving around, sweating. (Even if is because any movement in full chaps, bandana and cowboy hat in 100 degrees generates sweat!)

Big sport in the UK? Cricket. And, what that actually consists of other than two lone guys standing a few feet from each other and making weird throwing and deflecting motions, I just don’t know. I mean, how active can you actually be when you’re decked out in formal white long sleeves, long pants, sweater vests and big heavy hats? (And, clearly it is NOT 100 degrees so you don’t even have that!)

And, what, you may ask, do the cricket fans do?

You guessed it. Drink. Very civilized drinks, of course. Pimms. Which, if you’ve never had it, consists of a salad bowl in a glass of ice with some booze and seven up. I guess this is where the “healthy” part comes in?

So, here I am looking for a away to enjoy the sunshine. And, the only things my friends can suggest are gardening or going for a country walk. Last time I checked, I wasn’t 70. So, neither of these is winning me over. Now, of course, I work with a bunch of lawyers. And, (surprise! surprise!) we are all uber-competitive. We have some serious athletes on our team (and, NOT surprise, surprise, they are an Aussie and a Kiwi) but my team actually decided to embrace the sunshine and take party in a charity 5k run on this very Thursday. WOW – here we go! Exercise, movement, sweat, activity! Have I just been proven wrong? Do I have to rethink my perspective on the “lazy” British??

Well, as it happens, not so much. Cause guess where the race finished? You got it.

A pub.