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.