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.

Swiss Riveria

Well it has been a long time since I have taken up the pen to regale y’all with my stories of travel, adventures and disasters. It has been an eventful few years and while I have lots of stories built up, I have only just now been prompted by my recent foray into Switzerland to once again inflict my friends and family with my foibles.

Let me start by saying, I am not a chocolate person. I know no one believes me when I say that and I won’t lie, I do have a few moments, usually hormonally induced. But on any given day I will take a potato cooked in salt and grease every time over a hunk of valrhona cru. And I stand by this. Except when I am in Switzerland.

I really can’t explain it, but I walked into a chocolate shop in the train station and I was suddenly overwhelmed and consumed by the heady rich aroma of cocoa, butter and sugar. I swear Zurich is to chocolate what Amsterdam is to drugs – an oasis of self indulgence and decadence. So, I was basically getting a contact high. I am convinced it lasted the entire time I was there as I actually ate at least one single bar of chocolate every single day. And since I’ve been back? Not tempted. (OK, that IS a lie.)

It was a whirlwind trip – a few days in Zurich visiting old friends and then a gorgeous train ride down to Lausanne for work meetings and some parties. Now, I have lived in London for 4 years now. And, I travel all the time. Yet, I still am incapable of packing weather appropriate attire. I brought a beautiful white pants suit, 5 inch red patent heels and only one pair of slipper like flats. Oh, and some workout clothes and tennis shoes that only got put on once when I wandered up to the hotel gym to look at it. I had great intentions, but unfortunately, one look at the lone sad broken down mirror-facing treadmill, positioned, conveniently, for a close-up view of your body in full jiggle mode, and, somehow, the bars of chocolate in my hotel room seemed more appealing.

(And, note to self, contrary to popular belief, you get no benefit from wandering around a gym in workout attire. Seems sweating is actually required.)

Of course, it rained the entire time I was in Switzerland. And, my hotel was up a ridiculously steep hill. Paved in cobblestones. So….my white suit is now dragging through the grimy brown rain soaked streets because I sure as hell couldn’t get those red heels up that hill. And, after traipsing around Zurich for 3 hours (also in the rain, I might add) in those ballet slippers I also developed some strange pain in my left knee, leaving me with a noticeable limp. Luckily one of the guys I work with “diagnosed” me with bursitis. (And, no, there is absolutely no connection to the fact that he was just diagnosed with that.) Now, folks, don’t google bursitis. I did. And, apparently, it is most often found in middle aged women. And, is caused by obesity. So, now I am feeling really GREAT. Thankfully, I am high on chocolate. So, turns out, I am not that fussed.

In any event, I managed to struggle through and we had some wonderful dinners and parties, culminating in a wine tasting and cooking lesson from a French chef at a beautiful winery outside of Geneva. I am not a fan of the French on a good day – and, no, it is not some misguided redneck ignorant political statement. It is because they are rude. And, they think they are better than everyone else. I am from Texas. WE are better than everyone else. Enough said. Clearly, this disdain is mutual. Because our little French chef was nice to everyone at the cooking lesson….except the one Texan. As I was busily chopping my chives, he vociferously chastized the results of my chopping: “what eez deeese? Deeese chives, zey look like bicyclettes!? Who would eat zees?? NO ONE!”

Bear in mind, I have no idea what a bicyclette, but I sure as hell got his intent. So, I kindly reminded that I was the one holding the cleaver. He shut up quick. Typical French. If you really want a laugh, google “French Military Victories.” Hit the “I’m feeling lucky button.” You’ll see what I mean.

Anyway, we ended up having a wonderful haute cuisine meal accompanied by some tasty complementary wines – all elegant and grown up. Until it was time to get back in the bus and the Texan decided we needed some roadies for the 40 minute trip back to Lausanne! The only roadie appropriate beverage available was some rose, so three bottles later….(strangely, they had no plastic cups to accompany the bottles??) we’re on the bus, passing them around, donning the leather rent boy style cap that our good Swiss chauffeur found fashionable and taking incriminating photos. Suffice it to say the night ended up with dancing in a shady bar fueled by multiple jack daniels and diet cokes, accompanied by slurred attempts to converse in French, a lost coat check ticket, an altercation at the coat check, resulting in an upturned wallet on the floor of the bar (in a futile attempt to locate said coat check ticket), a limping stumble home and a pile of chocolate bar wrappers by the bedside.

All I can say is, thank God there was a McDonalds on the way down that damn hill towards the train station. Because, yes, I had a nice long train ride and flight back to London to look forward to the next morning. Why do I always have hangovers when I have to fly?? And, Murphy’s Law, the flight is 100% full and I am in the very back row. But, at least it is a short flight from GENEVA to London. This is key. One should always know where one has flown in from as it aids greatly in the luggage collection department. And, prevents that embarrassment incurred when you have to say, “Oh, oops, you can cancel that luggage claim you are filing, Mr. Airport Luggage Collection man. I just realized that I was not, in fact, on the flight from Zurich and I can see my lone bag circling the drain of the Geneva carousel yonder.” Nice.

And, then there’s the Heathrow Express journey where I realized that my upturned wallet on the bar floor, while not yielding the all important coat check ticket, did result in the loss of all my business receipts and my train ticket. And, then when I got home I realized I had also left behind my power cord for my laptop at the hotel and two bottles of wine in our office. I also left some bars of chocolate in a conference room. I did manage to bring home my clean workout clothes and about 25 extra pounds thanks to the chocolate/beer/cheese. Oh, and a few bars of Swiss chocolate goodness.

But, no problem. Because I am not a chocolate person. Right?

Blogging?

I decided it was about time to start a blog - 10 years on from starting my travel writing and letting friends and family know about my inability to pack, overwhelming ability to fall down and break and bruise things and general proclivity towards embarrassment and outlandish experiences. I took a break from writing the last 4 years - something about practicing law choked the creativity out of me (go figure?), but I am making a conscious effort to get back into it, so here goes. A leap into the cyberspace abyss. Hope I don't break or bruise things.